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Chapter Fifteen

Snow, borne from the icy sea Woroc’Il’Lod, carried inland over the mountains on winds of unrelenting force, showered round Moc’Dar’s force, spicules of ice assailing whatever bare flesh might be unwisely exposed.

Even Moc’Dar’s black leather mask of the Sword of Koth afforded him little protection, and he found himself squinting his eyes against the unremitting, bone-chilling onslaught. The heavy, wet snow flakes and needlelike shards of ice, driven diagonally, worked mercilessly against them, infiltrating to the innermost reaches of their clothes; and when the wind gusted and howled in higher register than the steady shriek Moc’Dar’s numbing ears were becoming used to, the weary horses visibly shuddered and stumbled, riders huddled deeper in their snow-splotched black cloaks, swayed wearily in their saddles.

Some magic had been used, either that of the old man Erg’Ran or the warrior woman’s, covering the tracks of the Enchantress and her comrades before the snow had begun to fall. Where there had been snow, there was only virgin white, and the rock surfaces, now totally obscured, had shown no scuffing or scratching from steel-shod hooves. Because time was of the essence—the Queen Sorceress was not noted for infinite patience and each eyeblinks delay might allow the Enchantress to renew or enhance her magic—Moc’Dar had improvised a plan.

There were only so many directions in which the daughter of the Queen Sorceress and her band of rebels might go. Traveling further inland would gain them nothing, the overland route away from Edge Land the only possible goal and one that would be counterproductive to their ends, at least so far as Moc’Dar understood them.

The rebellious daughter and her co-conspirators would head for Woroc’Il’Lod, where the remainder of their pitiful force vainly attempted to distract the Queen Sorceress with naval maneuvers, threatening a landing of some sort in modest force, an attack which could easily be repelled.

Bearing in mind all of these well-reasoned assumptions, Moc’Dar had split his sizeable force into eight different elements, all of which would converge at the most logical place for a landing. Each element had with it one Ra’U’Ba, in the event that reinforcements would be needed, or field intelligence needed to be shared by way of the Ra’U’Ba.

Despite his Captaincy, Moc’Dar had been given field command over the entire operation, placing him in the oddly satisfying position of having superior officers in the Horde and the Sword of Koth ordered to take his orders.

If he failed in his charge, Moc’Dar had already decided that he would take his own life rather than remain alive to be punished by the Queen Sorceress again.

Leading a unit of four score Horde of Koth and a score of Sword of Koth, Moc’Dar took the route along which his best judgment dictated that the Virgin Enchantress was most likely to travel. It snaked through the foothills which paralleled the mountains forming the most rugged and treacherous portion of the coastline with Woroc’Il’Lod. There were numerous places along the way in which a small band might take shelter, hide from the second-sight.

Although there was still no evidence of any horses crossing through the area, blaming the magic, cursing the cold, fearing his future, Moc’Dar rode on along the bleak far edge of the plain of Barad’Il’Koth…

Although he had not eaten, Alan Garrison’s stomach felt pleasantly full. Although he had not touched a razor to his face, his skin felt the slight tightness which only the closest, cleanest shave imparted. Although he had not bathed, his hair and body were immaculately clean, as were the clothes he had lived in for far too long. His sword was freshly honed and, like his firespitters, lightly oiled. Alan Garrison wondered if, somehow, Swan had counteracted her mother’s spell and his pistols would actually shoot?

There would likely be the chance to find out about that.

All around him there was beauty, but it frightened him. Pleasantly warm sunshine from a robin’s egg blue sky bathed this little valley, but visible in all directions was a sky so darkly overcast in grey as to be nearly black. When he listened very carefully, he could hear the faint howl of vicious winds. Flowers grew in abundance as did grass, upon which their own stolen horses and the two white horses (which had magically appeared) eagerly grazed.

Most disconcerting of all was Erg’Ran’s appearance. The lines of age in his face had somehow grown softer, less noticeable. His eyes seemed brighter, keener. And his peg leg was gone, in its place (although Garrison hadn’t asked Erg’Ran to remove his left boot) presumably a normal, healthy foot. His monkish robe was clean and new looking.

Mitan’s leathers gleamed, and her hair shone with the luster of fresh washing and brushing. Her body, always eye-catching, was all the more so.

Gar’Ath’s wild mane of hair was nearly as perfect as that of his lover, Mitan, and the few dueling scars Garrison had only subconsciously taken note of before—one on his neck, two on his right hand—were gone.

Captain Bre’Gaa’s mail glistened as if it were made from the finest silver, painstakingly polished. And the hair which covered the visible portions of his body, his facial hair and mane, all seemed to almost glow with cleanliness and good health. The Gle’Ur’Gya Captain’s great kilt was spotless, without wrinkle, its fabric somehow richer looking.

Alan Garrison watched Swan, his heart compelling him. She knelt in the luxuriant grass, her skirts billowed round her like the petals of some shimmering blossom. She was a bloom more magnificent than the profusion of flowers surrounding her.

Erg’Ran attended her.

Swan wore a long-sleeved, satiny gown of her own making, the texture and color of which mirrored the muted reds of the upthrusting buds all about her, its square neckline at once modest yet revealing.

Alan Garrison followed Swan’s gaze as she stared into the distance. Was she thinking about the storms which raged around them, one literally, the other figuratively? Or did she consider the scope of her magical powers? Swan could, it seemed, bring into reality that which she desired merely by imagining its existence. Was this, he wondered, the true essence of magic?

Garrison shuddered, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came that he, too, might only be a thought in her mind, existing only at Swan’s will.

If a tear should fall from Swan’s perfect eye, would it be as equally capable of magically transforming into a diamond of dew dotting the petal of a rose as a white-flecked torrent raging over the bodies of drowned enemies? If such a tear ran down her velvet cheek, would it be one of sadness for the terrible deeds still to come or of happiness for the bliss they had shared together and might share again?

At this moment, true happiness still eluded her, he knew, as it might forever elude them both. Garrison desperately wanted to picture Swan running into his arms, embracing him with all her might, every day for the rest of their lives, never letting him go. Had he magic, he would make it so. But, he wondered, had destiny intertwined their fates only briefly, deceived them with the promise of a fate they would forever be denied?

Alan Garrison could not take his eyes from Swan...

“You cannot do this, Enchantress,” Erg’Ran informed her. “It was I alone who made the decision to lop off my foot—it had to be done—and I did not ask you to give me a new foot.”

The Enchantress smiled gently. “It was not my intention to be arrogant, uncle, but merely to do something, well—nice! If you do not wish to have a left foot, I will change it back for you.”

“No, no,” Erg’Ran explained, shaking his head. “This, all of this, is a waste of magical energy! I did not need a new robe; the old one was perfectly fine. Your heart is in the right place, but do you truly realize how much magical energy you are using in order to maintain the conditions you brought about in this valley, while all around us a storm rages? You may need every last iota of that energy to combat your mother, Enchantress.”

“I have more power than she ever had,” the Enchantress answered matter-of-factly. “I just know, somehow, that I do.”

“And you have the resource with which to renew that power, whereas Eran—at the moment—does not. I know that, Enchantress.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘at the moment,’ Erg’Ran?”

“Your mother, my sister, has two options, dear one. The third option—to surrender—she would never consider. If I understand her thinking, as I feel that I do, this is her strategy. She will conserve her magical energy at all costs, as she did at the keep, while causing you to expend as much magical energy as possible, in the hopes that when a confrontation comes you will find yourself lacking. Unless, of course, her minions, by some fluke, are able to kill or capture you. You see, even if she wins against you, the source of the greatly magnified power to which Eran has become accustomed is now denied to her. Hence, her two options.”

“Which are?”

Erg’Ran fumbled his pipe, Swan packing and lighting it for him in an eyeblink. “That is exactly the sort of wasteful use of magical ability to which I refer, Enchantress. Thank you, at any event. The two options are, I’m afraid, rather obvious. Would you care to suggest them?”

Swan’s eyes widened, and Erg’Ran knew that she’d realized at least one of the options. “Al’An?”

“Oh, yes! Definitely, the Champion! If Eran can somehow overpower or destroy you, that is. As discussed before, he would have to take his own life. Eran’s magic would be such that she could convince him that she was, in fact, you, and he would happily be her lover.”

“Erg’Ran! No!”

“Understand,” Erg’Ran told her, “that your Al’An would think, all the while, that he was in your arms, not hers, never realizing until she’d finished with him that she had taken advantage of him, created a fantasy in which he was merely her toy.”

“And the other alternative? My mother’s second option?” Swan asked.

“Failing that she could possess the Champion for her purposes, she would have to transport herself to the other realm and bring back another other realm male. While she was gone, of course, if you lived, you would be able to seize control of Creath. If the Champion lived, although, indeed, your powers would be greater than hers because you are half K’Ur’Mir and half of the other realm, there would be sufficient parity that the warfare could go on indefinitely.” Erg’Ran glanced skyward. It was not yet dark, but he made the allusion at any event. “You would be like the sorceresses of the two moons. All of Creath would suffer.”

Swan seemed to consider his words for some time. “Could she not,” Swan inquired at last, “have left already for the other realm, Erg’Ran?”

Despite the balmy air and warm sunshine, Erg’Ran was suddenly chilled to the marrow...

Time was now their worst enemy, Swan realized. And Erg’Ran had been right. She must use her magical energy more wisely than ever because of its enhancement. Otherwise, all of that for which the Company of Mir had fought would be forever lost.

Surrounded by Gar’Ath, Mitan, Erg’Ran and Captain Bre’Gaa, Al’An at her side, Swan stood at the center of the meadow she had formed within the magically protected valley.

“We must, I fear, act quickly, my friends. All may already be lost. Each eyeblink’s delay could precipitate a disaster from which Creath might never recover. I could use considerable magical energy to transport to Barad’Il’Koth the companies of our ships, but we would still be hopelessly outnumbered by the Horde of Koth and those other foemen whom my mother can send against us.

“For that reason,” Swan went on, “I have decided on a course of action, in counsel with Erg’Ran, which my mother, the Queen Sorceress, would never consider.”

Erg’Ran spoke. “The problem, simply put, is that, even as we speak, Eran might already have transported herself to the other realm, have found an other realm male, mated with him and be fully prepared to continue warfare on Creath of infinite scale and duration. In all of my planning for the events which I had hoped would bring victory for the Enchantress and freedom for Creath, I failed miserably to consider that one possibility. It might prove our undoing, and the fault will be mine alone should such circumstances come to pass.”

