THE WATCHMAN OF Tremain shouted an alert to his people. “A knight approaches!”
Hearing his cry, those working outside halted their harvesting chores. Those indoors left their huts. All eyes locked on the hulking black warhorse as it marched near, the knight rigid in the saddle.
The people of Tremain lined the road to bear witness as another dared climb Mount Wolkehn. They believed it their duty to study and memorize the face of He Who Would Be the One, in order to recall it the next morning as they offered prayers for the dead. But this time they did more than study and memorize. This time they gawked, open-mouthed, realizing the armor-clad rider was a woman.
Maganhild the Strong wasn’t vexed by their astonishment, but by their breathy whispers that rippled in the wake of her passing.
Do I look as old as I feel?
Admittedly, the once sun-golden threads of her hair were waning into moon-silver, but she cared not what color sprouted from her scalp. What concerned her was the ache that plagued her solid grip more often than not. The speed that—decades ago—made her a renowned and formidable opponent of both man and beast had been fading for years. The garments beneath her armor had gotten tight as girth and hips developed their own padding.
Have I become a hag?
Eyes forward, she focused on the mortared stone structure ahead.
Bard-songs claimed the well at Tremain, despite its restorative power, stood plain and unadorned. Maganhild could now attest the bards sang truth, but it was not her journey’s purpose to validate lyrics or taste this mountain water. Another verse of their song prompted her quest. The one that claimed the wizard would grant a wholly virtuous request. It was followed by a cautionary verse to ensure that few would dare to seek the wizard. It stated that a request borne of greed would forfeit the life of the seeker.
She had studied the lyrics before committing to her purpose. Two things were certain: all who came before her drank from the well to receive its restorative water, and all faced a test prior to meeting the wizard.
None had ever returned, so Maganhild knew she had to do something different. After hours of reflecting upon the actions of her predecessors, she concluded that drinking from the healing well had secured their failure, for doing so displayed uncertainty, and was thus an act of greed.
So, with canteens filled elsewhere, Maganhild rode past the well amid surprised gasps of the villagers.
Gods, let this be the right thing to do.
Yes, she was uncertain of the wizard and the road ahead, but she believed in her need and sought no false hope to bolster her resolve. She would see this through. She had to; she’d brought her son.
The advantage to him being so small for his age meant that he could still fit into the saddle-sling she’d fashioned to carry him. It looked like nothing more than an unwieldy pack, unless she turned it so he could perceive the world that sprawled around them. Clear of the villagers, she did so and touched his head, a signal that he no longer had to be silent and still. He reached up, squeezed her fingers, and grinned with an inner joy her own spirit could not muster.
Riding these many days instead of romping and playing could not have been easy for him, but his happy demeanor never dwindled. Still, Maganhild harbored a worry for what lay ahead. There had been much to delight his eyes along their journey so far, but past Tremain, Wolkehn became the dark, stark, and unforgiving rock best suited for wizards.
What if the mountain bores him? What if he struggles against the sling and falls? What if the road narrows? What if he panics?
The small boy could shift from calm to terrified in seconds. Maganhild could only guess at the cause. She discerned no pattern to his attacks. They occurred equally in the day and the dark, before or after feeding.
She thought it peculiar, though, that it had never happened near Pitch, the great steed they rode. That had inspired her to wrap him into the saddle-sling. Suspended at the horse’s shoulder, he swung gently as the animal walked and could pet Pitch’s hide any time.
As they continued onward the road stretched along the edge of steep cliffs. It took her breath every time she glanced out from the mountain, both from the dizzying height and the magnificence of the view.
When the sun’s edge touched the wide horizon so far behind and below, Maganhild’s concern shifted to finding a place to bed down. She expected to seek out the wizard tomorrow morning, after resting at the edge of the garden—if the lush grounds touted in the bard-songs truly existed.
Ahead, the path narrowed before a sharp turn. Wary of the thinner trail and what she couldn’t see, she dismounted and, in doing so, realized how stiff she’d become. The stretch felt good.
