Witches’ Brew by Terry Brooks

Ben stared down from the castle walls without speaking, waiting them out. The gauntlet cast down by Rydall three days earlier still lay in the center of the causeway. Ben had ordered it removed, but no one had been able to comply with his demand. It was as if the gauntlet had been nailed to the bridge. No one could lift it; no one could budge it, for that matter—not even Questor Thews. Some form of magic held it in place, and nothing short of tearing up the bridge was going to get it out of there. Ben was not that desperate, so the gauntlet had stayed where it was.

It lay there now, gleaming faintly with the damp, a reminder of what Marnhull’s King had promised.

“Holiday!” Rydall called out sharply. No use of “King” or “High Lord” this time. No pretense of respect. “Have you given further thought to my demand?”

“My answer is the same!” Ben shouted back. He felt Willow move in close beside him. “You knew it would be!”

Rydall’s horse stamped impatiently. Rydall’s hand lifted in a dismissive gesture. “Then I must ask you to change it Rather, I must insist. You no longer have a choice. Things have changed since we last spoke. I have your daughter.”

There was a long silence. Willow’s hands fastened tightly on Ben’s arm, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. Ben’s throat constricted in response to the words. I have your daughter. But Mistaya was safe. She was two days gone into the lake country with her grandfather, safely beyond Rydall’s reach.

Wasn’t she?

“I told you I would find a way to convince you to listen to me,” Rydall continued, breaking the momentary silence. “I think now that you must. Your daughter is important to you, I assume.”

Ben was trembling with rage. “This is another of your games, Rydall! I have had just about all of you I can stand!”

The dismissive gesture came again. “That remains to be seen. I don’t expect you to take my word for what I tell you, in any case. Not you, Holiday. You are the sort of man who demands proof even when the truth is staring him in the face. Very well, then.”

He whistled, and a pair of horses appeared from out of the blanket of low-lying fog. Ben felt his heart sink as they came closer. One was Lightfoot, and the other Owl. There was no mistaking their markings. They came past Rydall and started across the bridge.

“Send someone down and have them bring you what they find tied to the pony’s saddle,” Rydall called up once more.

Ben looked over at Bunion. The kobold raced away instantly, a dark blur against the castle stone. Unable to speak, burning with anger, Ben stood with Willow pressed close against him. A moment later Bunion was back. There was no expression on his strange, wizened face. He handed Ben a necklace and a scarf. Ben studied them closely and, sick at heart, handed them to Willow. They belonged to Mistaya. She had been wearing them when she had left for the lake country.

“Oh, Ben,” Willow whispered softly.

“Where are Questor Thews and Abernathy?” Ben shouted down to Rydall. “Where are the men of the escort?”

“Safely tucked away,” Rydall answered. “Are you ready to hear my demands now, High Lord of Landover?”

Ben choked back the emotions that threatened to steal away his good sense. He put his arm around Willow as much to steady himself as to steady her. He was still not willing to accept what he was being told. It was not conceivable that Rydall could have taken Mistaya so easily. How had he managed it? How could he have overcome her escort? Questor Thews and Abernathy would have died before giving her up.

“Rydall!” he called down suddenly, shocking himself with the strength he found in his voice. “I will not surrender Landover’s throne or her people for any reason. I will not be blackmailed. You seem comfortable with preying on small children, and that makes me doubt your claims of conquest with armies numbering in the thousands. I think you are a coward.”