“Enough of that,” Swan told him, meaning it. “We began as friends and shall end as friends, and the responsibility for whatever transpires, for good or ill, is mine alone, and I am the most fortunate of womankind that we endure whatever it is that we must endure together.”

“What is your plan, Enchantress?” Gar’Ath asked.

Swan looked at the young swordsman and smiled. “We need an army, and there is only one army in the history of Creath which stood strong enough to combat the forces which my mother will assemble against us, and which can resist the force of my mother’s magic.”

Al’An just looked at her, understanding not at all, while Mitan and Gar’Ath were visibly shaken.

Captain Bre’Gaa said, “There is only one army of which I know which was ever that numerous, that strong. It is the army which was raised and led by Mir against the sorceresses, ending the dark times.”

“It is that army of which I speak,” Swan answered softly. Mitan sucked in her breath in what could have been a gasp...

The storm through which they’d interminably ridden was dissipating almost as quickly as it had fallen upon them. Moc’Dar’s horse, nearly spent, heaved with each breath. He raised his right hand and signaled that his column should halt.

With great weariness, Moc’Dar dismounted, the fallen snow rising half the height of his knee boots.

“Dismount!” Moc’Dar ordered, his command echoed and re-echoed along the column’s length.

The Ra’U’Ba near him asked, “Why do you order this? We can go on. The sky is clearing, Captain. See!”

“I know that the storm passes, as any fool knows.” Shaking his head, he humored the Ra’U’Ba and glanced skyward. “Look!” Moc’Dar shouted. “Look there!” Gathering the folds of his cloak close about him, Moc’Dar began to clamber up the ridgeline. The clouds were breaking, what sky was visible a dully gleaming grey. But, in the distance, there was incredibly bright blue. “Send the Yeoman Spellbreaker!”

Halfway up to the ridgeline, Moc’Dar looked back. Trundling gracelessly through the snow and into the drifts at the ridge’s base came his Yeoman Spellbreaker. Moc’Dar called back. “Ra’U’Ba! You will join us at once!” The blue had to be magic, had to be the work of the Virgin Enchantress.

Moc’Dar dropped to his knees, then to a prone position at the very height of the ridgeline, the snow wet and cold and working its way through his cloak and the leathers beneath. After what seemed an eternity had passed, but only a few eyeblinks really, the Yeoman Spellbreaker knelt beside him. “They may have guards second-sighting. Down flat, boy!”

“Yes, Captain Moc’Dar!”

The Ra’U’Ba reached the ridgeline and Moc’Dar ordered him down also. Ra’U’Ba looked oddly comical under normal circumstances when getting up or getting down, their characteristically heavy tails awkward seeming at best. But, attired as this one was—legs heavily wrapped under his skirt, the tail wrapped as well, upper body swathed in cloak upon cloak—the spectacle was beyond bizarre.

At last, the Ra’U’Ba as flat as he could get in the snow, Moc’Dar ordered the Yeoman Spellbreaker, “Second-sight me what is on the ground beneath that clear patch of sky, boy. Be quick and accurate.”

“Yes, Captain!”

Moc’Dar didn’t even look at him, until he heard him. “Specters!” The Yeoman Spellbreaker screamed the word like a tortured woman...

Swan, exquisite, her arms upraised, palms open, fingers outstretched, a fierce wind from nowhere tousling the wild mass of her auburn hair, ceaselessly assailing her skirts, commanded the magic.

Since he had come to Creath and learned to believe in the reality of magic, Alan Garrison had never been witness to a vortex like the one he now beheld. He doubted that anyone had. Its texture was velvet black, its substance darker than the deepest shadow, all light—save for tiny pinpoints, like stars in the night—absorbed within it. And, as he watched, Alan Garrison realized that he was peering into death itself.

From within the vortex, moving independently of touching anything, their horses’ hooves trodding thin air as though it were hardest ground, rode an army of the dead, girded for battle.

In a column of twos they rode. Pennants, mounted atop gleaming lances, stiffened before a wind which had not blown for a thousand years. Leather and steel, long since decayed in rot and rust, were solid matter once more. Polished and burnished, it creaked and clanged. Sinews and muscles—human and equine alike—surged with movement long foreign to them and voices spoke, echoing forgotten words from out of the grave.

Their armor was a mixture of articulated full-plate—so often wrongly associated with Arthurian Britain, but actually coming to flower in the late-fourteenth century—and mail with leather. Some were surcoated, heraldic symbols emblazoned to the chest as both a badge of identity and a challenge to foemen. Spurs tinkled, hooves clopped and horses of power and majesty whinnied, the exanimate army splitting into two files as it exited the vortex onto solid ground, fanning out to either side of the valley, riding onward.

Soon, riding alone in the wake of a dozen knights, was a single man. His countenance, beneath a full head of closely cropped auburn hair, was heroic, an aquiline nose below a high forehead and deep-set penetrating blue eyes, a wide mouth rigid with determination within a jawline appearing to have been chiseled from granite or cast from steel. The tendons of his neck were tensed, disappearing beneath a coat of burnished mail. Over his armor, he wore a surcoat emblazoned simply with the hilt of a great sword penetrating a round shield, but the shield was a vortex.

His shoulders were broad, his upper body erect, exuding strength and purpose. He rode a great white steed, the carriage of its head and the powerfulness of its neck reminiscent of purebred Arabian, its height and musculature more like that of a Percheron. The animal’s trappings were magnificent; a great high-cantled battle saddle, silver mounts matching the adornments of its bridle and chest plate, an equine counterpart to its rider’s white emblazoned blood red surcoat draping its body.

First handing off the great helm carried under his arm to the knight at his right hand, the rider dismounted. He was tall, long-legged and arrow straight. He approached Swan and dropped to one knee before her, deliberately drawing his sword, raising it to her in salute—his lips kissed its hilt—then lowering it, point to the ground. The bowed forehead touched its bronze cruciform hilt. “You are the Enchantress of whom I prophesied, but no longer virginal, or else you would not have had the power to summon me and my knights to your service. I pay homage to you for the great honor with which you charge me, that I might fight for you and for Creath.”

As he spoke, the knights under his command continued to ride from within the black vortex, a double rank forming, completely circumferencing the valley. The man stood, smiled, took Swan’s offered hand in his, bowed over it and kissed it.

“Had I fought throughout all eternity for this one shared touch, Enchantress, such efforts would have stood as an insignificant price to pay.”

“I knew of your wisdom and courage, sir, but had only guessed at your gallantry,” Swan informed him, her smile beaming.

He smiled again, saying, “Your gentle speech unduly flatters an old soldier, Enchantress. I entreat you cease.” And he turned from Swan and looked Garrison straight in the eye, assessing him. Extending his hand, he said, “Hail Champion! I am Mir and would that I might bear sword beside you in the great fight.”

Garrison clasped Mir’s hand, expecting that his own hand might pass through it, that this man before him was ectoplasm rather than substance. But the hand was even warm.

“I do not understand any of this, sir,” Alan Garrison declared, the words coming very slowly, deliberately.

Mir’s eyes twinkled as he smiled and responded, “The magic! Yes! I once was like you, Champion. More than you might suspect. Know this, that before I ride back through that vortex into the repose of death, I will with you share a secret known by none living in these days.”

Mir turned away, addressed Swan, “With your permission, Enchantress. I take it that we ride against Barad’Il’Koth, for nowhere else on Creath would there be the seat of evil power.”

“Indeed, great sir.”

“May I then speak to all present?”

“You do us wondrous honor that we should be privileged to hear your words, sir.”

Mir nodded, called to the knight to whom he’d passed his helm, “Have it that my knights dismount, Tre’El.”

“It shall be so, Mir.” The knight ordered, “Prepare to dismount!” Along the entire length of the valley, the command was echoed and re-echoed. At last, Tre’El gave the word, “Dismount!” As one, the knights stepped down from their saddles, the creak of leather and the clang of steel rising in a crescendo, then gone. There was, indeed, not a sound but the crunch of ground beneath Mir’s feet as he paced a few steps forward.

Once again Mir drew his sword. Placing its point to the ground, Mir rested his hands upon its quillons. “The day foretold has come,” Mir began, his voice not a shout, but clear, reverberating along the length of the valley and to all sides. “And she who was foretold is among us!”

A hurrah rose up spontaneously.

As the cheer subsided, Mir continued. “We have been honored beyond measure that, in Creath’s time of greatest need and greatest opportunity, we once more can fight against tyranny, fight for freedom!”

Again, voices raised in approbation.

“As we serve our Enchantress, we serve Creath. I cannot tell you what fate might await any who fall in battle. Would we return to our deaths, or would our spirits forever be denied that ease? But as we once gambled life for death, shall we now, in the cause of good and right, gamble death for the unknown?”

It began as a single voice, then a dozen, then a hundred, until all of the knights who thronged the valley chorused, “For the Enchantress! For Creath!”

“Then we shall take horse anon and, under the banner of freedom, in company of the Enchantress and her fierce Champion, we shall smite the enemies of goodness and justice and honor. To all of this shall we swear our destinies and our swords?”

As if one voice, the single word, “Yes!” thundered from the army of the dead.

Then all was still. Mir raised his sword, its steel gleaming white gold beneath the sunlight. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, “Enchantress! Prithee close the vortex from death! All in this valley now to horse! To Barad’Il’Koth! To victory!”

If he hadn’t already signed on to this war, Alan Garrison realized that he would have enlisted on the spot. Swan clapped her hands closed and the vortex disappeared into itself. She turned and looked at him, smiled, then kissed his cheek. “I love you, Al’An.”

Alan Garrison told her honestly, “Always,” then started to look for Swan’s horse. As he turned his head, he saw Erg’Ran. The old man wept...

Eran sat in her throne chair. The six Handmaidens who most closely attended her made themselves prostrate on the treads at her feet, she and they the only living things in the great hall. Torches flared smokelessly in sconces everywhere along the side walls and great braziers filled with magical fire which consumed no fuel and gave no heat burned on either side of her.

“Which one of you will dare speak?” Eran inquired, knowing full well that it would be Belan, the most gifted and most beautiful of them, as it always was. “She may rise to her knees before me.”

Belan rose. Head bowed beneath her veil, she began, “O mighty Queen Sorceress at whose feet we fawn, I would beg to speak.”

“So be it.”

“There is communication from the field, Great One, passed by the minds of the Ra’U’Ba.”

“Speak to me of it, Belan.” Eran lifted her heavy velvet skirts, rearranging them as she leaned forward, perching on the edge of her throne, her chin resting in her hands.

