Willow (13 page)

At last Raziel came to Cherlindrea. She asked her for her wand to confront Bavmorda, to win her prince back again, and when Cherlindrea refused she flew into such a passion of furious and inconsolable weeping that the fairy queen withdrew, leaving watchers to make sure she did herself no harm. The following day, when she had grown calmer, Cherlindrea talked earnestly to her, although she knew that reasoning with Daikinis was difficult at the best of times. Sometimes they listen and sometimes they do not, and even when they do listen, no one can be sure they understand.

Cherlindrea consoled Fin Raziel as much as possible, and made her this promise: that if she returned to her discipline and pursued her Way, and if Bavmorda’s power grew, then, when the time came to confront that power for the sake of Earth and its creatures, Fin Raziel would have Cherlindrea’s wand.

So, in the fullness of time, Raziel resigned herself to the loss of her love. She returned to the nurturing of her sorcery, and in the years that followed she did much good. She grew sublime, though sad. She rose over passion to compassion. She became beloved of all creatures—a healer, a true sorceress.

Bavmorda married the prince, though the event caused small rejoicing, and there was only token attendance at the feast. They had a child, Sorsha, who was said to have her father’s red hair and gentle disposition, though she was bent early to her mother’s will. Not long afterward the old king and queen died together, and some whispered that Bavmorda’s spells had helped them go.

So she became Queen of Tir Asleen, and Tir Asleen became a mournful place. Where once there had been festivity and laughter, now there was only gloom and mourning. The real Bavmorda emerged from pretense and loosed her baleful power. The young king sickened. Animals fell ill. Crops waned and died. Retainers suffered. Those who had freely waited on the old king and queen were now constrained to serve and punished harshly for trifling faults, their every action narrowly watched by Bavmorda’s guards and minions. Grotesque and alien creatures inhabited the palace moat and cesspools, the dark corners of the orchard, and the hedgerows beside the wilting fields of maize.

Tir Asleen filled with whispers.

Then, when she had sucked what she could from the castle and its lands, Bavmorda abandoned them like a husk. In a nearby valley, where the volcano of Nockmaar smoked and fumed, she built a towering new fortress. Much agony and grief its building caused. Many lives it took. It rose a dread, grim place—invulnerable. Its denizens were such creatures as only a will utterly depraved could summon into being.

When she withdrew to this place, Bavmorda surrounded Tir Asleen with a maze so convoluted that no one ever found their way back to that castle. The young king was never seen again. The child, Sorsha, Bavmorda took with her, to raise in her own manner. They say the little girl wailed so pathetically on the journey that the very birds mourned and drooped their wings as the drear procession passed.

Fin Raziel, when she protested Bavmorda’s act, was defeated in sorcerers’ combat and banished to an island in the center of a great lake in the north, where she has been imprisoned ever since . . .

“And there, Willow Ufgood, you must go. You must take to Fin Raziel the wand which she requested long ago, for the time has come to use all means to challenge the power of Bavmorda.”

“But . . . but Cherlindrea, how do you
know
?”

“Because of this child, Willow. Here is the Sign where Fin Raziel’s prophecy said it would be. She is the child promised long ago, the child who will restore Tir Asleen and cause the downfall of Nockmaar.”

“But why don’t
you
take the wand to Fin Raziel? You have magical powers.”

The fairy queen shook her head, smiling sadly. “I wish I could, but my presence cannot extend beyond my woods. Besides, the child has chosen you, and you have powers, too.”

“Me? But I’m just little. I’m small even for a Nelwyn! This is a task for a warrior! For a whole army!”

“I cannot make you go, Willow. The final choice is yours. I must tell you again that the task is very dangerous. Bavmorda’s troops are rampaging, searching for the child. If she is found in your presence, at least you will perish instantly . . .”

“At
least
!”

“. . . at worst, you will suffer with Elora Danan the Ritual of Obliteration.”

“The Rit—What’s
that
!”