Without warning, the boy grabbed the pommel and hauled himself from the sling and into the saddle. She would have scolded him if not for the joy in his expression at sitting on the big horse alone. It changed her words to, “Hold on tight.”
In response, he yawned. The mirth on his face faded as he rubbed his eyes and yawned again. Then he grabbed the pommel and nodded.
She led Pitch forward and paused to peer around the bend. The road widened, then curved inland, splitting in two. Between the paths sat a neglected hovel. At first glance, neither direction seemed more obvious as the route to the peak, nor did they reveal any hint that a garden might lay beyond.
Perhaps that shack will suffice as our shelter for the night. She studied it for a long moment and weighed the options of ensuring it didn’t fall on them.
Maganhild guided the steed forward.
Something moved inside the hovel.
Halting, she gestured at the boy. He climbed back into his sling. She drew an inch of sword blade even as she called out, “Hello!”
Maganhild hoped for no answer. She hoped to discover their approach had startled a bird or a mouse inside, not an occupant. Birds and mice would leave. An occupant wouldn’t. An occupant could be dangerous.
The hovel door creaked open a finger’s width. She could discern no details, but a high pitched and gritty male voice shouted, “Go away!”
“Which way to the wizard?”
“You don’t want to see him. Go back!” The door slammed. Dust fluttered off of the rotting roof planks.
“Which way?” When no answer came, she dropped Pitch’s rein and advanced on the door. “I will not be turned from my quest. Please tell me, which side do I take?”
From behind, the boy called, “Mama!”
She spun around; he had returned to the saddle.
“Mama! Dun,” he called, meaning “down.”
“No. Stay there, boy.” She backpedaled, watching the hovel while returning to her child.
The door groaned as it opened wider. A man, short and barrel-chested, stepped through. He was dressed all in black, the brim of his broad hat angled downward, hiding his features. “You brought a child?” His tone rebuked her.
With a quick glance over her shoulder, Maganhild noted that the boy had obeyed her. “He is my virtuous reason.”
“But the risk—”
“—is worth it. I am certain of my request.”
“They all say that.” The small man’s shoulders slumped. “Stay to the left for three splits. Then choose the right path for the fourth. Then stay to left three times again. There you will find the wizard.”
“What of the garden?”
“What of it?”
“There we will rest. And seek the wizard in the morning.”
The broad brim swayed back and forth as the wearer shook his head. “Night is best; he sleeps through the day. Three lefts, one right, and three lefts. Say it back to me.”
“Three lefts, one right, and three lefts.”
“Again!”
“I’m not an idiot. I have it.”
“Grace be with you.” The door shut.
Pitch’s ears pricked forward at her return. The boy giggled and waved his arms over his head excitedly until she came close enough for him to lean down and hug her. She accepted his embrace, unsurprised when he slid from the saddle into her arms. He began tapping his fingernails on her armor, enjoying the tink tink sounds.
He should have grown much more than he had. His eyes sat too close together on the face of his too-big head, with too-tiny ears. His short and stubby fingers matched his short and stubby arms, same as his legs and toes. Too often people asked what was wrong with him.
Every time, the question broke her heart a little more.
She had taken him to a healer who said that the boy had not grown right because she was too old to be a mother, that she lacked the vitality to nourish him in her womb and at her breast. Despite her doubts, the healer had recommended supplementing other food with what milk Maganhild could provide for as long as the boy would take it, even though it was clear in the woman’s face that she didn’t think it would be enough.
But Maganhild knew this wasn’t about what she couldn’t give him as he grew inside her. This was about what she had given him.
In all the years of her adult life, only once had she ever been unable to defend herself. Hired as a guard and guide, the client didn’t want to pay at the end of the journey and so poisoned her canteen. In the height of her sickness, he’d forced his seed inside her and left her naked in a field, assured that death would soon follow.
But she refused to comply with his plans.
Defeat was not acceptable.
Failure haunted her, awake and asleep. When she recovered, she vowed to taste that man’s blood and know the glory of revenge. She hunted and killed him in a manner that equaled his own cruelty.