“It would appear, Mighty Queen, predicated upon the magical power which was reportedly witnessed, that the union between the Daughter Royal and the other realm man has—”

“No!” Eran rose so violently to her feet that the wine cup beside her tumbled, spilling its blood-red contents across the stone. Belan shrank back in fear, reassuming the fully supplicant posture of the other witches.

“What sort of manifestation?” Eran reseated herself.

Belan’s voice trembled, was muffled by the stone step against which her face was pressed. “Mighty Queen, it is reported that there was a vortex, unlike any ever witnessed, enormous and black. From within the vortex, Great One, rode an army of armor-clad warriors.”

“And?” Eran realized that her own voice trembled and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap because, like the rest of her body, they shook.

“The leader of this army, Great Queen Sorceress, a knight of heroic bearing, wore emblazoned on his red surcoat the sword penetrating the vortex shield, the symbol of—”

“I know whose accursed symbol it is!” Eran shrieked as she sprang to her feet. The Handmaidens shrank from her in terror. Eran began to descend the steps leading from her throne, the Handmaidens grasping at her dress, eagerly pressing their lips to its hem. Eran had no strength to pull clear of them, was barely able to walk.

Her life was falling into ruin and she silently cursed the day she brought Swan’s life from her womb.

In the history of Creath, there was no other army of knights like that which Belan had described. Nor, in all of history, was there anyone who wore the symbol spied on the knight’s surcoat, save for one: Mir.

Swan had summoned the dead to be her army, and they would be invincible foemen.

Three choices remained to her, capitulation unthinkable.

Eran could utilize virtually all of her magical energy to summon once again the Mist of Oblivion, to devour her enemies. But, if Swan had indeed mated with the other realm male—which she obviously had—Swan might be able to seize control of the Mist and turn it against her. If Swan drastically depleted her own magical energy in doing so, she could easily replenish it by using the other realm male to her purpose.

Eran knew that she could flee, flee to the other realm and find an other realm male with whom to mate, replacing Pe’Ter. By the time that she could return, Swan would have seized Barad’Il’Koth, banished the Horde to the four winds, and—if she had the stomach for it—seen to the execution of the Sword of Koth and the Handmaidens of Koth.

Because Swan’s blood was half of Creath and half of the other realm, her magic might even now be greater than had ever been known in Creath, materially stronger than Eran’s own. Giving Swan time to learn to use it could prove to be a strategic error from which Eran might never recover.

There was one final option, and Eran would require the assistance of her Handmaidens in order to attempt it. If she succeeded, she could destroy her daughter and the army of the dead. “Handmaidens! Attend me quickly!” Eran screamed. She drew up her skirts and ran from the great hall, laughing uncontrollably...

Through the Ra’U’Ba, Moc’Dar received the order from the Queen Sorceress, Mistress General, “Fight my Daughter Royal and her army of the dead until your own death, Moc’Dar, or suffer in unimaginable horror and degradation throughout eternity as the despised object of my unremitting wrath.”

Head bowed low, Moc’Dar sat on a rock surrounded by drifted snow. Tears streamed from his eyes beneath his mask. In his hands, he held a dagger. With it, he could end his life, obviate the consequences of failure in battle and the continuance of life. Moc’Dar could still see himself, feel himself as the contemptuous, despicable beast into which Eran had once before transformed him. Failure in service to the Queen Sorceress this time promised a fate incomprehensibly wretched, remorselessly certain.

Moc’Dar raised his head, sniffed back his tears, stood. Clearing his throat, he called out to the Ra’U’Ba who stood some distance away, eating something nearly as disgusting looking as the Ra’U’Ba himself. “You! Feed your face if we are victorious! Contact the others of your land with my force. Tell them where we are and that we will execute a strategic withdrawal toward the keep, then stand and fight. I need all with me who can be with me. Any man who fails me will wish that he were dead. Make this known, and do it now!”

Moc’Dar had decided that he would fight to the death and welcome death when it came to free him...

“Tell me more about this person Bu’Cka’Roo Fi’Sh’Man, Champion,” Gar’Ath requested.

Alan Garrison, Gar’Ath and a dozen of Mir’s knights, Mir’s Knight Commander Tre’El among them, had been riding point ahead of Mir’s main column for some time, seeing nothing but rocks and snow instead of enemy troops. Swan would be second-sighting periodically, of course, but it was still prudent to have a scouting party.

“Well, you see, where I come from, and not very long ago really, there were wild and untamed places and they attracted men who were the same. There were some of these men who fought for good, and some who were very evil. Buckaroo Fishman, although little known, was one of the good guys. He was a fast hand with a Colt Single Action—a firespitter—and wickedly effective with a Bowie knife. A Bowie knife is a kind of dagger, Gar’Ath, named after Jim Bowie.”

“I see, Champion. This Bu’Cka’Roo fought bravely then against many adversaries, as did this Bo’Wie?”

“Oh, yeah. Wouldn’t mind having Buckaroo Fishman or Jim Bowie along with us right now, I’ll tell you, Gar’Ath. And, we could throw in Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, too, for good measure. And, since we’re fantasizing, I wouldn’t mind Robin Hood and his Merry Men of Sherwood Forest helping us. Bruce Lee might come in handy, too.”

“Who are these other heroes of whom you speak, Champion?”

Garrison patted the neck of his mount, looked at Gar’Ath and started to answer. But, past Gar’Ath’s shoulder, about a hundred yards distant, he saw the glint of what might have been steel reflecting under the feeble sun.

A hundred yards was a doable but less than ideal shot for an average longbowman, Garrison surmised, at least against a man-sized target. It was less likely still to be made with a crossbow. So, whoever watched them—if, indeed, someone did—had to be scouting for intelligence concerning their movements. “Be ready for trouble. Don’t look, but there may be somebody out there around a lancethrow away.”

“Aye, Champion. I noticed it as well, but it’s a bit further off than a lancethrow, I’d wager.”

Without turning around, Garrison called out to the Knight Commander, “Tre’El?”

“Yes, Champion?”

“We may be under observation from that direction.” And, Garrison inclined his head to indicate the spot toward which he referred.

“I will alert the knights, Champion.”

Garrison nodded.

Gar’Ath, his voice low, presumably so that his utterances would not be overheard by Tre’El, asked, “Did you ever think that dead men could be returned to flesh and blood such as these? It is, I think, quite vexing to consider.”

“Vexing? You’re putting it mildly, Gar’Ath!”

“Tis true. But, verily, the magic of the Enchantress surpasses all understanding, Champion.”

“You’re putting it mildly again,” Garrison agreed. His horse was starting to act oddly skittish. He was no expert horseman, nor certainly able to read the equine mind, but the animal might have smelled something, sensed something, that he could not. “I’ve got a funny feeling,” Garrison remarked, as inconspicuously as possible loosening the lashings which held his shield to his saddle so that he could access it more quickly. Gar’Ath had given him a few quick pointers in the use of the shield—for practical reasons and to kill time—before Swan had summoned Mir and his knights through the vortex. The brief instruction had convinced Garrison that, under the circumstances which he might be about to encounter, the Golden shield of IBF could be a decided asset, however inexperienced he was in its use.

Their small column approached a rise, ridges extending toward them from either side of it, not truly significant geological features but of sufficient height that a clever enemy could keep itself hidden until the very last moment before a trap was sprung.

“I’ve got a funny feeling,” Garrison announced again.

Gar’Ath only nodded, his eyes focused on the horizon.

“I saw this in a Western movie, once,” Garrison remarked. “The Apaches—or maybe it was the Sioux or Cheyenne—they had their ponies lying down on the ground and kept them there by lying down over the horses’ necks. When the Cavalry or wagon train or whatever rode past, every man in the war party sprang onto his mount and they rode up over the ridges they’d been hiding behind, just like they’d popped up out of the ground.”

“Of what do you speak, Champion? When did these events transpire?” Gar’Ath pressed, sounding perplexed.

“Tell you later,” Garrison promised. His eyes flickered from side to side, ridge to ridge. “You think Mitan knows that deal with the second-sight where she can use a spell and see around obstacles?”

“I don’t know, Champion. Why do you ask?”

“I was just kind of sorry Mitan stayed behind with the main column. Wishful thinking, that’s all.”

Garrison stood a little in his stirrups, as if stretching. Still, he could see nothing. The glint of steel he’d spied before was long gone. It couldn’t have been a carelessly discarded aluminum pop can, not on Creath. Garrison made a decision. “Tre’El! Split the column. Have eight of your knights fall off with their weapons ready, and wait until we’re at the top of that rise before they join us.”

“What is it, Champion?” Tre’El asked.

“If it’s a trap, no sense letting the enemy spring it the way they’d planned, is there?” Garrison drew his sword; he hadn’t checked his firespitters to see if Eran’s spell against them still held. He’d thought to ask Swan if she could do something about that, but then the vortex appeared and Mir and his knights rode out and everything happened very rapidly after that.

Gar’Ath unsheathed his blade as well.

Tre’El rode up even with them, settling his sugar-loaf-style helmet over his mail-coifed head. Garrison could barely discern that there was a living being—so to speak—beneath the helmet. Its long, narrow eyeslits were the only true openings. There were, additionally, numerous tiny holes—like the openings in a colander—corresponding to the positions of the wearer’s cheeks, presumably for air intake and ventilation. From within the helmet, Tre’El's voice sounded oddly muffled as he said, “You have a talent for tactics, Champion.”

“Tell me that again if we get out of this alive,” Garrison said.

Tre’El only laughed. “Death isn’t really what you might think.”

“Honestly, it would be fascinating to discuss it with you, Tre’El, and I hope I live through this in order to have that opportunity, among other things.”

Gar’Ath announced, “The moment approaches, my friends.”

“Let’s really surprise the crap out of them,” Garrison said. Extending his sword before him and drawing up his shield to protect the left front side of his body, he shouted, “Charge!”

Garrison dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, Gar’Ath’s and Tre’El’s mounts coming to a gallop on either side of him. A quick glance over his left shoulder confirmed that the other three knights with Tre’El were right behind them and the eight who’d been ordered to stay back were couching lances, drawing swords, readying flails...

“They are madmen,” Moc’Dar growled from within his mask, and he felt himself smile. The Roc’Ar’Kar, lying flat on its right side beneath him, stirred, its powerful hooves pawing the ground. “Yes!”

