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DEEP FELL

They thought Ben Holiday mad. They thought it to varying degrees, perhaps, but the vote was unanimous. The kobolds expressed it with a quick hiss and frightening, humorless grins. Willow’s green eyes mirrored it, and she shook back her waist-length hair in disapproval. Questor and Abernathy were aghast, and both began talking at once.

“You have taken leave of your senses, High Lord!” the scribe exploded.

“You cannot risk placing yourself in the hands of the witch!” the wizard admonished.

Ben let them go on a bit, then sat them all down and patiently explained himself. He had not taken leave of his senses, he assured them. On the contrary, he knew exactly what he was doing. He might be taking some risk in going down into the Deep Fell and confronting Nightshade, but there was risk in almost any alternative left to him at this point and no other alternative made as much sense or offered the same opportunities.

Think about it, he urged. The key to every door closed against him lay in use or acquisition of magic. It was magic that had given life to the land and those who lived upon it in the beginning; it was loss of magic that threatened to steal that life away now. The medallion was a thing of magic, enabling him to pass from his world into theirs and—if need be—out again. The Paladin was a thing of magic, and magic was needed to bring him back to them. The castle at Sterling Silver was a thing of magic, and magic was needed to save it. Most of the land’s creatures were creatures of magic, and magic was what they understood, respected and feared. The Lords of the Greensward wanted Ben to rid them of the dragon, and it would take magic to do that. The River Master wanted the land’s inhabitants to work with him to heal the land, and that would probably take some form of magic as well. The Mark and his demons were a dark magic that threatened to destroy them all, and it would take a very powerful form of white magic, indeed, to prevent that from happening.

He paused. Who was most likely, then, to have access to the magic that he needed in order to begin to put things right again? Who possessed magic that the others did not?

Sure, there was risk. There was always risk. But no one had gone to Nightshade in many years; no one had even thought to try. No King of Landover had sought her allegiance since the death of the old King. Since before that, Abernathy interjected firmly—the old King wanted nothing to do with her either. All the more reason to see her now, Ben insisted. She could be talked to. Perhaps she could be persuaded. Possibly, if all else failed, she could be tricked.

His companions stared at him in horror.

He shrugged. Very well, forget the part about tricking her. She was still their best bet. She was possessor of the land’s most powerful magic—Questor had said as much in their lessons. The others fixed accusing eyes on the wizard. A bit of that magic might turn things about for him. He wouldn’t need much; enough to solve just one of the problems facing him would be plenty. Even if she refused her own magic, she might agree to arrange a meeting with the fairies; perhaps he could enlist their help.

He saw Willow cringe slightly at mention of the fairies, and for an instant he was no longer quite so sure of himself. But he shrugged the feeling off and went on with his argument. He had reasoned it through, and the solution to his problem was unmistakable. He had need of an ally to help bring the other inhabitants of Landover to terms. He would not find a more powerful ally than Nightshade.

Nor a more dangerous one, Questor pointed out bluntly.

But Ben was not to be dissuaded. The matter was decided and the journey about to commence. They were off to the Deep Fell. Anyone who didn’t care to go with him could stay behind—he would understand.

No one stepped back. But there were a lot of uneasy looks.

It was midday by now, and they traveled south through the hill country until nightfall. The weather remained foul, the clouds continuing to mass, the onslaught of rain to draw closer. Mist turned to fog as night descended, and it began to drizzle. The company made camp beneath an outcropping of rocks below a ridgeline draped by a grove of weathered ash. The damp and the dark closed about quickly, and the six travelers hunched down together in their shelter and ate a sparse meal of spring water, Bonnie Blues, and some odd roots collected by the resourceful Parsnip. The air turned chill, and Ben found himself wishing for a shot of his now-departed Glenlivet.

Dinner was completed rather quickly, and they began to give thought to their sleeping accommodations. They were without bedding of any kind; everything had been lost in their flight from the trolls. Questor volunteered his use of the magic, and this time Ben agreed. The kobolds seemed hardy enough, but the rest of them might well catch pneumonia by morning if they didn’t have something to help ward off the cold. Besides, Questor had shown improved control over the magic at the Melchor.