But his death had not purchased an end to the nightmares.
When Maganhild learned his child grew in her womb, she believed his evil tormented her from within by way of the dreams. Raging at the injustice, furious that her enemy remained inside her, feeding on her to grow again… she wanted the baby to die, too.
Months later, when he arrived in the winter, a squalling bloody mess between her legs, she raised her dagger…
He stopped crying. He kicked and flailed his fists. He smiled.
…and she found there was such a thing as an acceptable defeat.
She was unable to resist loving him, and, in the four summers that had passed, unable to forgive herself for what her hate had done to him.
The wizard would hear her story. He would pity them and cure the boy.
He will. This is a virtuous entreat.
Maganhild led Pitch up the mountain path through three lefts. The full of night and the height of Wolkehn combined to chill the air. She paused to put the boy into the saddle sling, but he fought his drowse and rallied, reaching for the saddle to indicate he wanted to ride more. She wrapped his blanket around him. Having his way made him smile, and that smile, after all, had defeated her.
Hungry howls echoed from the wilderness below. Pitch would alert her if he smelled anything close, but he plodded along unconcerned, through a right and another left. Maganhild began to feel the need for rest and sleep in earnest. She was not the only one.
“Mama.”
Though lacking in words, the boy could communicate an abundance with his expressions. His chubby hands reached toward her, fingers straight, then curling. She welcomed him into her arms again and kissed his cheek as a shiver ran over him.
The armor, too cold and rigid to snuggle against, needed to come off. Sliding him back onto the saddle she said, “Give Mama a minute.” After unbuckling the straps of shoulder armor, she pulled a cape from the saddlebag and tucked the armor into the vacant pouch. Once she removed the breastplate, she refastened it around the saddlebag. With the cape settled about her, she pulled the boy into her arms and adjusted the cape to swathe him. “There. Sleep now, boy.” He pushed the flaps of her shirt aside and fed from her breast until slumber claimed him and his breath became a soft rhythm on her neck. His absolute trust, his innocence, bolstered her resolve. He deserved this.
Before they made the final left, she tucked the sleeping boy into the saddle-sling. Leading the stallion onward, her heartbeat increased with her eagerness to meet the wizard, then hammered as she made the last left.
There was no garden here, but the wizard was waiting for her.
He sat upon a throne built into the mountainside, a giant of a man, with a headdress and veils disguising his features. He wore fine robes and the sleeves draped over his gloved hands. One finger curled under. His foot shifted. “A lady in armor.” His deep voice hardly seemed real, thundering from within him and echoing off the mountain’s walls.
Maganhild thought it likely this strange voice was some magic meant to frighten her, but her only fear was that the boy would awaken. Her hand slid into the sling, but he slept on.
“Are you afraid?”
“It is said you slay those who do not have a virtuous cause.”
“Have you come with a foolish request?”
Her chin lifted. “No.”
“Then remove the rest of your armor and come closer that we may speak.”
“Does my armor offend you, wizard?”
“Have you come to fight?”
“No.”
“Then unburden yourself of useless weight.”
“I have spoken.” His words were elongated, uttered slowly. As each emphasized sound crossed his lips, his body moved underneath his robes as if his whole torso contorted and transformed.
Her hand strayed to the pommel of her sword. “I am beginning to fear you.”
His head tipped to one side and, behind her, small rocks showered down along the mountain wall. The show of ability emphasized his words, “Your armor cannot protect you should I find you lacking. That sword hasn’t the reach to stop me should I want you dead. And you will never leave this place unless I choose to let you go.” He sniffed the air. “Do I smell a child?”
“Yes. He isn’t far.” The way Pitch stood, the wizard couldn’t see into the sling.
“Ah.”
She removed the leg and thigh armor, set them aside. Her fingers worked to loosen the sword belt, reluctance slowing each move. With her arms spread wide she turned in a circle, holding the cape to the side so he could see she had no weapons.
“Come.” Five steps away from him, his giant finger flexed to point. “Kneel.”