Moc’Dar sprang from the horse’s neck to his feet, giving a tug to the reins, the mighty animal leaped upright. Moc’Dar wrestled the Roc’Ar’Kar into obedience and grasped the animal’s high-cantled war saddle, mounting quickly as he ordered the five score soldiers with him, “We attack!” To the animal’s flaring ear, Moc’Dar cooed, “We shall both die as we have lived, in the flame of battle!”

Moc’Dar drew his firesword, the Roc’Ar’Kar jumping the low ridge of rock, bounding down into the defile, toward the Champion and the others. “I defy you!” Moc’Dar screamed at them.

The Sword of Koth immediately flanked him, men scrambling to their frantic mounts, running beside their animals, flinging themselves into the saddles. Looking behind him, he saw the scores of the Horde taking to their animals. As he’d withdrawn, buying time, five of the remaining seven elements of his original force had rejoined him.

Surprised as he turned his head, Moc’Dar saw the Ra’U’Ba. He not only held the Ra’U’Ba in contempt as a race, but had come to dislike this one on a personal basis. The Ra’U’Ba called out to him, saying, “You are not the only one who can die bravely in battle, Captain! I will die with you!”

Moc’Dar nodded, and with his sword gave the Ra’U’Ba a salute, then flicked the sword’s flat against the rump of his Roc’Ar’Kar and leaned into its neck. The animal’s mane lashed at Moc’Dar’s leather masked face, his eyes stinging from the occasional random impact and the cold wind around them. He spurred his animal faster, faster.

The Champion and the five men with him—four of them were knights of the old days from the time of Mir—reined in their mounts. Would they stand and die or flee, Moc’Dar wondered?

Eight more knights, several lancethrows back, formed themselves into a skirmish line.

The Champion’s horse reared, the other realm male keeping to the saddle with little grace but noticeable strength of will. “I would have your blood on my sword, Champion!” Moc’Dar called out.

The Champion and his five companions readied their weapons. No firespitter would save this other realmer now, and Moc’Dar acknowledged within himself that the Daughter Royal’s Champion showed courage, refusing to give ground in the face of certain death.

Less than a lancethrow away, Moc’Dar’s troops thundering in his wake, Moc’Dar’s heart sank. The Champion and his cohorts wheeled their horses, spurred their animals away. “Cowardly bastard!” Moc’Dar shouted after him, enraged.

Moc’Dar reined in, his men doing likewise. At the top of his voice, Moc’Dar commanded, “Sword of Koth! Form skirmish line!” His men rode forward, falling into a rank on either side of him, stretching from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. One of the Sword Generals used his horse to shove the Ra’U’Ba aside, and Moc’Dar ordered his titularly superior officer, “Give place to the Ra’U’Ba!”

“Yes, Captain.”

Moc’Dar’s eyes and the eyes of the Ra’U’Ba met, and then the moment was passed.

Moc’Dar raised his voice again. “Horde of Koth! Form three skirmish lines behind the Sword of Koth!” The clopping of hooves, the rattle of equipment, the creaking of leather, all formed a wondrously reassuring cacophony surrounding him.

Moc’Dar stood in his stirrups. One hundred score of men, all of them ready to fight and die, were ahorse and ready. Moc’Dar edged his Roc’Ar’Kar forward, inclining his head toward the Ra’U’Ba to join him. “Can your mount keep up?”

“If it falls, I’ll run beside you, and then ask if your mount can sustain the pace.”

Moc’Dar truly laughed, and felt a freedom he could barely recall having ever felt before.

“Good man!” Moc’Dar raised his voice one more time, shouting more loudly than he had before. “On my signal! Ready! At a canter! Forward!”

The Sword of Koth a stride behind him and the Horde behind them, all gradually picked up speed.

The Champion, his five companions and the eight knights who had stayed back were all mere silhouettes in the distance, and Moc’Dar knew where they were heading. He would follow, as they wanted him to.

They would lead him to the army of the dead. Nearly out of sight, the Champion and his cohorts stopped. This would be it.

As if materializing out of the ground behind them, there was a line, what little sunlight remained reflecting from swords and helms and armor, knights so numerous that the rank they formed not only stretched from horizon to horizon, it seemed, but beyond, as if, somehow, their numbers girded Creath, a barrier which could not be circumvented.

The Champion and his cohorts were lost among the knights who composed the army of the dead. Every other man in their rank rode a few strides forward, the knights in the now anterior rank raising their lances.

Running out ahead of this rank were archers, countless in number. After they formed, every other of them moved two paces forward and dropped to one knee, the rank behind them closing together. As one, the two ranks of archers drew taut their bows, fired a volley, their arrows landing in the ground. Another volley was fired, the arrows landing closer to the archers. They were setting distance for their longbows, marking the range. The archers remained formed, but slackened their bow strings.

Moc’Dar wanted to feel the wind on his face one last time.

The reins to the Roc’Ar’Kar in his teeth, with his left hand Moc’Dar reached up, slipping the knot at the nape of his neck which bound closed his head-cloth. He flung the black fabric aside. His fingers untied the lashing which bound his mask over his face. He spit the reins away, then tore the black leather from his skin. Moc’Dar cast the mask of the Sword of Koth to the ground beneath his horse’s hooves.

Gathering the Roc’Ar’Kar s reins, Moc’Dar leaned well back in the saddle, brandished his sword at arm’s length above his head and screamed, “Follow me to death!” And to freedom...

Erg’Ran, ahorse, zigzagged his way among the ranks of mounted knights, nearing Mir, calling to him, “I must know before you enter battle! I must know!”

Eyeblinks remained, Swan knew, before the battle would be joined, the first arrows shot. Mir had requested that she remain behind with a rear guard, and she would honor that request, Mitan with her.

Beside Swan, Mir had already donned arming cap and mail coif and was about to lower his helmet into place. But he stopped, turning his face toward the sound of Erg’Ran’s voice. “And what is it that you must know, uncle and mentor to the Enchantress? I am honored that you do think so well of me.”

Erg’Ran, despite the fact that he was on horseback, was out of breath. Sniffing once, he looked Mir in the eye and asked, “Whence cometh your gift of prophecy, sir? Who are you?”

Mir crossed his right leg over the neck of his great steed, his right elbow coming to rest on his knee, and his chin settling into his leather-gauntleted hand. “You have studied my teachings, I am flattered to know, for it is you who led the Enchantress so wisely to this time and place.” He smiled, almost laughing, but not derisively. “Were I to reveal to you the answer to either of these two questions which you set before me, Erg’Ran, would you believe it? Or, as well used to the enigmas in which I have wrapped many of what you have spoken of as prophecies, would you see my answer merely as a riddle?

“You, Erg’Ran, of all who breathe the magic of life, are most well-suited to understand what answer I might give. You risk your life for the benefit of all. Within your brain is a repository of great wisdom, yet you constantly seek more knowledge. You have magic well beyond the ken of any male ever of Creath, yet you foreswear its use for your own ends. When lately I inquired of you from the Enchantress, she regaled me with such facts as these, and most happily enlivened our discourse.”

“I—I do not understand, sir.”

“Ah, but you do! I am a man, and never was I more, nor do I hope ever to be less. I asked questions and sought answers. I was not content in darkness, and struggled for the light of wisdom. A fate was lain before me, and I could not deviate from its design. Like you, I realized that I trod an unforgiving path.”

A voice called out from the foremost rank of knights. “The enemy is near to range for the longbows, Mir!”

“Anon! Anon!” Mir retorted. He looked again at Erg’Ran. “My destiny awaits me once again, as will yours. Only in that hour shall you truly know the answers which you seek. But here are my answers. The gift of prophecy which you credit to me is not prophecy at all, but logic. If one sets out a plan for future history, a time when evil shall be crushed by good, there will always be persons of good heart who see such prophecies as hope and shall endeavor, beyond their ordinary abilities, to bring such happier times to pass. They will find wellsprings of strength which they never knew that they possessed, and courage in greater measure than a thousand armies such as mine.” Mir’s right hand gestured around him, to his knights and archers. “Specificity is the ruination of prophecy.

“And your second interrogative I have already answered, but will vouchsafe to say again: I am a man.” Mir donned his helmet and charged Erg’Ran, “Care for your Enchantress as you do always. Remember, Erg’Ran, that the sweet scented flower and the rankest shrub sprout from the same ground; while quiet diligence nurtures the blossom, unreasoning zeal can foster the weed.”

Mir swung his leg back over his saddle and drew his sword. Quietly, he rode forward, immersing himself in the sea of armored warriors beneath wind stiffened pennants.

Had she been a man, Swan realized, she could have ridden between Mir and her Champion, fought beside them; but, were she a man, there would not be stirring deep within her those feelings for Al’An which so quickened the woman’s heart which beat within her breast.

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Enchantress?” Erg’Ran responded, his gaze at last turning from Mir.

“Al’An will survive the ordeal which is before us?”

Erg’Ran smiled, reached across the gulf between their mounts and closed his hand over hers. “A man fights for many reasons. Al’An genuinely feels for the cause which brought us to this place, to this time. And, of all men, because he loves you, he has great reason to return from the field of battle, to once again be at your side. If passion, then, can armor a man against his enemies, your Champion is well-shielded from hurt.”

Swan nodded.

One thing had been missing from Mir’s words of explanation to Erg’Ran. Had there been nothing more to Mir’s great prophecies than logically based conjecture concerning the course of future history—as Mir purported—then how had he known that the Virgin Enchantress was to seek the origin of her seed? How had he known that she would find a Champion in the other realm? By Mir’s own words, “Specificity is the ruination of prophecy,” Mir had contradicted his very contention.

Swan asked Erg’Ran, “Did you notice something odd in Mir’s words, uncle?”

“Riddles within riddles, Enchantress. Mir draws one into logical befuddlement, concealing his true nature within the very enigma which he leads one to believe that he is about to unravel. There is mystery to Mir, and well he knows it and well he keeps it.”

Perhaps Erg’Ran had so diligently studied the teachings of Mir that he had begun to think like Mir. At times, he certainly talked like him. Swan shook her head and looked away, the fighting about to start. She would second-sight the battlefield, perhaps seeing more than she would wish to see. But before she did that, there was one thing more important than anything. She urged her mount forward, into the knot of men gathering around Mir. Her eyes moving to right and left, at last she saw that for which she searched, the face of Al’An. He conversed with Gar’Ath and one of Mir’s knights.

Swan turned her horse toward him, patted its neck with her hand, the animal moving forward. “Al’An! Al’An!”

Al’An turned his head, saw her, said something to Gar’Ath, then spurred his mount toward her. In an eyeblink that seemed like an eternity, their horses had stopped and they sat facing one another.