The Sight of all the fairies dimmed.
“Worse, worse than death!”
they whispered.

“Far worse,” Cherlindrea murmured. “It is the wiping-out of all you were since Earth began, of all that you are, of all that you have been.”

Willow shuddered, wrapping both arms around Elora. “No!”

“Everything! So, the risks are very great, and I cannot make you accept them. I can tell you only that if you undertake this task you must bear my wand to the Lake of Fin Raziel and give it to the great sorceress herself.” Cherlindrea leaned forward and offered the crooked shaft.

Willow swallowed.

Still trembling, he stepped forward and accepted it.

There was an instantaneous burst of radiance around him, the hum of fairy exultation, and the cool touch of myriad fairy kisses.

Cherlindrea smiled. “Remember,” she said, beginning to vanish before his eyes, fragmenting into crystalline points of light, “you must give the wand only to Fin Raziel.”

As Cherlindrea faded, so did the sparkling light of the fairies. It flowed like mercury in all directions back into the forest, together with the tinkling of their laughter, and Willow found himself alone with Elora in the center of a moonlit glade, surrounded by murmuring brownies.

Only one fairy remained, asleep under a drooping leaf. The large-eared brownie who had spoken to Willow earlier crept over and sprinkled silvery dust on her out of a tiny pouch.

“Rool!” Franjean said, bustling up, “where did you get that Dust of Broken Heart?”

“Found it! There!” He pointed to a hollow tree. “Uh, I mean there!” He pointed to a little cave at the edge of the glade.

“Stole it, you mean! Give it to me!” Franjean snatched the pouch and tied it to his belt just as the fairy awoke, staring at him adoringly. Arms stretched to embrace him, she fluttered up to him, murmuring endearments.

“No!” Franjean squeaked. “Back! Help! Get her away!”

Cackling, one of the brownies doused her with water from a pitcher plant, and the little fairy fled muttering into the woods, her ardor cooled.

The incident caused much merriment at Franjean’s expense. The brownies chortled and punched each other, pointing at him. With as much dignity as he could muster, he bowed to Willow. “Peck, I mean, Sire, I am to be your guide to the Lake of Fin Raziel.”

“What? But you’re the one who stabbed me in the nose!”

“I know, Sire.” Franjean’s green eyes twinkled mischievously at the memory. “Before I knew your mission. Now, you have been chosen by Elora Danan. Now, Cherlindrea has appointed us to guide you, Rool, and me.”

“Rool?”

“Me! Me!” The grinning, big-eared brownie hopped up and down, waving both hands.

Willow took a deep breath. “When do we leave?”

“Now, Peck. I mean, Sire. Beyond the Woods of Cherlindrea, the way is very dangerous.”

Rool nodded wide-eyed agreement. “Trolls! Brigands! Death Dogs!”

“We should travel at night. We should begin this night. Now.”

“But the child . . .”

“She’s been fed,” Franjean said. “Fairies did that. Come!” He started northward, beckoning.

Rool followed, waving happily to his friends with both hands.

“Farewell, Rool!” they shouted in great merriment. “Try to stay on the path! Don’t forget to eat, Rool! Look after the King of the World!”

Sighing, Willow tucked the wand into the long pocket of his coat where, once upon a time, he had hidden a piglet at the Nelwyn fair. He touched the three magic acorns and the braid of Kiaya’s hair concealed near his breast. He picked up the papoose-basket with Elora Danan inside and followed his two guides into the forest.

V I I
HILDA

D
awn found them north of the woods.

The landscape was the bleakest and most awful Willow had seen. Great fires had raged there, leaving charred rock and cadaverous forests. No flowers grew in that place; no birds sang. Noises echoed down sepulchral valleys, distorted and magnified like the groans of Earth itself.

Willow shivered. The brownies communicated by signs, speaking rarely and then only in whispers although, for miles around, they could see no other living creature.

They kept to the high ground; Willow was soon to wish they had been even higher.