His ominous tone made her wonder if Pitch could flee with her son safely back to Tremain should the wizard become violent, but on the heels of that thought she cast her doubts away. The time to worry had passed. All she had sought was at hand.
Maganhild knelt.
“Tell me your purpose, woman.”
Head bowed, she spoke. “I have come to ask for the life of my son.”
Distaste sullied the words, “You think a mere illness makes your request worthy?”
Her brows knit. “He… he is not ill.”
“Ahhh. Then what do you stand to gain by asking for his life?”
Peace of mind. Assurance of his independence. Her throat tightened. Selfish.
Her chin dropped and her stomach became ice. Her motive had been for his betterment. Hadn’t it?
“Please understand.” It hurt to force the words out. “I was poisoned and raped. When I learned that he grew within me, I hated him. I wanted him to die—”
“Iniquity!”
“—but then—” She looked up.
The wizard was in motion. A move she recognized. She began to rise before seeing the weapon. Her earlier weariness disappeared and her renowned speed returned as the wizard leaned, torso angling strangely, and his arm shot forward.
“Wait!” she cried, spinning to dodge the thrown dagger by a hair’s breadth. As the rotation brought her back around she kicked at the giant’s forearm. The toe of her boot pushed the fabric of his sleeve easily up and into what should have been the flesh of his arm. There, it became stuck. Unable to follow through and rebalance herself, she fell, causing half of the wizard to lurch from the throne and land on her, knocking away her breath.
She didn’t understand what had just happened—had the wizard severed himself to attack me? Regardless, her life was at risk. Her confusion redoubled when small but strong hands pushed out from folds in his robe and circled her throat.
The large headpiece loomed over her. She made a fist and punched where the jaw should have been, but it didn’t feel like a jaw when she made contact. Still, the wizard cried out and the grip on her throat loosened. Seizing the moment, she grabbed the arms that had attacked her even as she pushed with one leg and sent both the wizard and herself into a roll.
Now atop the oddly-lightweight wizard, she glanced around, anticipating the longer arms would strike at her next. She noted, however, that the wizard’s sleeves lay crumpled around and under them, flat and without arms in them. A gloved hand and arm made of wood lay not far from her knee.
Flashing a look toward the throne she realized the other gloved hand was attached to the rock chair-arm, and a pulley system of rope stretched from the wrist to the shoulder. Another mechanism attached to the foot she had seen moving.
The figure under her was not nearly as big as the wizard had portrayed himself. This man was small. Like the man at the hovel.
It’s a ruse!
There was no wizard. No hope for what she sought.
Rage infused her, as did the willingness to fight and kill from days long past. Altering her grip to hold both of his small wrists in one hand, she jerked the headdress away. Her arm drew back, ready to pommel him, but she froze and her fist unclenched.
The veils had created an illusion of size, but without them or the low brimmed hat he’d worn earlier she saw things she did not expect. His eyes were small, and too close. His ears were tiny on his too-large-for-his-size head. His fingers were stubby and misshapen.
She was looking at what her boy would become.
All her fears culminated in this one man who had learned to lure people high on the mountain to rob and slay them in order to survive.
Cruelty begets cruelty.
Either her shocked expression or her hesitation set him off. His struggles renewed and he cursed and kicked and snarled like a beast, but like this, he was powerless to defeat her. Fighting to change a situation he could not hope to alter, he only looked like a fool.
Is this what strangers see in my boy?
But this individual was not like her sweet and happy son.
This man, she guessed, had been tormented as she feared her son would be tormented in her absence… or after her death. She was getting old; he would have no one if she died. That inevitability had prompted this journey… this fight… to enable him to live his life, to change a situation she could not hope to alter.
I am the fool.
She had succumbed to cruelty and called it revenge when she maimed then killed the man who’d raped her. Afterward, she’d learned the empty pain she’d been struggling with had not been healed by her violence. Only when she actively chose the boy’s life over her need for vengeance, when she allowed love to replace the hate within her, only then did she cease to suffer with nightmares.
She released the man’s wrists. He stilled and stared at her as she shifted away and stood beside him. Maganhild offered him a hand up. “You don’t have to do this.”