“I wanted to tell you that I love you, Al’An,” Swan said.

“And I love you.”

“Then, kiss me only once and I shall keep your touch on my lips until once again we kiss when the battle is done.”

Al’An leaned forward, his horse closer to hers now, his right arm encircling her waist, drawing her close to him. And his mouth came against hers and her limbs were weak and she pressed her body against his. “I won’t die, Swan,” Al’An whispered. “I promise, darling.”

“I shall hold you to your promise, my love.”

Al’An touched his hand to her cheek, turned his horse with a tug to its reins, rode off. A tear fell upon Swan’s cheek and she made no attempt to brush it away...

A gap formed within the first rank of knights, Mir leading them into it. Alan Garrison, shield up, sword drawn, rode beside the once again living legend, and with Garrison were Captain Bre’Gaa, Gar’Ath and, hastening to join them, Erg’Ran. Tre’El, Mir’s Knight Commander, sat on horseback between the rearmost rank of archers and the leading rank of knights, awaiting Mir’s signal that the battle should begin.

Riding along the broad defile, their numbers stretching from horizon to horizon, their horses at a steady gallop, were the forces of the Queen Sorceress.

“The Enchantress second-sighted on them, just an eyeblink ago. Moc’Dar, only a Captain, leads them, Generals among them. Most peculiar,” Erg’Ran announced. “The Enchantress tallies their number at one hundred score foemen.”

Mir said, “Numerically, we are then evenly matched. They cannot win over us, they know that. Lightly armored foot soldiers, ahorse on animals which will be more than half-spent before engagement, pitted against heavily armored knights and ranks of archers! For whatever reason they take the fool’s gambit, blood-sworn foemen though they may be and however evil their cause, we do not cross steel with cowards this day.”

Mir leaned across his saddle and told the knight beside him, “Let the word be passed that each of the enemy who fights with honor is rightwise due an honorable death.”

“Yes, Mir!”

Mir looked forward. “Tre’El! The archers shall stand down and retire to take up a defensive position in support of the Enchantress. We shall take no unfair advantage in the field.”

“Yes, Mir!” And, Tre’El ordered, “Archers! Stand down!”

Garrison looked at Mir. Alan Garrison had met brave men and foolish ones, but never before a great man.

As the archers threaded their way past the mounted knights, Mir stood in his stirrups, his visor lowered.

“At a gallop! For the Enchantress!” Mir charged his knights. “For Creath! For freedom!” Brandishing his sword high above his head, Mir shouted, “We ride to victory!” The magnificent white horse on which Mir was mounted moved forward at its rider’s urgings, Garrison knocking his heels against his own animal’s flanks.

As if the front rank were one organism, it moved forward, at first snakelike, but after a few strides the horses and their riders formed into a remarkably straight line, lances still raised. The second rank, as Garrison glanced over his shoulder, began its advance, about a dozen yards behind the first.

Garrison strained to look along the line. He saw Tre’El, he thought. He caught possible glimpses of the other knights who had accompanied them for the reconnoitering. One man was distinguishable from another solely by the color combinations of surcoat, helmet plume, and lance as all helmet visors were lowered, all faces obscured.

The army of the dead advanced.

Coming down the defile toward them, still at least a mile or better away, rode the armies of Barad’Il’Koth.

Mir sat rapier-straight in the saddle, his sword low at his side, his body moving in perfect rhythm with the white charger which he rode.

Garrison looked at Erg’Ran. His drawn sword, once his father’s, hung easily in his right hand, the cowl of his robe thrown back, his lips drawn apart against the wind giving him the appearance of a smile, and perhaps it was.

Bre’Gaa rode with both hands on reins and cantle, the horse—of normal height and girth—looking almost too small for him, rather like the image of a Mongol warrior on a tiny Asian horse.

Gar’Ath’s long hair seemed to float on the wind, almost arrow-shaft straight behind him. His right hand held his sword, his fist flexing round its hilt, as if constantly testing the weapon’s balance.

All three of Garrison’s compatriots looked well at ease as they rode into battle. Garrison, on the other hand, felt a mixture of fear and exhilaration, certain that the fear would grow until there was no time for it, the heat of the moment consuming it.

The horizon-to-horizon skirmish line in which they rode was quickening, almost imperceptibly. Mir raised his sword over his head, held it there for a long moment, then lowered it so that its hilt rested along his right side. As Garrison looked from right to left, the lances of Mir’s knights arced downward, couching preparatory to impact, almost mirroring the precision of a Busbee Berkley choreography from a 1930s movie. The army of the dead and the armies of Barad’Il’Koth were now only a little more than a thousand yards apart.

Garrison looked up, noticing at once two things which seemed very odd, but which he almost instantaneously dismissed. A great, black bird, the size of an eagle, but its wingspan wider, soared over what was to become the battlefield. And, in the distance, from the direction of Barad’Il’Koth, there was a peculiar black dot in the sky. He thought that it might be another bird...

Swan grasped Mitan’s arm.

“What is it?” Mitan asked, shrugging off her hooded cloak and starting to draw her sword. A stiff wind, cold and bitter, had arisen in an eyeblink, clouds of silver and black racing across the sky. That wind tore at Mitan’s hair, lashed her bare flesh with its icy force.

At the sound of steel against leather, the archers notched their bows and the leader of the two score of knights ordered, “Draw swords!”

The second-sight, as Swan had feared it might, revealed to her more than she wished to see. “My mother is second-sighting us, I think, through means of the great bird which circles above. But there is terrible danger afoot.”

“What is it, Enchantress?”

“My mother—Mitan, the Queen Sorceress has summoned the Mist of Oblivion.”

Mitan touched her fist, still clenched round her sword hilt, to her forehead. Her voice little more than a whisper, she invoked the courage of “Mir!”

Swan raised her voice, calling out to the knights and archers, “I shall need that all of you step away from me, leaving a clear space. You will take your instructions in certain tasks from the woman warrior Mitan. Do not be afraid of what you may see or hear or think!”

Swan glanced at Mitan, Mitan asking her, “What is it that you wish me to do, Enchantress?”

“There is only one thing which I can do,” Swan told Mitan, realizing in that eyeblink that Mitan was the only female friend whom she had ever had. “If I were to place shift and somehow destroy my mother while she is weakened with controlling the Mist of Oblivion, that would only mean that the Mist would run its course, out of control, and might devour all of Creath. And the Queen Sorceress knows that I know this. She can have only one plan, and if I fail to counter it, all is lost forever. My mother is willing to risk the total obliteration of all of Creath, all life, in pursuit of her ends.

“I tell you this, Mitan, so that you will know that all that which I require of you must be accomplished with great diligence.”

“Your will is mistress of my fate, Enchantress.”

Swan embraced Mitan, kissing her cheek. “Dear friend, you must go out onto the battlefield, find Al’An and bring him to me. Have these knights of Mir, from whatever materials they can, construct an enclosure, around me, but not over me. Al’An alone must enter the enclosure. I will be like I have never been and hope never to be again. There will be grave danger. Al’An must know this and choose, of his own free will, to aid me. And you must tell Al’An that, if he does, whatever he sees, he must again become my lover, as soon as he has entered the enclosure. My life, his, yours and Gar’Ath's, Erg’Ran’s, and all life on Creath will depend upon this.”

“I fear for you, Enchantress and friend.”

Swan embraced Mitan once again. “Hurry that what needs be might be accomplished before the Mist o’ertakes us all.”

Mitan dropped to one knee, touched her forehead to Swan’s hand, stood, then began issuing orders to Mir’s knights and archers. Swan’s fingertips pinched the fabric of her skirts and lifted them slightly as she walked to the center of the ring of knights and archers. Already, the knights were stripping away their surcoats, taking their swords to their lances.

Swan had known since her girlhood that her mother, who had once shown genuine tenderness toward her, displayed unspeakable evil in her interactions with others. As Swan’s body grew into womanhood, so did the depth and breadth of her understanding, her grasp of her mother’s other self. When her mother realized that the Daughter Royal would not become chief among the Handmaidens of Koth, aiding her mother’s evil magic, all loving kindness left their relationship. It was replaced by that same evil with which Eran systematically strangled the life from Creath, destroyed the K’Ur’Mir and all who opposed her. Swan fled with Erg’Ran to the summer palace, where evil magic could not hold sway. Only a long time afterward, her education well under way, was a truce effected between her and her mother. It allowed that she should dwell alone in her own castle, unmolested on condition that she take no active part in combating her mother’s designs.

She should have realized then, as she finally did now, that there was magical power within her which her mother gravely feared, yet simultaneously wanted to employ.

That power was about to be put to its ultimate test.

Despite the magical energy which Swan had expended in the opening of the vortex into death and the summoning of Mir and his knights, she told herself that she still possessed adequate power to do what needed to be done.

Found within the scrolls destroyed when her castle was consumed by the Mist of Oblivion were many writings from before the coming of Mir, among these many of those same forbidden writings by means of which her mother’s evil had grown to know no bounds.

The reading of them could sometimes evoke evil. As Erg’Ran had labored to translate them, he had wisely begun at their ending and worked toward their beginning, thus obviating the chance that the spell or summoning would become unintended magical reality.

As with everything which she read, these, too, were committed to memory.

Swan raised her voice, her arms outstretching to the sky, her fingers splayed, palms open to the magical energy surrounding her, drawing it into her. Its current surged throughout her body. She spoke, reciting one of these proscribed writings, saying the text in its natural order, the reverse of how she had learned the incantation.

Swan pressed her palms together between her breasts, becoming one with the energy around her. Light, dazzlingly bright filled her, exploded from her. Fear consumed her as the utterances left her lips....

A sudden rising of wind, bitter cold, swept over the defile, and dark, luminescent clouds rushed to fill the dome of sky above the opposing armies. Mir thrust his sword toward the enemy forces, his blade at the full extension of his right arm, ordering in a voice which no howling wind, no thrumming hoof-beats could obscure, “At a gallop, charge!”

The ground beneath them shook and Garrison’s ears pounded from the drumming of steel shod hooves, nearly two thousand fully armored knights, countless tons of heavily geared battle horses, men and animals in harmony, riding in almost perfect synchronization, a symphony of thunder.

The armies of Barad’Il’Koth quickened to a gallop, Garrison realizing full-well that this was all battle strategy. Two hundred yards separated them, would be gone in an instant, but not before the last hundred yards the enemy army crossed finished their horses to exhaustion. Those mounts which Mir’s men rode would be fresher, stronger.