Near noon, Rool crouched suddenly and hissed, slapping Willow on the leg. “Death below!”

They took cover in a shallow crevasse with charred shrubbery in front. Cautiously, Willow peered through this screen and down the slope. All morning weird sounds had echoed and rebounded, surrounding them with the clamor of a ghostly battle. Now at last the real battle swirled into view. Clutching Elora close, Willow watched in horror. The remnants of the majestic force he had seen pass through the Daikini crossroads were being driven down the valley in a rout. All semblance of order had vanished. The banners had fallen, the baggage train had been captured. Only the pennant of the commander was still aloft where Airk Thaughbaer and his standard-bearer, besieged by a sea of Nockmaar troops, fought desperately. All around them men died, pinned by lances, hacked by swords, crushed under thrashing hooves.

So horrified was Willow, and so loud was the clash of battle, that he was unaware of the approach of Nockmaar horsemen behind him until he heard a harsh bellow.

“No quarter! Kill the scum!”

Willow cowered over the child, expecting to be struck down the next instant, but when no blow fell on him he peeked around.

The man who had spoken was mounted on an enormous black stallion. The crimson ensign of the Nockmaar commander fluttered from the staff of his standard-bearer. A purple cape drifted from his shoulders. Black plate and chainmail covered his thick torso and his huge arms and legs. Splashes of blood stained his sword and gauntlet. But the most terrifying aspect of this man was not his size. Where a human head should have rested there rose a massive skull, a thing with glowering sockets and an immense, protruding jaw ringed with fangs. A scrap of rank black hair clung to it. A pair of iron horns arced from its forehead.

As Willow stared, the rider lifted off this terrible helmet to reveal a face almost as terrible—a face thickened and brutalized by savagery. A face scarred and broken. A face beyond all pity.

He was oblivious to Willow and the brownies. His gaze was riveted on the battle in the valley below. “Galladoorn scum!” he growled. “Clean them up! Charge when ready!”

“Yes, General Kael!”

One of the two adjutants with him wheeled his mount and trotted back along the ridge, shouting commands; the other raised a ram’s horn to his bearded lips and blew such a resonant, throbbing blast that Willow felt the very stones quiver under him. Over the rise trotted a legion of fresh Nockmaar cavalry, dressing themselves in battle-order as they came. When their captain’s sword arm dropped they surged down the slope and over the wretched Galladoorn survivors. The howl they uttered—pure blood lust—turned Willow cold.

Death Dogs charged with them, hot for the throats of men.

Willow cowered while the charge went past and over him. The child shrieked such a long and piercing scream that he thought they would surely be discovered, but even that cry was lost amid the cries of dying horses and dying men, and the clang of steel on steel.

As soon as the last rider had swept down into the valley, the brownies were on their feet, tugging at Willow. “This way! Hurry!” Choking in dust, they clambered to higher ground and lost themselves at last among great boulders, where horses could not follow. Death Dogs might have tracked them there, but they were busy with richer work below. They had no noses, then, for two brownies, one small Nelwyn, and a baby.

Gradually the sounds of slaughter faded. Gradually Willow and the brownies found their way down through tortuous goat tracks among the crags, back onto greener slopes. Birds sang again, drifting among the trees. Gradually Willow stopped shaking enough to comfort the child.

“A-awful!” he said, sinking down at the base of a great tree.

Franjean’s jade eyes glinted. “And they call brownies cruel! I tell you, Peck, no brownie would be part of what you’ve seen today.”

“Un-unh,” Rool grunted, shaking his large ears, eyes sorrowful. “Only Nockmaars kill. Only Galladoorns. Only . . .”

“Only the big people,” Willow said. “Daikinis.”

The brownies nodded.

Gradually their horror and fear subsided. They stayed safe in the tall woods until the exhausted child fell asleep in Willow’s arms, and then they started down through lengthening shadows toward a lush valley in the distance. Lights twinkled there, although the western hillsides were washed with sun. “We’ve got to find food for her,” Willow said.