Forsaken Magic- Witch of the Thorn

by Chris Turner

  Not enough for their comrade to escape though. It hunched, tilted its spiny back and a volley of quills shot forth. It peppered the nearest man in the chest and face. He sagged back in agony. Some passed around his body and stuck in Mygar’s arm. He gave a wild shriek. Another lodged in Svengar’s boot, another in his lower leg, prompting a lurid howl. As they hopped about pulling out quills, the monster pounced on the fallen man, its teeth and tusks digging deep.

  While the monster devoured its victim before their eyes, Mygar took a running leap, immune to the terrible screams and the blood. He springboarded off the monster’s back to grapple for handholds in the cracks higher up on the wall. His fingers clawed the ancient stone and he pulled himself up over the lip while the wrathful beast swatted at his heels. It turned its attention to Svengar. The lieutenant gasped and dodged the giant hedgehog-like creature’s claws, scrabbling his way up the wall, shredding nails and flesh. He willed his fingers to find handholds within the crumbling cracks like a cat with fire under its tail.

  Mygar reached down and hauled the gibbering man up before the beast could tear at his heels. The two lay panting on the vine-ridden stone. The monster leapt up at them, snarling like a rabid dog, but the walls were too high and it couldn’t reach them.

  True to form, the magic that bound the arrow lifted it up and out from the monster’s wound to roll at Svengar’s side. The hedgehog thing swatted at the stone, blood slathering its ugly jowl. Its hunger was sated. Back it crept to the tunnel, leaving the mauled carcass of the huntsman behind on the bloody stone.

  One by one Svengar and Mygar wiped the spittle from their lips. They shook off the stink of death from their skin. “Let’s go,” mumbled Mygar. “We’ve lost our bows, but the outlanders have shown us a way out of here.”

  Svengar gusted a savage curse and began hewing at the vines with the knife strapped at his belt.

  * * *

  By and by, a band of Mygar’s horsemen caught up with Mygar and his nephew who were leg-weary, blooded and ragged beyond recognition. They slumped by a stream of purling water in exhaustion.

  “Lord, what is the meaning of this?” the lead rider called down to them.

  “Fools. You could have come a little sooner.”

  “Lord, we tracked you—”

  “Shut up, man. Give me your horse. Ride with Svengar. The others can’t have gotten far on foot.” His lips spread in a vengeful grimace. “There will be blood to pay and a terrible reckoning to come.”

  * * *

  Far away in the direction of Caerlin, Risgan and the others struggled through the wilderness, over creeks, hollows and through untouched glades ringed with old growth. Ever did the denizens of the land survey the passing troupe with a feeling of strange curiosity, the great hares, owls, foxes and badger, for they felt fate hung in the balance and the woods would not be the same after the passing of these strange human folk. The isks had been ever circling the treetops, eager for blood, growing hungrier by the minute. The animals were wary of this; none could miss the baleful yellow eyes that sought the sight of fresh prey: those on foot rather than horse. Doubtless the isks had young to feed and many miles lay between them and their eyries. For the fugitives it was still a long way back to the village.

  “Step it up, Hape,” rasped Kahel.

  “I’m moving as fast as I can, Kahel.” Hape pulled up his brown robe, ragged and unkempt at the hem, trailing in the mud and the wet leaves from the recent rain.

  A new sound greeted them. The thunder of hoofbeats. Risgan paled. There came with it a gleeful but vindictive promise of victory.

  “There they are, lord!” shouted the lead scout with triumph. He reared in his saddle. “Just as I promised.”

  Jurna looked back with a growl of hate in his throat. “Now we’re done for.”

  Arcadia raised her bow. She pegged off the first of the lead riders. At the writhing man’s side, Mygar rode straight for her.

  Arrows sang. Risgan and Kahel ducked and a horseman cut Jurna off and slashed a sword down at him. The blade clanged on Jurna’s shiny steel. With a fierce yell he lunged in and smote the rider in the leg while another circled in to finish him off.

  Moeze raised his silver disc. The talisman flared but the magic seemed to fizzle out with a raw hiss. Moeze cursed and looked at the disc with fury.

  There came a rushing wind, like a funnel of disaster from the sky. In a chaos of whipping wings, the isks swooped. Like stormcrows of doom they whistled through the treetops, their talons raking away twitch leaves.