From the direction of Barad’Il’Koth, Alan Garrison saw a gathering darkness, blacker than any cloud could be, fog the color of the bottom of an inkwell devouring the sky.

“It is the Mist of Oblivion!” Erg’Ran was screaming.

Garrison could not have shouted back over the cacophony which surrounded them, only nodded that he had heard, understood. But, he did not, really. How could nothing consume something? And, he realized, the Mist would not only devour Mir’s knights, but all who rode this defile. Eran was fully willing to kill virtually her entire army.

“Mir! It’s the Mist of Oblivion!” Garrison tried to shout the warning. If Mir heard him, the legend did not acknowledge doing so. As if Garrison were not sufficiently terrorized, when he looked at Mir’s white charger, Alan Garrison felt his heart slap a beat. The animal’s gait seemed unaffected, but below the knee its off hind leg was becoming transparent.

Twenty-five yards.

The rising wind and the slipstream surrounding horse and rider blew froth and sweat from Garrison’s mount back across Garrison’s face, into his eyes. Garrison wiped it away with the sleeve of his bomber jacket.

A dozen yards. The leader of the armies of Barad’Il’Koth, although otherwise uniformed as Sword of Koth, was bareheaded and wore no black leather battle mask. Moc’Dar. Garrison looked along the length of Moc’Dar’s red hot glowing firesword. There was fire, too, in his eyes, an expression akin to laughter etched across his face, his lips drawn back, teeth bared.

Alan Garrison thrust his sword out at full length and leaned into his horse, its lather-soddened mane lashing at his face.

The sound, as the two armies met, was not the heroic oaths and villainous epithets of human voices, nor the shrieking of frightened animals, but instead like the impact of one heavy object slamming suddenly against another. And then, there was the clash of steel. Four thousand warriors fought to the death.

From the north, from Barad’Il’Koth, the Mist of Oblivion drew ever nearer.

Garrison had one last look at it, his horse bowled from under him by the thrust of a sword through its chest. He fell from the saddle, impacting the ground over his Golden Shield of IBF, scrambling away from the killing weight of the dead horse and the murderous hooves of the animals around him. A Sword of Koth, his firesword sizzling blood, bore down toward Garrison, Garrison throwing up his shield, deflecting the blow. Mir’s white steed—its entire off-hind leg was now ghostly transparent—muscled between Garrison and the Sword of Koth. Mir’s mighty sword arm swung, his blade cleaving through his enemy’s skull from crown to jaw bone. “The magic, Champion! The Enchantress’s magic is fading. Fight rapidly!” And Mir rode off.

For what seemed an eternity, Garrison stood in the middle of the battle, unhorsed, easy prey to his enemies, but his heart and mind obsessed with worry over Swan.

Two riders from the Horde closed toward Garrison. Garrison slammed the Golden Shield of IBF against the forelegs of the horse to his left, sidestepping the rider to his right. The horse which Garrison had impacted with his shield stumbled, fell to its knees. During the instant in which its Horde rider fought for balance, Alan Garrison stepped closer, slamming his shield against the rider now, his sword skating along the right edge of his shield, thrusting into the rider’s chest.

As the horse staggered upright, Garrison flung himself onto its saddle, shouldering the dead Horde trooper to the ground. Garrison couldn’t find the reins, instead grabbed a hank of mane and jerked it left, turning the frightened animal toward the second of his two attackers, the man bearing down on him with a sword. The horse began to stumble, for a fleeting instant Garrison wondering if it had broken a leg. Without thinking, Garrison looked down. The dead Horde of Koth’s right foot was tangled in the right stirrup, half under the horse. Garrison swore at his own barbarism, hacking downward with his sword and severing the dead man’s foot from the ankle. The horse half reared, gave a whinny more like a scream of fear, then vaulted forward.

Garrison’s second attacker swung his sword, Garrison oriented in the opposite direction to be able to respond in kind, instead taking the full force of his opponent’s blade on the Golden Shield of IBF. Garrison’s body vibrated with it, his left arm numbing.

Guiding the horse with nothing but his knees, even his grasp on its mane lost, Garrison hacked downward with his sword as the horse wheeled round. Garrison’s cut opened a wound in his attacker’s right thigh and across the right side of the chest of his attacker’s mount. The horse veered away. Garrison lunged, overextending himself to the point of nearly falling from the saddle. But the very tip of his blade punctured the right shoulder of his opponent, doing no serious damage.

Feeling was coming back into Garrison’s left arm, and pain with it. He grabbed a handful of mane again, wheeling his horse a full ninety degrees. A Sword of Koth, blade gleaming bright red, charged toward him.

As Garrison tried to vector his own mount out of his enemy’s way, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Gar’Ath and Moc’Dar, both men still on horseback, locked in combat. A freeze-frame which would forever be emblazoned in his memory, had Garrison blinked he would not have seen it. Moc’Dar’s fire-sword arced downward. Gar’Ath, his horse rearing under him, held to his saddle by his clenched left fist, his left arm at full extension, his left leg, bent at the knee, braced against the cantle.

Gar’Ath s body swung outward, right arm pistoning forward, the sword in his right hand impaling Moc’Dar through the heart. The hint of laughter which Alan Garrison had seen etched in Moc’Dar’s expression was still there as his head flung back and his body went rigid in death.

Garrison looked around. His Sword of Koth attacker was nearly upon him. There was nothing for it but to fight. Garrison dug in his heels, and the horse beneath him leaped forward. Garrison’s mount and that of his enemy slammed against one another. The Sword of Koth’s blade hacked downward, past his animal’s head. Garrison deflected the blow with his shield, the sound of metal striking metal like the clanging of a bell. This time, Garrison had deflected the blow, not taken its full impact. He punched forward with his shield, hammering it against the head of his enemy’s horse.

The horse lunged away, the Sword of Koth who rode it slashing with his blade. Garrison’s horse took a deep cut along the left side of its neck. Rather than using his sword crossbody, Garrison slammed his shield against his opponent’s left arm and shoulder.

Garrison’s horse wheeled ninety degrees. Before his Sword of Koth attacker could respond, Garrison hacked downward with the K’Ur’Mir sword, missing his opponent’s left shoulder, but opening a long cut along the Sword of Koth’s upper arm.

Garrison dug in his heels, his attacker riding off, Garrison after him, sword raised, cleaving downward, this time finding its target, drawcutting from the right shoulder toward the spine, the tip of his blade snagging for a split second against the ribcage.

Garrison pulled back on his horse’s mane, looked to right and left. At the far left edge of his peripheral vision, he saw Mitan. She fought her way toward him, her bare arms bloodied, more blood splotching her left cheek.

Garrison glanced skyward. Again, he felt his heart skip a beat.

The empty blackness which was the Mist of Oblivion was nearly over the battlefield, but from behind him, where he had left Swan in supposed safety, rose a gleaming golden vortex of incalculable size. Swan, ghostly transparent, floated in the air within the vortex, white hot energy emanating from her body. Swan and the vortex were one, energy flowing from it, into it, as if from the core of Swan’s being there had formed a star and she was its fiery heart.

“What’s happening!?” Garrison screamed, but knew that Mitan could not possibly hear him.

Two Horde of Koth troopers rode at him. “Not now!” Garrison threatened, begged. But they could not hear him, because he could barely hear himself, nor would it have mattered to them if they could hear him. Garrison saw Mitan’s lips moving, but he could hear nothing over the din of battle.

Garrison grabbed a greater hank of mane and dug in his heels, spurring the animal toward the two Horde troopers. As he did so, he spied Mitan again, breaking clear of the knot of enemy personnel around her, riding toward him.

The two Horde of Koth vectored their mounts so that Garrison would ride between them, and Garrison did just as he realized they wanted him to do, but hoping to deny them the result that they desired. He tried what he’d tried before, using his shield as a weapon against the mount of the enemy to his left, if nothing else fending off one attacker while he dealt with the second.

The man to Garrison’s right hacked his sword through a wide arc, Garrison barely halting the blade’s travel in time, catching the enemy sword’s edge against the flat of his own, his left arm—aching— hammering the Golden Shield of IBF first against the head and neck of the other Horde trooper’s horse, then against the man himself.

Garrison’s horse took a draw cut along the front of its neck and began to falter. Garrison started slipping from the saddle, the blade of the attacker on his right hacking toward him again. Garrison did the only thing that he could do. He wheeled his horse as it fell. Letting the Golden Shield fall from his left arm, Garrison jumped from his saddle, hurtling the full force of his body against the man to his right. With the hilt of his sword, Garrison hammered at the man’s face, pounding and pounding until movement of the sword arm beneath him ceased and the man’s body began sagging from the saddle.

Garrison couldn’t clamber onto the horse, slipped, fell to the ground. His second attacker came at him in a rush, the man’s sword swinging toward Garrison’s head. Garrison still had his own sword, but tried something Gar’Ath had shown him. Inverting the sword in his hands, holding the blood-slicked steel by the blade, Garrison swung. One of his swords drooping quillons caught the enemy’s sword, the hilt of Garrison’s sword skating along the other sword’s spine. Garrison’s sword locked with the other sword’s hilt. Garrison was still in the swing, remembering his brief and less-than-promising Little League experience as a kid. “Follow through with the swing, son! Follow through is where it’s at!”

As Garrison felt that he was about to auger himself into the ground, his arm muscles felt an incredible tug. Garrison lost his balance, looked up. His sword’s hilt was still locked with that of his enemy, and his enemy was tumbling from the saddle.

Garrison let go of his sword, grabbing one of the automatic knives from his pockets, push-buttoning it open as he half-dove, half-fell onto his opponent. Garrison’s knife missed its target, burying itself half the length of the blade into the ground. Garrison’s left fist crossed the man’s jaw. A knee smashed up into Garrison’s abdomen, knocking the breath from him. Garrison fell back, but hadn’t lost hold of his knife. The man drew a dagger, clambered to his feet and jumped. Garrison rolled to his right, the Horde of Koth soldier impacting the ground. Garrison rolled left, and as the enemy soldier started to move, Garrison’s knife punched downward between the man’s shoulder blades.

Garrison sagged back. He looked up.

A Sword of Koth, firesword glowing red hot, charged him from horseback. Garrison wrestled his knife from the body of the man beside him, managed to get to his feet, no time even for the second knife.

He knew what he had to do, his only chance and a poor one at best. As he was about to throw a body block against the knees of the Sword of Koth’s mount, there was a flash of movement, the glint of steel.

