Forsaken Magic- Witch of the Thorn

by Chris Turner

  Kahel and Hape just laughed.

  Risgan only stared at Afrid with dislike. He recalled how the witch had turned on the philosopher Delpit and transformed him into a mindless slave. Left him some shell of a man, effectively killing him.

  Risgan sighed. And what of his own fate? Pursued by Pantius’s bounty hunters across the lands, he was little more than an outlaw. They had chased him practically to Afrid’s doorstep. He and the others were lucky to have escaped Thornkeep, abode of the dark sorceress, and then only by the skin of their teeth. Aside from the fabulous gem in his pouch, he had only the black boots, leather breeches and jerkin on his back to his name.

  He studied each of his four new companions with fresh wonder. Strange how fate had brought them together. Bonded after their narrow escape from the witch’s lair. Jurna, a journeyman, tracker, dark-haired and shaggy; young Moeze, a questionable magician, tall and spare, whose magic had not helped them much on their journey; Kahel, the grim-faced archer with a thick red beard, who was swift and strong; then Hape the Homeless, a thin-boned drifter, something of a vagrant whose rather meek temperament was offset by his knowledge of the wild lands.

  Risgan turned his attention back to the witch. The powers of the nephrite had reversed her aging process, given her the face of a baby and the body of a four-year-old. He patted the sealed pouch at his side that housed the spell-laden nephrite. He too had handled the gem briefly and felt its taint. Mercifully, he hadn’t been affected as much, though he felt his skin softer than usual and an uncanny spryness in his step.

  Hunger had struck early that day. They hunted quail and hare in the broadwood and scattered glades. Larger game if they could find it. A chill mist rose from the hollows and vales, leaving the lands naked. Before long they had a fire crackling in a sheltered lee by a small wooded hill, but had scored only two small hares to assuage the hungers of five ragged men. Few words were traded amongst the fugitives. It was time to move on, find more game and seek shelter before evening.

  A glade of wild huckle-flowers loomed ahead with a lone dead elm in the centre. At the fringe of the clearing, twitch trees soared on high, green as firs, willowy as willows, soft as deadmusk, a screen for stags and elk to hide behind and creatures much more dangerous.

  The air was fresh and spring birds chattered in numbers in the high boughs, adding a pleasant ambience to the dwindling dawn. Risgan knew better. These woods were as perilous as any in the four lands. He hoped to escape them before long.

  Better hope for the devil! He scowled. Though Jurna’s tracking skills had, up till now, proven infallible, they found themselves utterly lost, heading in a northern direction at best. Their bellies growled with greater hunger. Moeze yawned and tugged at the hem of his wide sleeves. He fidgeted in his loose robe, grown rank and soiled from confinement in Afrid’s keep for days on end. Brows furrowed, he murmured anxious words, as if playing over some mispronounced spell in his mind. Hape doddered listlessly at his side, wrapped in his brown, tattered monk’s robe, mumbling to himself in no less cryptic manner. The tall twitchwood trees bore witness to the company’s passing, heedless as the wind, silent as ghosts.

  Hape sighed. “We’d best drop lines into the creek and wait an hour for some trout, as I suggested.”

  “Quiet,” grunted Kahel. He turned to Risgan. “What do you want today, falcon or hawk?” His face showed a facetious grin.

  “Neither, I prefer wild boar. The meat has a succulent flavour, gamey but tasty. Roasted, of course.”

  Kahel chuckled. “You’d not like to be surprised by one of those foul beasts.”

  “Not as bad as isks—”

  His words were cut off as a flutter of motion caught Risgan’s eye—at the edge of the glade where the twitch trees thinned. He pulled his comrades back into the brush.

  A slender figure poised in a bent-kneed crouch, a hunting bow in her hand, scouting a distant quarry. Drawing an arrow from her quiver, she steadied her aim upon what looked like a majestic stag grazing a few dozen yards away. A smaller shape, a young foal with black and white pelt, ambled out of the bushes. It lifted its head then came trotting forward to brush its parent’s muzzle, as trusting as ever. Risgan’s jaw suddenly dropped. Not a stag, but a full grown unicorn. The huntress lowered her bow.

  “Wait.” Risgan held Jurna firmly back.