Such was not the case this night, however. The magic sparked and poofed, and several dozen flowered hand towels materialized. Questor grumbled about the weather and tried again. This time he produced burlap sacks. Now Abernathy was grumbling as well, and tempers were heating up faster than bodies. On the third try, the wizard conjured up a colorfully striped pavilion tent complete with sitting cushions and dressing boards, and Ben decided that they would settle for that.

They settled themselves in and one by one drifted off to sleep. Abernathy kept watch as he slept, his nose pointed out the tent flap, not entirely convinced that the trolls had given up on them.

Only Ben remained awake. He lay in the dark and listened to the sound of the rain as it drummed against the tent. He was beset with uncertainties that until now he had successfully ignored. He felt time slipping inexorably from him. Sooner than he wished, he knew, it was going to run out altogether. Then the Mark would have him or some other evil that he had no real protection against. Then he would be forced to use the medallion to save himself, even though he had sworn that he would not. What choice would he make then? What would he do when his life was really threatened—not by manor lords looking to box his ears or trolls looking to pen him up, but by some monster that could snuff his life out with nothing more than a thought? Such monsters were out there, he knew. Nightshade was out there.

He forced himself to think about the witch of the Deep Fell for a time. He had not let himself do so earlier; it was easier not to. He knew he had to go to her. It did not help matters to think about how dangerous that might be. Nightshade frightened the others badly, and nothing besides the Mark had done that. He might be biting off more than he could chew once again; he might be putting them all in a worse predicament than the one they had experienced in the camp of the Crag Trolls. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. He could not afford to do that. There might be no one to rescue them this time. He would have to be more careful; he would have to take steps to protect them.

Especially Willow, he thought. He glanced over to where she lay in the dark, trying to follow the line of her sleeping form. She had not transformed herself into and taken root as a tree this night. Evidently, she did so only periodically. He found that he was less repelled by the idea than he had previously been. Perhaps it was only the strangeness of the change that had bothered him so at first, and now he was used to the idea. Sometimes familiarity bred acceptance, not contempt.

He shook his head admonishingly. What you really mean, Holiday, is that she saved your skin, so now you can accept her. Bully for you.

His breathing evened out and his eyes closed. He wished she hadn’t given up so much to follow him. He wished that she had been a little less impulsive. It made him feel responsible for her, and he didn’t want that. She wanted it, of course. She saw things the way some child would see them—their fate told in the winding of vines on a bridal bed, their lives joined by a chance meeting at some midnight swim. She expected things from him that he wasn’t prepared to give to anyone.

His thoughts wandered, and his obstinacy slowly diffused. Perhaps the problem was not with her at all; perhaps it was with him. Maybe the real problem was that he simply didn’t have the things to give her that she was asking for. Perhaps he had lost everything good about himself when Annie had died. He didn’t want to think that, but perhaps it was so.

He was surprised to find tears in his eyes. He brushed them silently away, grateful that no one could see.

He let his thoughts slip away then, and he drifted down into himself. His dreams overtook him, and he slept.

He was awake early, the daylight still a faint blush against the eastern horizon where the mist rolled across the hills. The others of the little company were awake as well, stretching muscles cramped from sleeping in the damp and chill, yawning against the too quick passing of the night. The rain had died away to a spattering of drops from the leaves of the trees. Ben stepped from the pavilion tent into the half-light and walked to where a trickle of water spilled down out of the rocks through a gathering of heavy brush. He was bending down to catch a drink in his cupped hands when a pair of ferretlike faces poked out suddenly from the brush.

He jumped backward, water flying up into his face, a startled oath on his lips.

“Great High Lord,” a voice greeted quickly.

“Mighty High Lord,” a second voice echoed.

Fillip and Sot. Ben recovered his composure, forced himself with considerable effort to discard his impulse to throttle them both, and waited patiently as they worked their way free of their concealment. The G’Home Gnomes were a bedraggled pair, their clothing ripped and their fur matted with the rain. They appeared even dirtier than usual, if that was possible.

They waddled forward, eyes peering up at him in the near dark.

“We experienced some difficulty eluding the Crag Trolls, High Lord,” Fillip explained.

“We were hunted until dark, and then we could not determine where you had gone,” Sot added.

“We were frightened that you had been taken again,” Fillip said.

“We were afraid that you had not escaped,” Sot added.

“But we found your trail and followed it,” Fillip continued.