The Sword of Koth soldier tumbled from his saddle. As Garrison looked past his fallen enemy, he saw Mitan, her sword freshly blood-slicked.

Garrison spotted his sword on the ground, picked it up, with his other hand closing and pocketing his knife, then grabbing for the reins of the dead man’s mount.

Garrison grasped the saddle and half-jumped, half-collapsed into it.

Raising his head, he saw Mitan again, gesturing that he follow her. Garrison nodded, the reins tight in his left hand, his heels kicking hard against the animal’s flanks.

The edge of the battlefield seemed much nearer than it should have been, and Alan Garrison realized that, if he were right, it meant that the armies of Barad’Il’Koth were being beaten back, Mir’s knights winning.

Garrison felt a moment’s alarm, Mitan swinging low out of her saddle, reaching for something on the ground. In the next instant, he realized what she’d reached for. She had recovered his shield.

A dozen yards or so away from the fray, Mitan reined in, next to Alan. “You fought well, Champion! The Enchantress needs you, and quickly!”

Garrison couldn’t have answered if he’d tried, his breath coming only in gasps.

Mitan was already galloping off, toward the brilliantly glowing vortex, toward Swan. Garrison thwacked the flat of his sword against the dead man’s horse that he rode, and followed.

A glance stolen over his left shoulder as he bent low over the horse’s neck revealed things at once heartening and frightening. Indeed, Mir’s knights were defeating the armies of the Queen Sorceress. But many of those knights, whom Garrison could see, and their mounts as well, were fading into transparency. He remembered Mir’s words to him: “The magic, Champion! The Enchantress’s magic is fading!”

And the Mist of Oblivion had grown to where it all but consumed the sky over the battlefield. Its fingers of deadly blackness were beginning to reach toward the ground.

Garrison dug in his heels, and rode toward the light of the vortex and Swan...

For some stupid reason, Alan Garrison held his K’Ur’Mir sword clenched tightly in his right fist as he ducked to enter the enclosure made from the knight’s surcoats, its framework from their splintered lances.

The sword fell from his hand. Involuntarily, Garrison turned his face away, shielding his head with his arms.

“Don’t be afraid, Al’An. You must aid me, my love.”

Squinting against the light, Garrison tentatively lowered his arms. What he had seen emanating skyward from within the enclosure had not prepared him for what he witnessed having entered.

Swan’s body lay seemingly lifeless at the enclosure’s exact center, as unmoving as if she were dead. The cone of magical light, which shown above the enclosure, out of which the vortex took its energy, emanated from within her hands, these clutched together between her breasts. But Swan’s voice came again, not from her body but from above. “Lie beside me, my love, and be unafraid.”

Garrison didn’t move.

“Swan? What’s going on?”

“I will die if you do not lie beside me Al’An, and share with me what only we can share.”

“What, uh, what are you doing with the vortex?”

“Lie beside me, Al’An.”

Alan Garrison looked upward, into the light. Involuntarily, he raised his arms once again in order to shield his face. There was no heat from the light, and despite its brilliance, as he gradually opened his eyes more fully, he could see, as if the light weren’t really there.

“What do I do?” Garrison stared through the light, at Swan’s ghostly image above him and the glowing vortex surrounding her. “What do I do?”

“Lie beside me,” her voice spoke again. He saw no movement in her image, and he felt his skin goosefleshing as he realized that he wasn’t hearing at all, that her voice was inside his head.

“I’m afraid, sweetheart. I’m afraid!” Garrison looked away, felt his hands tremble. His eyes turned to her lifeless seeming body. She would die, Swan had said, if he did not lie beside her. If she died, what was there to be afraid of? Death would be welcome. “All right! So, just, uh, just lie down and—and then what?”

“Lie beside me, Al’An.”

Garrison walked to the center of the enclosure, dropping to his knees beside Swan’s body. He bent over her, touched his lips to her forehead. Her flesh was neither hot nor cold, and she was neither alive nor dead.

Garrison looked up once more, told himself that he wasn’t seeing her ghost hovering above him within the glowing vortex, but her spirit or something, and that this was magic and, when she didn’t need it anymore, it would all go away.

Garrison kissed her lips. There was no response, of course. He laid down beside her, his eyes staring up into the brilliance of the vortex and Swan’s exquisite spectral image. A million thoughts raced through his mind. He’d really died when the bomb went off back in Atlanta and he was finally going into the light that everyone talked about in near-death experiences.

He was a tactless teenager again, and one of his buddies said that maybe, if he strained his eyes, he could see under Swan’s dress. He awoke from a scary dream and his mom and dad were beside his bed, his mom holding him, asking if he’d had too much ice cream and cotton candy, his dad wanting to hold him or say something, but trying to look as though he didn’t. He went into a dark house with two other agents, guns drawn, and then there was shooting everywhere and one of the agents was down and Garrison was dragging the guy’s body behind some boxes and there was more shooting and a too calm voice said, “We got him, fellas. Somebody get an ambulance. A couple ambulances.” He held a girl in his arms, a Ricky Nelson song playing on an oldies station; he was dancing with her, his palms very sweaty, and he was self-conscious because he had to be getting the back of her dress all wet from his hands. The SAT test. His number two pencil broke. It was the third pencil he’d broken. Gunfire from behind the packing crates on the other side of the warehouse, the gun-shot agent bleeding all over them both. He returned shots, too rapidly, his magazine empty. Where were his spare magazines? Had he brought a fourth number two pencil? Would the girl he danced with ever dance with him again? Did dad think he was a baby because he woke up crying from a bad dream? He wouldn’t look under a girl’s dress like the guys wanted him to, because she’d see him and she’d be embarrassed and maybe she’d cry.

Garrison blinked. Below him, he saw his body. He was floating upward, his body getting smaller and smaller as he rose into the light.

Within him, he felt Swan’s voice. “Al’An.”

“Yes, Swan.”

“The energy that is life which flows into us and from us and within us will be one, and all of the magical energy of the universe will be mine to command, my love.”

“Are we dead?”

“The answer would have no meaning, Al’An.”

Swan’s apparition hovered before him, and he could see his physical body far below them, beside hers, and he saw through the hands and legs and torso of the apparition which he had become.

Garrison was aware of moving, moving ever nearer to Swan’s specter. And, as if that which was not physical could touch, they touched, and something passed through him, filling him, electrifying him, this body which was not a body was within Swan and she was within him and he tried to say something, but was inundated by Swan’s being, lost within her. The Mist of Oblivion approached. The magical energy flowed from them into the vortex and the vortex seemed to explode, enlarging exponentially, its light brighter than a thousand suns, more serene than the freshest breeze, cool and soft, enveloping them and they were one with it.

They advanced against the Mist as its inky tendrils dipped to touch and devour the warring armies on the battlefield.

Within the Mist, there dwelt an entity as well. A part of them thought the word, “Mother!” The vortex touched the Mist, light touching darkness. Cold and fear gripped them and the vortex trembled and an infinity of images and feelings flowed through them. Specters, like that which they had become, but filled with terror and longing, passed through them, gripped them, shrieked out their horror, fled.

Weakness, draining, fear.

Light and dark fully commingled, the darkness drawn into them. Garrison was separated from Swan for an instant, an eternity. He could not tell which. The light of the vortex began to fail and the darkness enshrouded them. He was with her again, self-awareness ceasing, melting into oneness with Swan.

The vortex shuddered and its light grew and the darkness filled the light and the cold and the fear and the images of terror dissipated.

Alan Garrison’s flesh tingled. He coughed, opened his eyes. “I’ve got eyes!” He coughed, rolling over onto his side, his head on Swan’s chest. Garrison raised his eyes to her face, touched his hands to her flesh and felt something passing from him and into him simultaneously.

Swan’s eyes opened. “Al’An.”

“I’m here.”

“There is one more deed, my Champion, one more deed which must be accomplished.”

Garrison helped Swan to her feet, for the first time realizing that the sound of battle had ceased. “What happened?”

“The Mist has entered a vortex which shall never be opened again, Al’An.”

“And your mother?”

“I know what she is doing, and where she does it. We must go there.”

“The magic way?”

Swan raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Yes. Hold me in your arms, my love,” Swan whispered.

Garrison took her into his arms, and she turned around, her back to him. Swan outstretched her arms, her hands grasping for the magic in the air around her, Garrison feeling it, too, feeling its current surging through her body, strengthening her, strengthening him. She uttered the words of the place shifting spell which Garrison had heard her use before. Swan pressed her palms together between her breasts, becoming one with the energy around her, and Garrison one with her as well.

Light, dazzlingly bright, burst around them, filled her, filled him, exploded from her, magical energy enveloping them. There was a sound, soft, like the rumble of thunder heard at a great distance.

A darkness, glowing like light, neither light nor dark, cocooned them. The glowing darkness slowly faded. And there was light which was not magical at all, but the light of bonfires burning, flames flaring high on a bitterly cold wind, groping toward blue-black clouds in the steel grey sky above.

All was barren here.

Garrison knew the place.

They had ridden past it, across it in their escape from Barad’Il’Koth.

And now, he knew its purpose.

There were six fires in all, formed in a great circle. Surrounding the circle were the Handmaidens of Koth, their dresses, their head-to-toe translucent black veils flung to and fro at the wind’s caprice. The Handmaidens were formed into six circles, the six circles interlocked, thirty-six of the women in all. A great black horse, its leather trappings silver mounted, pawed the ground anxiously just beyond the circle’s perimeter.

A thirty-seventh woman stood within the circle of bonfires.

Alan Garrison felt suddenly stupid. He carried three “firespitters” which probably still didn’t work. His sword was miles away in the enclosure where he’d found Swan and dropped it. Two knives were his only weapons.

“You won’t need weapons, Al’An.”

“You don’t read my mind, do you?”

“No, but I know you, Al’An.”

They stood within the six-by-six circle formed by the thirty-six Handmaidens. The women chanted, perhaps in a trance, perhaps ignoring the intruders. “Can they see us?” Garrison asked.

“They could, but don’t. It would break their concentration, break the summoning spell in which their magic aids that of my mother.”

“Summoning spell?”

“Yes,” Swan answered, the single word she spoke revealing everything as Garrison looked within the circle of bonfires. Not only was there a thirty-seventh woman there, but there was something else, a body lying on a bier before her.

“Your father,” Garrison almost whispered.

“My mother has spent her magic, and unwisely so. Once I realized that she had chosen to use the Mist of Oblivion against us all, I knew what would transpire here. It must be stopped.”