  The horsemen wheeled aside, their roans and bays rearing in fright.

  An anarchy of motion struck the small glade and Svengar’s golden arrow went awry, catching Mygar in the leg. The chief gave a savage cry; he spilled from his mount, cursing in agony. Clutching at the shaft, he hobbled away, but was caught in the crossfire of Kahel’s arrows and the fury of the isks. A giant bird, half black and half grey, landed in front of him and opened its beak wide. He lifted his sword, but the hulking creature clamped the blade in its beak, shook its massive head and flung the weapon off into the bushes.

  Mygar’s eyes mooned in terror. He bolted for the trees, but whatever hobbling strength he had was not enough to save him and the isk lifted wings after him and snatched at his sinewy bulk and bore him aloft. With a final wail to wake the dead he struggled, his legs kicking like a puppet dancing on a string.

  “Fool!” cried Svengar, shaking a fist up at him. “See what happens when you don’t kill your enemies!” Svengar was both anguished and gleeful at the sight of his uncle being carried off. His horse stumbled in a gopher hole, throwing him clear. He lay there in the wet leaves beating his fists on the ground in frustration, cursing the freak fall that had lamed his horse. He took hold of his senses and sucked in a breath. Clutching his bow and magic arrow, he grinned in maniacal triumph as a new reality surfaced in his mind.

  He ran toward the knot of confusion, drawing his sword while Hape and Moeze scurried for safety. Three great isks dove to intercept, their shadows falling like lead weights over the woodland glade.

  Risgan hastened in with a battle cry, smashing his club at a rider who tried to haul Arcadia away by the hair. Arcadia stuck an arrow in an isk that dove at Moeze. Crouching in disbelief, eyes blazing, she ducked a claw that swiped at her shoulders and loosed a shaft into the back of an unhorsed rider trying to despatch Jurna with a steely blade.

  Svengar bellowed, “Isks take you all, fools! I control the wolf-brothers now. I’ll usurp that weakling father of yours, unicorn lady. You’ll become my new bride.” He scrambled after Arcadia who scurried for safety after Risgan, Hape and Moeze while Kahel held the attackers back, shooting arrow after arrow into the midst of the winged horrors. Svengar laughed a wolf’s laugh. “I’ll break you in, you haughty—”

  “Agh!” His boast was cut short as a sinister shadow loomed behind him and reaching claws grabbed his shoulders and hauled him aloft despite his fierce struggles. He shrieked once and the cry was torn from his throat. He ripped his sword from his scabbard and hacked again and again at the thing’s talons, but nothing seemed to gouge that crusted bone and gristle that lurked under the hide of the elder isk.

  Arcadia stared appalled at the humps of men slumping dead or twitching mortally wounded around her. Grey-black feathers floated in the air like dandelion fluff. “Wretches. Let me be free of this nightmare.” In a last clutch at sanity, she stooped to seize the golden arrow that lay aside Svengar’s fallen bow.

  Risgan urged the others on, a great gash on his cheek under his left eye. “Leave the isks to their feast! Let us not join them.” In desperation they rallied together and stumbled on through the trees, dreading to look back at that place of death.

  The fate that awaited the two chiefs, dangling like wriggling worms in the claws of the mighty isks caused Risgan’s heart to shudder.

  Arcadia gripped the golden arrow in her hands. A sad look entered her eyes, as if the words of the goddess fled through her mind a
nd gave her no comfort.

  Ahead, the ageless trunks flanked them while an eerie maroon light filtered through the wavering boughs.

  * * *

  The exhausted party came to a halt before a woodland stream and drank deep of the cool water that flowed over rounded stones and down into a deep, jade-darkened pool. On they scrambled, through the sylvan depths, heedless of their wounds, fearing the return of the isks. Jurna sported a cut on his right arm where a huntsman’s blade had sliced a thin, grazing stroke; Arcadia, Moeze and Hape nursed multiple bruises. Kahel had a gash over his right eye and a flap of skin hung loose on his arm where an isk’s claw had gouged through his leathers.

