Witches’ Brew by Terry Brooks

Strabo dropped what was left, fanned the air once with his great wings, and settled slowly earthward. Willow and Bunion were already running over from the far side of the draw.

“You really are a great deal of trouble, Holiday,” the dragon hissed. The great head swung about, and the lantern eyes fastened on him. “A great deal.”

“I know,” Ben managed, gasping for breath as he pulled himself back to his feet. “But thanks, anyway.”

Willow reached him in a rush and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Strabo,” she echoed, releasing her grip on Ben just enough to turn toward the dragon. “You know how much he means to me. Thank you very much.”

Strabo sniffed. “Well, if I’ve given you reason to smile, fair enough,” he declared, a hint of pleasure in his rough voice.

“How did you know to come?” Ben asked. “When we left, you were asleep.”

The dragon folded his wings against his body, and his eyes lidded. “The Wastelands are mine, Holiday. They belong to me. They are all I have left of what once was unending. Therefore, they are ruled as I determine they should be. No magic is allowed here but my own. If another intrudes, I am warned at once. Even asleep, my senses tell me. I knew of this creature the moment it took shape.” He paused. “Do you know what this is?”

Both Ben and Willow shook their heads.

“This is a wurm. W-U-R-M. An ordinary worm turned predator by magic. Expose it to water, and it grows to the size you see now.” Strabo glanced down at the severed parts and spit in distaste. “Pathetic excuse for disturbing my rest.”

“Rydall again,” Ben said quietly.

Strabo’s head swung back. “I don’t know about Rydall,” he hissed softly, “but I do know about witches. Wurms are a particular favorite of witches.”

Ben stared. “Nightshade?” he said finally.

The dragon’s head lifted. “Among others.” He yawned and looked to the east. “Time to be getting back to bed. Try to stay alive long enough to get out of the Wastelands, Holiday. After that you won’t be my responsibility anymore.”

Without another word he spread his wings, lifted away, and flew out of sight. Ben and Willow watched him go. Bunion stood with them a moment, then left at Ben’s direction to hunt for Jurisdiction.

Willow wiped blood from Ben’s face with a strip of cloth torn from her shirt. After a moment she said, “Could Nightshade be involved in this?”

Ben shook his head. “With Rydall? Why would she do that?”

Willow’s smile was hard and bitter. “She hates you. That’s reason enough.”

Ben stared off into the empty hills, into the glare of the sun, looking at nothing. Willow finished cleaning off his face and kissed him lightly. “She hates all of us.”

Ben nodded. He was thinking suddenly of something else. “Willow,” he said, “I remember now where I’ve seen Rydall’s monsters—all three of them.”

The sylph stepped back from him. “Where?”

He looked back at her, and there was wonder in his eyes. “In a book.”

Poggwydd

Mistaya woke early that same morning and found herself alone for the first time since she had arrived in the Deep Fell. Her reaction was disbelief; Nightshade never left her alone. She rose in the gray, misted dawn and looked about expectantly, waiting for the mistress of the hollow to present herself. When she failed to appear, Mistaya called for her. When she still didn’t show, the girl walked all about the edges of the clearing, searching. There was no sign of Nightshade.

Unexpectedly, Mistaya found herself relieved.

There had been considerable changes of late, and chief among them was her relationship with the witch. In the beginning Nightshade had been a willing, enthusiastic teacher, a companion in the magic arts, anxious to share her knowledge, a secret friend who could instruct Mistaya in the uses of her mysterious, intriguing power. Mistaya was there to discover the truth about her birthright, Nightshade had said. She was there to find ways to help her father in his struggle against Rydall of Marnhull. There was good to be achieved from the skills they would uncover. But somehow all that had gotten lost along the way. There was no longer any mention of Rydall or of her birthright. There was barely any mention of the world outside the hollow. All that seemed to matter now was how swift and compliant Mistaya could be in carrying out the witch’s instructions. Patience, once so much in evidence, had dropped by the wayside. Diversity and exploration had been abandoned entirely. For days now all they had done was use the magic for a single purpose: to create monsters. Or if they weren’t actually creating monsters, they were talking about it. In the process the student-teacher relationship had suffered drastically. Instead of continuing to grow closer to each other, it seemed to Mistaya that they were now growing farther apart. Praise and encouragement had been replaced with criticism and disgust. Accusations flew. Mistaya wasn’t trying hard enough. She wasn’t concentrating. She wasn’t thinking. She seemed to have reached a point where she couldn’t do anything right.