Swan raised the skirts of her dark grey dress and began walking toward the ring of bonfires. The wind, growing in force, tugged at her dress, molded the fabric against her legs, began, inexorably, to dismantle the arrangement of her hair. Swan touched her hair, freeing it, the wind whipping it round her.

“You told me once,” Garrison insisted, “that you can’t raise the dead, that once the spirit has left the body, death is final. But what about Mir and his knights and his archers? And what about your father? And what about what happened to us? Back there, I mean.”

Swan’s answer was astonishingly quick. “I did not raise the dead, nor can my mother. Such power is beyond any magic in the universe. I summoned the spirits of Mir and his army and, with my magic, gave them form and substance. When my magical energy was draining away as I wove the vortex of light, you might have—”

“Mir told me that your magic was fading. I saw them, some of them, their bodies and the bodies of their horses becoming transparent, like they were just fading away.” Garrison smiled, shaking his head.

“What is it?” Swan asked him. They were nearly to the ring of bonfires.

“Something I read years ago, about old soldiers never dying. I’ll tell you later. If your mother can’t—”

“Then, what is she doing? Do you remember, Al’An, when I took your life force from you before it left you, there on Arba’Il’Tac? I placed it within the bird so that when your body would be fatally damaged the life force would not escape it? My father’s life force escaped his body with nowhere to go but into death. When you and I were one within the vortex and our life forces left our bodies, they went into the vortex, did not just escape our bodies. I could summon my father’s spirit from death, as I did with the spirit of Mir and those of his knights and archers, but their bodies are long since gone to dust, as will the body of my father. With his life force gone, the body remaining is only a deteriorating husk. The witches can only reanimate his body, not return the life force energy to it.

“What’s she want with—”

Alan Garrison didn’t get to finish the question—what would the Queen Sorceress want with a dead body? Swan stopped walking, only a few feet away from the crackling bonfires. “Mother?”

The woman inside the circle did not turn around, but called out, “I laud your abilities, child. But you have not won. You could win, but will not, because you will not kill me, nor will you harm your father. You are good, and that is your problem.”

Eran turned away from the body before her and faced them. Garrison was stunned. Eran wore a dress of deepest red, accentuating a figure that a Hollywood actress would have killed for. The dress’s neckline was low, showing a cleavage that glistened in the firelight. A magnificently carved black baldric was suspended from her right shoulder to her left hip, its engraved silver buckle further drawing the eye to her breasts. Sheathed to her left hip was a sword, its hilt ornate.

The only odd thing was the riding boots, visible beneath the hem of the red dress and the hint of white linen under it. Strapped to the black leather boots were glinting silver spurs.

Her complexion was flawless, her black hair falling to her shoulders and beyond in heavy, undulating waves. The liquid green of her eyes was impossibly beautiful. Garrison blinked. The eyes were just like Swan’s eyes as he looked more closely, a little grey in them, making them prettier still. He blinked again, and the face was Swan’s face.

Garrison took a step back. It was Swan, not her mother! This was Swan. Her hands touched at her throat and her fingers trailed lazily down across her bare skin to her breasts and her lips formed a kiss as Garrison started to step between the bonfires and reach for—“Mother! You do not have the power to make Al’An think that you are me!”

“I just did, child.”

Garrison staggered, blinked. His hands were inches away from Eran’s body, and now they shook. Eran stepped back, deeper within the circle of bonfires, laughing at him. He felt Swan’s hand tug at his arm. He shook his head, took a step back.

Looking into Eran’s eyes, his voice low, Alan Garrison snarled, “You lousy—”

Eran cut him off. “And this is your Champion! You picked a handsome fellow. Al’An, is it? I hope he performs to your satisfaction, daughter. There are ways to enhance that, if you wish.”

Garrison felt oddly awkward, like a rock on the ground or a piece of furniture—or a sex object. He was being talked about as if he were just a decoration or something. And Eran’s eyes were undressing him.

“Mother?”

Eran’s eyes left Garrison, flickered to her daughter. “Yes?”

“You made a mistake. Don’t make another mistake.”

“You mean with your father?”

“You cannot bring him back to life. You don’t have sufficient magical energy to leave Creath and find another other realm male. I can command all of the magical energy of the universe. You cannot prevent my removing you from power. You can, however, live out your life in what peace and happiness you can find.”

“You would do that for me? You are good. And, remember, child, that good shall be your undoing. I won’t step down. You won’t kill me. You are wrong. I do not make a mistake, an error, whatever you choose to call it. My Handmaidens even now summon your father to life. Do you want to watch us while I take my energy from him, see your mother and father—”

A glance at Swan’s face told Garrison that he had to shut up her mother—quick. He said, “Hey, come on now, Mrs. Goodman!”

The pretty eyes weren’t pretty as they bored into him. “I am not Mrs. Goo’D’Man! I am the Queen Sorceress!”

“Yeah, and you’re also g’urg outta luck; but, on the other hand, a good-looking widow like you—”

“Silence! Or I will—”

Alan Garrison gave her his best smile. “You’re beautiful beyond description, on the outside. But, inside, I don’t think so.”

“Mother, you cannot do what you intend.”

“Watch me. Watch us.”

“Al’An, we are going!” Swan announced matter-of-factly.

Alan Garrison just looked at Swan. “You can’t be serious! I mean, this isn’t like we’re some married couple at a dinner party and the hostess just brought out a tray of drugs or something. We can’t just—”

“I really think we should go.”

“You’re going to let her grab some more magical energy and start another damn war? I don’t think so, sweetheart!”

“Please, Al’An?”

Eran laughed. “Please? Turn him into something like Mul’Din over there,” and she gestured toward the solitary horse outside the circle of witches. “Even just for a while, and teach him some manners. Remember who you are. Even though I will, someday, destroy you, you are my daughter! Remember that!”

“Yo! I love your daughter and she’s not turning me into something, or anything like that! She loves me.” He almost choked with laughter as he thought of it, Eran as his mother-in-law. “And I’m gonna marry her. And you can butt out!” He looked at Swan. “It’s really okay to go? She’s not going to—”

“We should go now, Al’An.”

Garrison took Swan’s hand. They started walking away from the circle of bonfires.

“Don’t leave! Watch us! Don’t you want to see your father one more time, child? Watch us!”

“Squeeze my hand. Tight!” Swan hissed through her teeth.

“Take it easy. She really can’t—” As Garrison looked at her, he saw that Swan was crying. The chanting of the witches grew louder, faster. Garrison looked behind them. The bonfires were rising in intensity. Eran’s arms were outstretched toward the sky, her fingers splayed. “She’s trying to take magical energy—”

“I have it all at my command. She can take nothing.”

“This deal with your father’s—”

Swan stopped in her tracks, looked at him, anger, disgust, sadness, all visible in her eyes by the firelight.

“You mad at me?”

“No. Never at you. If you must be certain, then watch. But I have warned you.”

Alan Garrison started to ask Swan what she meant, but before he could speak the fires flared more brightly still and the wind gusted so strongly that he clung to Swan lest she’d be knocked down.

The Handmaidens of Koth, witches all, caught fire, living torches lighting one after the other, their bodies remaining unconsumed within the fires, motionless.

“What’s—”

“It is too late, Al’An!” Swan shouted over the howling wind. “It’s too late! It’s happening.”

The witches’ circles within circles were all ablaze. Garrison looked at Swan again, followed her eyes. She stared into the inner circle, at her mother, at the body lying on the bier.

Garrison thought that he saw it move, knew in the next instant that his eyes hadn’t deceived him, when Swan’s own body tensed in his arms. “I’ll get you out of here,” Garrison shouted over the roar of wind and fire.

“No.”

“Then you get us out of here with your magic!”

“You were right, Al’An.” Swan’s voice was almost a scream. “I can’t run from this, because it will be ugly. I cannot leave it unfinished.” Swan turned in Garrison’s arms, looked straight at her mother and the reanimating corpse of her father.

The body sat up, stiff legged.

Eran. Garrison realized that Eran had lost her mind. Her hands raised the baldric from her shoulder, and she let the sword belt and the weapon it carried fall to the ground at her feet. Her hands moved behind her neck, under her hair. In a moment, Garrison realized that she was unfastening her dress. Eran’s arms twisted behind her and her hands busily worked her dress open the rest of the way.

Eran slipped her arms from the dress and was naked from the waist up. Eran moved almost imperceptibly and the dress fell to her feet. She wore a white petticoat, trimmed in lace. Her fingers did something at its waist and the petticoat fell away. Eran was entirely naked now, except for the boots. Her body was magnificently erotic as she stepped out of her clothes and approached the bier.

Swan shivered. Garrison held Swan more tightly.

Eran climbed onto the bier, her hands touching the chest of the reanimated corpse, her mouth about to touch its mouth.

Garrison started to raise his hand to cover Swan’s eyes, but Swan pushed it away. “It is almost finished,” Swan told him, her voice barely audible even though she clearly was shouting to be heard over the wind and the crackling of the fires.

There was a tightness in Garrison’s throat. Swan’s body was rigid in his arms.

Eran fully embraced the corpse of Swan’s father, leaning the body back, simultaneously straddling it and touching her lips to its mouth.

In the instant that their bodies joined together, the howling wind ended and the witches’ fiery circles within circles ceased to blaze and the bonfires died.

The Handmaidens’ bodies dissolved to dust.

Eran lifted her body from the corpse, flung out her arms from her sides, threw back her head and uttered a piercing scream.

As Garrison watched, Eran’s body began to collapse into itself, implode. Her arms, still outstretched, were disintegrating to dust. Her head sagged into a torso which could no longer support it, her legs shriveling. A breeze, but not the wind which had lashed the barren ground, rustled Swan’s skirts, tugged gently at Swan’s hair, at Garrison’s hair.

The breeze must also have touched what remained of Eran’s body.

Garrison blinked.

A dust devil rose from the bier and what had remained of the Queen Sorceress’s body was gone.

The ashes from the bonfires were caught up in the breeze, vanished as well.

Garrison looked around them. The breeze swept clean the ashes of the Handmaidens of Koth, as if they had never been. Garrison looked skyward. The darkly luminous clouds scudded away, the newly revealed sky a rich blue. He and Swan stood alone beneath it. The body of Swan’s father, Peter Goodman, lay alone, once more, unmolested on the bier.

Garrison heard the sound of hooves on hard ground. The black horse, saddle empty, reins swaying free, galloped off toward the horizon. He touched his lips to Swan’s forehead, to her cheek, turned her in his arms so that she faced him. Tears streamed from her eyes. Alan Garrison held Swan close.

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