  Awestruck, the maiden advanced step by step, only to pause a few feet before the mother and her foal. The mother unicorn nudged her young one forth; it sidled closer to greet the newcomer. The huntress dropped to a knee, then began to pet its black mane. She cooed with delight as it snuggled closer.

  The mare’s hide shimmered a purple hue; her proud white horn arched high. While the huntswoman patted the youngling’s mane, the mother wandered over, as if intuiting no great threat.

  The woman wore brown breeches and leather jerkin that blended well into the surroundings; a cascade of brown curly hair trailed down her back.

  “That lass looks as if she knows the land,” whispered Jurna. “Let’s go question her. I admit I’m lost.”

  “And you the master tracker,” jeered Kahel.

  “Be careful not to scare her,” warned Risgan. “The woman looks a bit skittish.” Though he noted she moved with a grace and a defiant upward tilt of chin.

  “No more skittish than the unicorn,” said Jurna.

  “Be careful not to spook the unicorn. I’ve never seen one up so close before, let alone a foal.”

  “Maybe she possesses magic?” suggested Hape.

  Moeze huffed out a laugh. “I detect no magic.”

  The maiden, wild and beautiful as the forest, continued to charm the young animal and the mother moved closer but halted at Risgan’s approach. The mare lifted her head, cocked it on a suspicious angle then thumped her hooves. The young woman’s head turned in surprise. She snatched at her bow and gazed at the newcomers, no more than a shaggy band of forest rovers come out of nowhere. Her hand drew the bowstring taut. “Halt! Stay where you are.”

  A flutter of wings echoed from above. Risgan’s head rose. A dark shape loomed out of the cloudless sky and his jaw tightened.

  “Isks. I hate isks,” Kahel growled as he nocked an arrow.

  The gigantic black bird dove toward the maiden and gave a raucous croak. The air seemed to bend with the advance of the predator, a monstrous raven creature, several times larger than a man, with a huge, tapered beak.

  “I can manage this.” Moeze said as he lifted his silver disc. A crafty glint shone in his greenish eyes, as if seeing his chance. “Nastanderlist. Exeunt!”

  Risgan reached out a hand. “Don’t—”

  A gleam of magical radiance sputtered out of the crystal disc. It smote the tree next to the huntress, surprising the winged predator. A boom of distant thunder came from afar and a pale silver light seemed to touch the top of the trees near the bracken where she and the unicorns hunched undercover. The nearby twitchwood tree split and toppled, nearly crushing all of them, leaving the isk unscathed.

  “You idiot!” Kahel cried, cuffing Moeze on the head.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “Quiet. Focus on the isk!” said Jurna.

  The huntress took aim and fired; her arrow grazed the black isk’s belly, prompting a screech. Kahel’s first arrow caught the beast sideways on the wing, but it deflected off, falling harmlessly to the ground.

  She fired again; this time the arrow plunged deep in the flesh above a talon and stuck there, stirring the beast to frenzy. In a flurry of outstretched wings and beak, it flapped down to gut her. She ducked the murderous sweep of its claws as the mother unicorn reared, striking the beast with its sharp hooves in the beak.

  The bird croaked and reached out to gore the mother in the vulnerable flank. She gave a shrill whinny and arched aside, hooves flailing, a trail of blood dripping from her sleek flank.

  A second greyer shape, an older isk, veered down with equal menace. Then another. The bird landed aside the young woman who leapt sideways
and drew her blade, slashing out with fierce desperation. The young unicorn bolted in panic for the thicket.

  A horn blared through the dense trees. A thunder of hooves pounded at the end of the glade. Risgan snarled, tightening his fist on his club. A score of horsemen came galloping forth, garbed in a mixture of green leather to ragged furs, shouting and readying bows.

  Two other dark shapes veered down from the sky. Shadows of terror to join the existing three. With hooked beaks and grasping talons, they dove down upon the riders. The long, moving shadows of their wings stretched far across the glade. One swooped low and raked the foremost horsemen on their helms. They had barely time to nock arrows and take aim. Then another bird smashed a man screaming from his mount while another lifted a man from his saddle and flew westward over the treetops.

  The horsemen wheeled about, hurling challenges and brandishing swords, some scattering as arrows flew. A red-fletched arrow caught the nearest beast in the wing. Risgan raced toward the woman and ducked under a strike of talon, clubbing the offending member, beating its claws back.