  They picked up their pace as the sun became a glimmering ball behind them and the woods a silent bastion of protection. Risgan marvelled at their luck; they’d survived the isks and Mygar’s attack, and the horror of being entombed in Driadis’s lost temple. He also recalled the wish bone’s magic and knew that it and the power of Driadis were behind them. He could not discount the enigmatic disappearance of the unicorn with the telltale blood smear on its flank at the temple’s entranceway. The gloom had just swallowed it up. Where had it gone and how had it found that lost, fabled ruin?

  Unless the unicorn and the goddess were one?

  Moeze seemed to pick up on something of Risgan’s restless thoughts.

  “You can never conjure up a goddess, Risgan,” he mumbled philosophically.

  Kahel gave a sceptical snort. “If you’re talking about that entity back at the temple, how do you know it was a goddess? I saw a shimmering apparition that could have been anything—even your magic for all we know.”

  “You’re too much of a sceptic, Kahel,” scoffed Hape. “When will you learn? You saw the unicorn as well as we did. It came back and led us to Driadis and lured Mygar there. He and his rogue lieutenant are dead, in the bellies of isks.”

  “All random happenings in my mind,” grumbled Kahel. “Anything could have caused that.”

  “Oh?” Risgan laughed. “It could have been, Kahel, just plausible. Maybe.”

  “But somehow none of us think so,” said Jurna.

  Kahel just shrugged.

  Arcadia nursed a doubtful frown.

  On the way back to the village, as the fleeting light slanted between the swaying boughs, the company heard a soft whickering drift from the brush.

  Jurna pointed between two massive twitch oaks. “Look, Kahel—your friend.”

  He gaped. “That miserable foal—” his eyes grew wide and shining. “I—”

  The young unicorn reared on its hind legs, pawing at the air. Its deep blue eyes stared right at the archer. Perhaps a token of thanks for earlier deeds? The mother with the wounded side came out of the brush to stand beside it. It lifted its nose to sniff at the air.

  Kahel shook his head.

  “No need to speak, Kahel. Save it for your bedtime stories.”

  A slow grin crept over his hard-chiselled features. His red-bearded cheeks suddenly crinkled in mirth and he burst out in laughter: the second time in two weeks, a record for him.

  “Come on, let’s go,” laughed Arcadia, while there’s daylight about. I want to see you off on your journey.”

  * * *

  The party approached Caerlin as the last light was fading, a much dog-eared troupe, dragging their feet and nursing aching bruises. What was left of Mygar’s riders had not returned, still out looking for their master. It was just as well.

  Arcadia cautioned them to silence and led the way forward. Past ghostly trunks and fallen logs. A voice called out of the shadows.

  “Who goes there?”

  Lokbur reined in, his sword flashing in his palm. His jaw sagged when he saw Arcadia and he leapt off his roan to embrace her. “Arcadia, you have returned!”

  Risgan saw his eyes blurred with what could have been tears. Relief and incomprehension were writ there, and something else. “I thought you were dead!” he cried.

  “No, Lokbur, it’ll take more than a few thugs like Mygar to kill me.”

  “Mygar—what’s this talk? Everyone’s looking for him.”

  “They won’t find him.”

  “You mean he’s—”

  “Remember I am favoured of the goddess. I have Driadis behind me.”

  Risgan bowed his head. “Only too true. Lady, we have completed our oath to you. We’ve seen you safely back to your village. Now, we’ll take our leave, at least before your father gets second ideas about detaining us longer. As much as we like Caerlin, we do not want to spend the winter there.”

  “Of course. It goes without saying.” She nodded and gestured to Lokbur to let them pass.

  “Hold!” cried Lokbur. He held up a palm. “A parting gift—to you all.”

  “But—” Arcadia shook her head and caught up with him to whisper something in his ear and he nodded and whispered something back.

  Risgan and his men gazed in puzzlement as he rode off back to the village.

  While they huddled in the shrubs and as violet gloom crept about them, the huntsman returned bearing something with him.

  He approached, out of breath, drawing a barrow-like cart behind him, supporting a square, thorned cage. “A little surprise for you,” he said with a glint in his eye. The bars had been repaired and a small surly figure darted within, hissing and spitting.

  “Afrid!” Jurna smacked a fist in palm. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I found the little witch skulking around Dodonis’s hut earlier today, no doubt up to no good.”

