Other soldiers lacked his control. They pointed and laughed at the featherless fowl. Gwurm merely smiled while Newt threw annoyed glances. It was a hard lesson for a duck that wanted to be terrifying, but it kept him quiet.
Gwurm dropped the bundle on the bench outside my tent. "If you won't be needing me for anything, I should be drilling with the men."
I wished him well and granted him leave. He cast one last amused smile in Newt's direction.
"That's a good look for you," said Gwurm. "Nothing scarier than an angry plucked duck. If you cut off your head, you'd be every cook's worst nightmare."
Rage flashed in Newt's eyes. He looked about to pounce upon the troll. I didn't know who would kill who in a fight, and I had no desire to find out just now.
"Newt, inside."
Muttering, he did as told.
Gwurm left for drills, and Penelope decided to go with him, merely looking for an excuse to visit the fort's dusty floors again. I had no objections. She just wanted to be helpful. I doubted the soldiers would appreciate their dust-free fort, but in times of trouble, we all must contribute what we can.
Newt poked his head out of the tent. "This isn't permanent, is it?"
The spell would only last until dusk, but I didn't tell him. I even suggested that perhaps Gwurm had a good point, and I was thinking of magically removing his head. Not only would it make him a more proper witch's duck, but his cast aside skull sounded like a tasty snack. He disappeared back inside with a disgruntled quack.
I laid out the swords on the ground before me. Thirteen was a nice witchly number. It was a quirk of magic that enchanting thirteen swords was easier than one or twelve or fourteen. Only the magic knew why this was, and it kept these reasons to itself. But magic, by its very nature, defies true understanding. It follows its own rules, and often ignores those rules when it feels like it.
I arranged the swords in a circle, blades outward. Then I sat in the ring's center and spent the next four hours with my head down, mumbling, and enchanting. Technically, witches do not enchant. We curse. It's a slight difference. I endowed the swords with the power to dispel illusions in the right hands, but as they were cursed, any man who called upon the magic would age a day for every phantom destroyed.
Cursing is tedious, uninteresting work. Most witch magic is not particularly flashy. It gets the job done without making a big show. Wizards love throwing up their hands, bellowing, and shooting sparks in the air. Or so Ghastly Edna had taught. It was their stock and trade. But witchly showmanship was mostly in the feigned madness, pointed hat, unflattering frocks, and raspy crackles.
Several hours of uninterrupted cursing later, I took a break. I opened my eyes. The swords shimmered with half-finished magic. It was coming along nicely, and I stood with a slight smile.
I turned and saw Wyst of the West sitting on the bench beside my tent. I had no idea how long he'd been there. It could've been hours. It was an old witch's trick to pay him no mind and act as if I'd known he was there all along and merely had yet to address him. I hobbled into the tent, right past him, and poured myself a bowl of boar's blood, kept warm and salty by magic. Newt glared but wasn't speaking to me. I didn't ask if he'd noticed how long the White Knight had been waiting.
I took a sip of blood, wiped my mouth, thought better of it, and took another drink without wiping it away. I let the red cover my upper lip and dribble down my chin. Just enough I reckoned to be unappealing without overdoing it. Then I stepped out of the tent, walked past Wyst of the West once again, and paced a slow circle around the thirteen half-cursed swords.
He had yet to say anything or even make a noise. I decided I'd been witchly enough.
"Do you plan on sitting there all day?" I tried to sound as if I didn't care, but truth be told, his presence unnerved me. Only Ghastly Edna's superior schooling prevented me from showing it.
"I've come for the test," he replied.
"There's no need."
He stood, looking very insulted. "You tested every man in the fort. I see no reason I should be an exception."
I chuckled. "I saw no reason to bother with a test that I'd already know you'd fail."
"What makes you think I'd fail? I understand well what you've told me about these goblings."
"Understand perhaps. But to understand is not always enough."
"Are you going to test me or not?" It was the first time I'd heard him sound even remotely cross.
Rather than argue the point, I agreed. I found a flat stone, explained its "imaginary" nature, and threw it right at his face. He didn't flinch. The stone stopped an inch from his nose. It hung there a moment, held by his protective aura, before falling to the ground.
"Now do you see? There's no way to know if you held your ground because you believed me or because you knew your magic would protect you."
He nudged the stone with his boot. "I see, but I also know that I believed you."
"Yes, I think you did, but sometimes understanding and belief aren't enough. You've spent too long hunting this horde. No matter how much you think you understand, no matter what your strength of will, some part of you will always think the goblings real."
He looked as if he might argue but thought better of it.
I asked, "And what do you need an enchanted sword for when you already possess a fine magic sword yourself?"
He adjusted the weapon on his hip. "The enchantments on my weapon only serve to give courage to the men who fight by my side and keep the blade ever sharp and rust-free. But for phantom goblings, it has no special powers."
"I'm certain it will serve you well enough when the time comes."
Wyst drew his enchanted weapon. Sensitive as I was to light and capable of perceiving the powerful magic blazing on the blade, I winced. Such potent enchantments were the stuff of legend, the product of years of master enchanters. Anyone who looked upon the unsheathed weapon would feel either invincible by the White Knight's side or stricken with sickly fear if standing against him. My eyes adjusted to the brightness just as he returned the weapon to its scabbard.
"That is a great power you carry," I remarked.
"A great power for great good."
"Or great tragedy," I whispered.
He heard anyway. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing."
There was no hiding the anger in his voice this time. "Stop talking riddles, and speak plainly!"
I allowed myself a long glance at his pleasing face. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he glared. I should have thrown a half-wise, half-mad chuckle at him and gone back to my sword cursing. It would have been the witchly thing to do. As I so often did in the White Knight's presence, I fumbled my witchfulness.
I limped close to him, keeping my head stooped and one squinted eye aimed at his chin. "Without your magic, you couldn't convince a handful of men to stand against the gobling horde. When the time comes, many will die."
"They are soldiers. It is their duty."
I allowed myself a chuckle. He was trying to convince himself more than me.
"True, that is," I agreed. "But that does not change the fact that most would have abandoned their duty without your influence."
"Those without honor."
"True, that is too, but the common man would trade his honor for his life any day. And precious few would throw it away on a lost cause."
"This is not a lost cause."
I hobbled away and whirled my hands in a peculiar way. "Perhaps not. Perhaps it is merely a nearly lost cause, an almost fool's crusade. But these soldiers would care little for such distinctions."
Wyst of the West stood rigid. He gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckles. "These men fight, and yes, some will die, to prevent greater disaster."
"Again, this is true. But in the end, no matter how right the fight, no matter how necessary the sacrifice, you will ultimately be responsible for whatever happens." I lowered into a deep crouch and spoke with a rasp. "That is a burden I wouldn't care for myself."