  The huntress dodged, but not fast enough. The creature clamped talons on her shoulders, lifting her two feet off the ground. She cried out in pain and dismay.

  Risgan staggered with club clutched in hand toward the girl. She was moments away from being lifted forever out of reach! He tossed aside his weapon and grabbed on to its talons before it lifted free. Clinging to a gnarled claw, he purchased a firm hold for his life. The woman, white-faced, struggled inches away. Jurna smashed his club against the hovering isk’s talons before it flew off. Moeze stood a stone’s throw away on the grass, rubbing his magic disc, hoping to direct a magical push to thwart the isk. Hape chucked rocks while Kahel nocked another arrow.

  Another harsher blare of a horn resounded as the thunder of hoofbeats came closer. “Let me go, you filthy demon!” cried the huntress. She wrenched her bow free as the isk flapped upward, but she could not take proper aim. The beast circled wildly under the club blows and arrows from Jurna and Kahel, trying to lift higher and free, hampered by the reduced power of its injured wing. It strove to shuck Risgan’s weight off.

  But it could not.

  Risgan felt himself buffeted every which way. His world was slipping sideways—then he caught a mad glimpse of mingled grey sky and earth in his horizon while the awful reek of the bird’s hide filled his nostrils. Hanging there desperately, he reached with one hand to snatch at the dagger at his waist. He stabbed again and again into the hard flesh of the exposed leg. The isk gave a hoarse shriek and loosed its victim. Risgan and huntress fell end over end onto the soft grass.

  * * *

  Risgan rolled to his knees, shaking the daze out of his skull. He tried to reorient his senses, but nearly collapsed. He reached for the huntress moaning beside him. Dark figures came running toward him. The isk was in the air but a blur in his memory, as he struggled to gather his wits. The beast fought, feathers and blood flying every which way, struggling to elude the rain of arrows from the running and mounted figures all around. In a last-ditch attempt for prey, the isk dove and snatched up the young unicorn, confused and looking for its mother, and bore it aloft while the mother limped away, whinnying in distress.

  Hape stumbled over to gather the young huntress up.

  “Away from her, vagrant,” shouted a surly voice on horseback. A wolf-furred figure leaped down to kick Hape back, a gleaming, blood-caked sword in hand.

  Jurna fumbled for Risgan and managed to haul him to his feet. He shoved the fallen club back into his hands.

  A horseman’s arrow hit home and the isk gave a screech of rage. The young foal wriggled out of the isk’s grasp and fell in a splayed heap on the ground but very much alive. The mother gave a whicker of delight. She galloped over to gather up her young. Arrows whizzed off in her vicinity despite the isk attack, but fell short of the mark. The hunters vented howls of frustration. The isk that had released the huntress was not so lucky and fell under a hail of arrows. Its massive form thudded to the grass. Both wings broken, it flailed around like a beached fish.

  The horsemen circled the creature, raining arrows into its feathered hide. A handful of women were amongst the band. Others jumped down to hack at it with blades.

  Surprised at such fury, Risgan watched the riders garbed in worn leathers and steel caps vent their rage. The lead hunter who had spoken the harsh warning to Hape wore a very crude wolf fur cape draped about his massive shoulders. His black boots were heavy with mud and he wore a great scowl on a scarred face. Dusty brown hair hung down to his waist under a gleaming helm and his hand lay not far from bow and broadsword at his side. His cap looked more polished than the others and was dressed with feathers and makeshift wolf ears. A band of his other wild horsemen wheeled about, with more of the same feverish look in their eyes as each warily scanned the sky. But no more of the beaked marauders came. The surviving isks dwindled to specks then disappeared over the willowy treetops.

  Risgan paused to assess his wounds and those of his companions. Remarkably, aside from cuts and bruises, they had emerged unscathed.

  A druid approached on a black stallion adorned with a blanket dyed blood-red and woven with designs of stags and unicorns on its borders. His single antler horn rose from a conical cap of copper colour that contrasted to a grey staff clutched in his gnarled right fist.