“We see poorly, but we have an excellent sense of smell,” Sot added.

Ben shook his head helplessly. “Why did you bother coming at all?” he asked, kneeling down so they were all at eye-level. “Why didn’t you simply go on home with the rest of your people?”

“Oh, no, High Lord!” Fillip exclaimed.

“Never, High Lord!” Sot declared.

“We gave our promise to serve you, if you should aid us in freeing our people,” Fillip said.

“We gave our word,” Sot said.

“You kept your part of the bargain, High Lord,” Fillip said.

“Now we intend to keep ours,” Sot finished.

Ben stared at them in disbelief. Loyalty was the last thing he had ever expected from these two. It was also the last thing he needed. Fillip and Sot were more likely to prove a source of trouble than a well of relief.

He almost told them so, but then he caught the look of determination on their faces and in their half-blind eyes. He reminded himself that the G’home Gnomes were the first to step forward and offer their pledge to Landover’s throne—the first, when no one else would. It seemed wrong to dismiss their offer of help out of hand when they were so willing to serve.

He straightened slowly, watching as their eyes followed him up. “We are going to the Deep Fell,” he advised them. “I plan to meet with Nightshade.”

Fillip and Sot looked at each other expressionlessly and nodded.

“Then we can be of service to you, High Lord,” Fillip said.

“Indeed, we can,” Sot agreed.

“We have gone into the Deep Fell on many occasions,” Fillip said.

“We know the hollows well,” Sot said.

“You do?” Ben didn’t even try to hide his amazement.

“Yes, High Lord,” Fillip and Sot said together.

“The witch pays little attention to creatures such as us,” Fillip said.

“The witch does not even see us,” Sot said.

“We will guide you safely in, High Lord,” Fillip offered.

“Then we will guide you safely out again,” Sot added.

Ben extended his hand and shook heartily each grimy paw. “You have yourselves a deal.” He grinned. The gnomes beamed. He drew back. “One question. Why did you wait until now to show yourselves? How long have you been crouching back there in the brush?”

“All night, High Lord,” Fillip admitted.

“We were afraid of the dog,” Sot whispered.

Ben brought them into the camp and announced to the others that the gnomes would be accompanying them to the Deep Fell. Abernathy was thoroughly dismayed and expressed the fact in no uncertain terms. It was one thing to agree to accept the wizard back into their company on the theory that he might prove useful—though he questioned how much use he would, in fact, be—but the gnomes were clearly of no use at all. He growled, and the gnomes shrank back uneasily. The kobolds hissed at them, and even Willow looked doubtful. But Ben was firm in his decision. The G’home Gnomes were coming with them.

They resumed their journey shortly after sunrise. They ate a quick breakfast of stems and leaves from the Bonnie Blues, Questor made the pavilion tent disappear in a flash of light and a puff of smoke, frightening the gnomes half to death in the process, and they were on their way. They traveled south and west on a meandering course that took them down out of the hill country and back into the forestland and lakes bordering the Greensward. Bunion led and the rest followed. It rained on and off, frequently misting like a veil of cold steam. The valley lay socked in by clouds and fog that formed an oddly bluish haze that rolled and mixed against the treetops and the dark, distant walls of the mountains. Flowers bloomed in the rain, and Ben found that odd. The flowers were pastel in color, fragile blooms that lasted only minutes and then withered. Rain flowers, Questor called them—evidencing a sorry lack of originality. They came with the rain and then they were gone. Once, in better times, they had enjoyed a lifespan of a dozen hours or more. But now, like everything else in the valley, they were stricken by the sickness. The magic no longer gave them more than a brief life.

The little company took a short break at mid-morning, settling themselves beside a spring grown thick with reeds, lilies, and cypress. The spring had a greenish-brown cast to it and nothing growing near looked healthy. Bunion set off in search of drinking water. It had begun to rain again, and the others clustered in twos and threes beneath the branches of the trees. Ben waited for a time, then caught Willow’s eye and took her aside where they could be alone.

“Willow,” he said gently. He knew this was going to be difficult. “I have been thinking about your coming with us into the Deep Fell—and wherever else we end up going. I don’t think that you should go any further. I think that you ought to return to your home in Elderew.”

She looked at him steadily. “I do not want to return home, Ben. I want to stay with you.”