Light flashed, and Maganhild lurched away as a green-robed woman appeared before them. One slender hand wrapped around a gnarled staff, the other fondled a crystal hanging from a cord around her neck. “Marcus, take the hand of Maganhild the Strong.”
Gaping at both this magical entrance and the wizard’s knowledge of her name, Maganhild hesitated before returning to again offer her hand.
Once on his feet, the man cast off the oversized robes to reveal the black clothes underneath.
The Wizard of Wolkehn regarded them both with a shake of her head. “A thousand years I have been here. Waiting.” She stepped toward the rock throne and sat. “One after another, men have climbed this mountain to ask for things. And one after another, I turned them on each other, baiting them like beasts to see which would show me their virtue. How many have you slain, Marcus?”
His chin dropped. “Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine,” she repeated. “How long?”
“Forty years.”
“And your predecessor stayed for thirty-two years and killed twenty-three men. His predecessor stayed for thirteen years and killed six. And so on and so forth over centuries.” The wizard’s mouth curved ruefully. “Maganhild the Strong, you have ended my long wait. You have not fought this day to survive or to win, for you have not fought Marcus. By equal measures, you have fought yourself and fought to understand the complexity of your situation, both here,” she pointed at the ground, “and there,” she pointed at Pitch. “Speak your desire that I may grant it.”
Maganhild’s heart sputtered in her chest. Her mouth opened and shut. Her gaze transferred from the wizard to Marcus, then lingered on the sling at Pitch’s shoulder.
“What request brought you all this way?” the wizard prompted.
She whispered, “I brought my son.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted him to be… normal.” Her tone grew to a regular speaking voice as she met the wizard’s eyes and continued. “Normal. Like the rest of us. I came to ask you to change him so that I won’t have to worry about his survival when I am gone. But…”
“But?” The wizard’s brows lifted as a sign of patience.
She thought of the flowers the boy would pick and bring to her, and how his little hands would push at her cheeks trying to make her smile. She recalled the random moments when he ran to her like something terrible chased him, but all he wanted was to hug her tight.
No womb-curse had touched him. Neither did he suffer from an after-effect of the poison. He was her boy, her son. Just as he was meant to be.
She would be miserable if the boy was changed and even an ounce of his sweetness disappeared because he was made what others deemed ‘normal.’
“But even now I see that I am the one who is flawed, the one in need of changing. Though I love him, though my eyes adore him, I needed him to be different.” She looked at Marcus, then twisted to glance again at the saddle-sling before facing the wizard once more. “I saw what he wasn’t. I saw what I thought he should be. I didn’t accept what he is.”
The wizard’s chin lifted; she looked down her long and crooked nose and prompted, “What is he, Maganhild?”
Her head shook slightly as she considered how to answer his question. “He is innocent and trusting and happy. He is… he is virtue.” She swallowed. “If you alter him as I came here intending to ask you to, he would no longer be that. I thought this quest was for him, for his benefit, but now,” her gaze shifted to Marcus again, “I realize it was for me.”
The wizard came forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maganhild the Strong, I cannot change you, as you have already changed yourself.” She sidestepped and glowered down at Marcus. “And you… what have you learned?”
“Shame, madam. The value of having honor and virtue.”
“It’s about time,” the wizard mumbled. She bent and spread her fingers over Marcus’s head. “I release you.”
Light flashed again and standing in Marcus’s place was a man in armor not unlike Maganhild’s own. He was tall and rugged, and silver streaked his dark hair. He studied his hands and his body as if he didn’t know himself.
“Mama!”
Maganhild turned and saw her boy climb from his sling onto the saddle. When he was sitting and holding on tight, she whistled and Pitch brought him close.
His stubby fingers curled and uncurled. “Mama!” She opened her arms. He slid into her embrace and snuggled under her chin. She stroked his hair.
“What is his name?” the wizard asked.
“I never gave him one.” A pang of shame twisted her stomach. “At first, I just didn’t know what to call him. He was my boy in my every thought and deed, but I allowed him no identity. Why?” Tears welled up.