  “Plotting some foul revenge on our good druid, I think,” said Moeze.

  “Good work, Lokbur. A relief.” Risgan shook his head in amazement. “Now we’re spared her midnight hexing.”

  “She’s that bad?” Lokbur lifted brows.

  “Worse.”

  “I think you’ll want to say good-by to Thrulia too, Risgan?” Arcadia motioned to the bushes behind him.

  He turned and gaped.

  Another figure stepped out of the shadows, biding her time while the business of Afrid was squared up.

  Risgan blinked and blushed. “How did you know?”

  “You think we women are just dunces?” chided Arcadia. “I saw how she looked at you. No less how you looked at her.”

  Thrulia’s doe eyes flashed. She held up food for them, venison and a pot of ale. Her face was flushed pink. “Risgan, good to see you.”

  “And you too, Lady. You are looking ravish—I mean, stunning, gorgeous as ever.”

  She curtsied and smiled. “And you as dashing as ever, relic hunter, despite the grime and cuts on your face and arms.” She sighed. “In another life I would have taken you as my husband for your noble deeds—and not only that…” She scanned him from head to toe, and let her tongue flick over her lips. She halted her scrutiny and her eyes darted to her feet. “I’m not expecting you’ll be staying?”

  Risgan sighed, a low sibilant murmur. He held her in his arms. Gently he kissed her on the cheek. “No, milady, this is not the time. Certain deeds need attending to, involving a gem and a price on my head. In fact, the Pontific of Zanzuria is most displeased with the way I left town. There’ll never be enough miles between me and his bounty hunters.”

  She nodded. “I understand.” Although she likely didn’t. “We thank you for all you have done. You’ve returned my sister, ever the mischief-maker she is.”

  “And you, Arcadia, what are you plans?” Risgan asked.

  “Now that Mygar and his henchmen are no more, Lokbur and I will marry. I’ll be damned if I let my father pawn Thrulia or me off in an arranged marriage ever again.”

  Lokbur and she looked in each other’s eyes. They clasped each other again in a warm embrace.

  Risgan peered through the trees and saw the village bonfire rising higher with fresh wood and torchlights gleaming and the scurrying of swift feet as if some great tension was in the air. “What will you do about the rest of Mygar’s band?”

  “We’
ll manage,” said Arcadia. “Without a leader they’ll be crippled and ineffective.”

  “I admire your spirit, Arcadia,” Risgan murmured. “Why do I get the feeling you’ll be the next queen of the Caerlin people before long?”

  She grinned.

  Lokbur lanced Arcadia a glowing look. They kissed in another heated embrace and all of Risgan’s band clapped and laughed, even Kahel, the gruff Kahel.

  Lokbur lifted a stern hand; his lips worked with emotion, as if he regretted their going. Arcadia was no less moved, her throat choked up, and a tear even came to Thrulia’s eye. “Go, you outlaws, you have our blessings.”

  The mournful wail of the hunting horn echoed through the trees. “Quick! The rest of the Svengari hunters are coming! Back to the village. Take your witch and be gone. She’s an omen around here.”

  Lokbur nodded. “Best to sneak out now while you can at dark.”

  “In those foul woods?” asked Moeze.

  “I admit it is not ideal, but the consequences could be worse.” Lokbur gave a brisk flourish. “Take the hidden path by the river, past the rapids. Then ford it over the stones at the place we call ‘Milestone’s Tomb’. That will get you far beyond any trackers our hetman may set after you.”

  Risgan nodded. “A good plan, Lokbur. Afrid may be getting a little wet, but so be it. Farewell.” Wasting no time they made a beeline for the river, with Hape huffing, and Moeze mumbling and Risgan carting Afrid in tow.

  The horn sounded again, and Risgan paused and turned to gaze back at Arcadia one more time. “Mistress,” he called. “You’re not a huntress any more, I can see it in your eyes. What will you do?”

  She hesitated, rubbing her chin, licking her lower lip. She stepped over to address him personally. “I’ll become a priestess, relic hunter, not like the pious ones that serve Dodonis. But one who devotes her energies to the stars and studying the animal mysteries. I’ll help protect the sacred beasts. My allegiance lies with the unicorns. I’ll bring them back. One day they will wander the forests without persecution from any hunters.”