  Another horseman rode up behind, having the haughty mien of a tribal chief. The multi-hued emblem of a stag duelling on its hind legs with a unicorn adorned his leather jerkin. A signification of rank? Risgan could not tell. He swayed on his feet. The chief hopped off his mount and gathered the young woman up in his arms. “Arcadia, child! We thought you were lost. Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing but a few bruises and sprains, Father.” She wiped her brow and grimacing, pawed the grime off her leathers. Her chest heaved and her tousled brown curls hung in disarray. Grass stains and a bloody crimson cut marred her bruised cheek, but she still looked as lovely as ever. Perhaps even more so, now after witnessing her brave show and fighting spirit. The chief signalled to the horsemen to bring water and cloth to cleanse her shoulder and wrap the wound.

  One of the green-vested riders reined in his black mare and jumped down to attend her. “Arcadia! What on earth has happened?” Pushing forward, he clasped her arms—a handsome youth with striking physique and long dark hair tucked under a peaked hunter’s cap. His face creased in distress, his cheeks flushed and gleaming with sweat. “Why did you run off? We were worried sick.” Sword hung scabbarded at his hip, along with a curious-looking golden arrow which caught Risgan’s attention.

  She lifted a hand to wipe her split lip. “I saw a movement at the edge of the forest. I broke away from the hunting party, thought it an unusual looking stag. For some reason I felt compelled to follow it. Then I saw it was not a stag but a unicorn! I couldn’t believe I almost killed it. Rather than frighten it, I stayed very still…to my delight…it came to me.”

  The hetman responded in a scolding tone. “That was foolish. The woods are dangerous places, child. As that isk is testament. Never do that again.”

  She winced in frustration. “I’m sick of your men, Father, always dogging my heels as if I’m a child. I’ve already lived sixteen years. I want to hunt on my own. You follow me around like a nanny.”

  “Better that than have you in the belly of an isk,” the hetman grumbled.

  She gave a rebellious toss of her head, then looked away.

  The leader of the wild horsemen jumped off his snorting mare and struck the young huntsman a reeling blow on the cheek. It knocked him backward. “Get away from her, you fool! She’s mine. You possessed the golden arrow. Why did you not shoot?”

  The huntsman, lean and wiry, shrugged off the unexpected blow and bent to steady the maiden whom he had jostled. His long, loose green-leather jerkin was in direct contrast to the stinking furs of the lead horseman who had slugged him. The horseman snatched the golden arrow from the younger man’s hip be
fore he could object.

  Risgan’s eyes widened at the sight of the diamond tip on the golden arrow as any relic hunter’s would. Before the huntsman could lay hands on it, the lead horseman tossed it to the druid who gazed down with stern judgement from his horse.

  “My lord Mygar, I—” The young hunter stammered.

  “What? Spit it out, fool!”

  “I could not harm Arcadia, sir. The foreigner was clinging to the isk’s talons. If I risked a shot, he might have fallen—lightening the load, allowing the isk to fly out of range—”

  Mygar, the lead horseman, cast him a stony glare. “If Arcadia, the hetman’s own daughter and my bride to be, were carried off by the evil thing, you think her fate ripped apart by the savage beast’s brood would have been any better?”

  “My lord—”

  Mygar struck the young hunter again. “You snivelling simpleton!”

  “Leave him alone,” cried Arcadia, surging forward.

  The druid nudged his horse past Risgan to intercede. “I will point out that Arcadia’s life has been spared by the providence of the gods—in the form of this foreigner’s intervention, not Lokbur’s indecision.”

  “Bollocks! Nothing but priestly rhetoric,” cried Mygar. “He’s a coward and a bungling fool.” The cluster of wild horsemen huffed in agreement while the green-vested men of Arcadia’s clan grumbled.

  “Enough! Blame is useless at this late hour,” called the hetman. “One warrior has been carried off to his doom and several nurse injuries. The black-feathered beast will take the victim to some foul eyrie in the hinterlands, and likely from there slowly rip him apart to feed its younglings.”

  Risgan looked down at the dead bird. Its black-feathered fury was quenched forever, its yellow eyes glazed in death. The isks were mean killers with the black face and long grey beak of the wild rook. But many times larger, and sported the dull, yellow eyes of the predatory great grey owl. Although he’d encountered many of them in his travels, avoiding many close scrapes with them, he’d never gotten used to the baleful, yellow eyes that could mesmerize a man. Scavengers, slayers and butchers. Making falcons and eagles seem as tame as quail.