“Name him,” Marcus said urgently. “Name him now.”
Maganhild pulled back to gaze on her boy. Tears spilled down her cheeks and the boy wiped them gently away. “Mama no cry.”
She kissed his forehead and whispered, “I name you Virtue.”
The wizard shut her eyes and let her chin fall as all air left her lungs.
Marcus lowered himself to one knee. “My life was lost, forfeit to the wizard until you, Maganhild the Strong, and Virtue restored me. Until my dying day, I will serve you both.”
In the distance, thunder crackled. “I cannot remain much longer,” the wizard said. “Come to the cave beyond the garden and choose what piece of my treasure you would take with you as reward.” She stepped behind the throne and disappeared.
Maganhild carried Virtue, and Marcus led Pitch as they followed the wizard and found a doorway to a lovely moonlit garden. Scanning across the distance, she spied the wizard nearing the mouth of a cave on the other side. The wizard flicked her fingers and light began to glow inside. She gestured for them to hurry.
“I’ll stay with the horse,” Marcus said.
“His name is Pitch,” Maganhild said softly.
Marcus smiled warmly at her, and she returned it.
The wizard pointed inside the cave at a vast space filled with gold and silver glinting in the light of a thousand candles. “Choose anything you like, but be quick. I would have you back in Tremain before the storm hits.”
Maganhild nodded and carried Virtue into the room following a path that led among the treasures stacked so high. She saw chalices, crowns, and vases. Boxes of coins. Jewelry. Statues. Things she could not name. There was too much to choose from. Glancing back, she noted the wizard just outside, talking to Marcus.
“Mama.” Virtue pushed against her, wanting down. “Mama. Dun.”
“Yes. Perhaps you should pick.” She sat him down.
He turned in a circle, mouth agape and eyes alight, then toddled off. She stayed close behind him, but her eyes caught on a sword with a huge emerald as the pommel. She paused to examine it.
In that moment, Virtue slipped away.
He found a narrow path that led to a room with a big bed, a chair, a desk, and three tables. One held jars with strange, squirming things inside them. On another rested a big, open book. On the last a large black horn balanced impossibly on its tip while curving to one side and widening to the open end from which sprang a beam of red light. As the horn slowly turned the light moved about the room.
Virtue could not read the engraving on the stand: Horn of a Rodænym, the Quinary, Brotherhood of Five. All he knew was this air tasted strange and right here his skin felt like a warm wind blew all over him. He reached out to the horn. The closer his fingers came, the colder the air around it was. He pulled back, but grinned as he watched the light move. The curved side was coming around…
“Virtue!”
He did not recognize that Mama’s word meant to call him back to her. On tip toes, he reached again into the cooler air and the tip of one finger brushed the edge of the horn.
“Boy, where are you?”
This, he understood. Pulling away, he lowered onto his heels to go to her.
He would never know that the goodness of him resonated on that horn like a violent storm. He would never know that, with the painstaking slowness of time running so that seconds became long minutes, the horn tipped from its stand. He would never know that the source of the red illumination dripped from inside of it and seared a hole in the stone floor that burned deep, deep into the mountain, and kept burning all the way to the Abyss.
But the wizard knew.
She watched Maganhild, Virtue, and Marcus leave together, assured at the wisdom in the warrior-woman’s choice of coins, as well as Marcus’s acceptance of her suggestion that they hurry far away from these lands. When they were out of sight, she faced the cave.
For a thousand years, she had been bound to this place, sworn to service no evil, sworn to reward a wholly virtuous act. A millennium trickled by as she guarded the horn, and when Fate came to pass, the binding that kept her here flared, barring from her any words that might have halted the fruition of evil. But then, the darkest of prophecies always had a way of finding fulfillment, despite the best efforts of those in the light.
As the storm neared, she stood in her chamber beside the great book on the table and read from the open page:
As foretold, comes a twist of Fate
When the hand of Virtue opens the gate
And the world to its horror will embark
Upon a new age of demons and dark.