“I know that. But I think that it is too dangerous for you to do so.”

“It is no more dangerous for me than it is for you. It may be that you will have need of my help again. I will stay.”

“I will write a letter explaining to your father that I wished you with me until now so that you will not be in trouble with him,” he went on. “I will come later to explain it to him myself.”

“I don’t want to go, Ben,” she said again.

The green cast of her face was darkened by the shadows of the cypress, and she seemed to Ben almost a part of the tree. “I appreciate your willingness to take the same risks that I take,” he said, “but there is no reason for you to do so. I cannot allow it, Willow.”

Her face tilted back slightly, and now there was sudden fire in her green eyes. “You have nothing to say about it, Ben. The decision is mine.” She paused, and it seemed as if she were staring right through him. “Why not tell me what is really on your mind, High Lord of Landover.”

He stared back at her in surprise, then slowly nodded his agreement. “Very well. I’m not sure how to say this. If I could keep you with me and be honest with myself, I think I would do so. But I cannot. I don’t love you, Willow. It may be that the fairy people discover love in a single sighting, but it doesn’t happen that way with me. I don’t believe in what the vines and the portents told you about how this would happen. I don’t believe that you and I are meant to be lovers. I think you and I are meant to be friends, but I can’t let you risk your life for me because of that!”

He stopped, feeling her hands catch up his own and gently hold them.

“You still do not understand, do you, Ben?” she whispered. “I belong to you because that is what is meant to be. It is truth woven in the fabric of the land’s magic, and though you may not see it, nevertheless it will come to pass. I feel love for you because I love in the way of the fairies—at first sighting and by promise. I do not expect that of you. But you will come to love me, Ben. It will happen.”

“Maybe so,” he acknowledged, gripping her hands tightly in response in spite of himself, finding her so desirable that he could almost admit that she might be right. “But I do not love you now. I find you the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. I find myself wanting you so badly that I have to fight back the need for you.” He shook his head. “But, Willow, I cannot believe in the future that you seem to see so clearly. You don’t belong to me! You belong to yourself!”

“I belong to nothing if I do not belong to you!” she insisted fiercely. Her face leaned close to his. “Are you frightened of me, Ben? I see fear in your eyes, and I do not understand it.”

He took a deep breath. “There was someone else, Willow—someone who truly belonged to me and I to her. Her name was Annie. She was my wife, and I loved her very much. She was not as beautiful to look at as you, but she was pretty and she was … special. She died two years ago in an accident and I … I haven’t been able to forget her or to quit loving her or to love anyone else.”

His voice broke. He hadn’t realized it would be so difficult talking about Annie after all this time.

“You have not told me why are you afraid, Ben,” Willow pressed, her voice gentle, but insistent.

“I don’t know why I’m afraid!” He shook his head, confused, “I don’t know. I think it’s because when Annie died I lost something of myself—something so precious that I’m not sure I’ll ever get it back again. Sometimes I think I can’t feel anymore. I just seem to pretend …”

There were sudden tears in her eyes, and he was shocked. “Please don’t cry,” he asked her.

Willow smiled bitterly. “I think you are afraid to let yourself love me, because I am so different from what she was,” the sylph said softly. “I think you are afraid that if you let yourself love me, you will somehow lose her. I wouldn’t want that. I want what you were and are and will be—all that is you. But I cannot have that because you are afraid of me.”

He started to deny it, then stopped. She was right when she said that he was frightened of her. He saw her in his mind as she danced in the clearing of aged pines at midnight, changing from sylph to willow tree, rooting in the soil that her mother had danced upon. The transformation repelled him still. She was not human; she was something beyond and apart from that.

How could he ever love a creature so different from Annie … ?

Her fingers brushed at the tears that were slipping now from his own eyes. “I am life of the magic and subject to its will, Ben. So must you be; so will you be. Earth mother and heaven father made us both, and the land binds us.” She bent forward and kissed him on his cheek. “You will lose your fear of me and one day you will love me. I believe that.” Her breath was soft against his face. “I will wait for as long as that takes, Ben, but I will not leave you—not if you beg me, not if you command me. I belong to you. I belong with you. I will stay with you, though the risk is ten times as great as it is now. I will stay, though my own life be given up for yours!”

She rose, a rustle of long hair and clothing in the mid-morning stillness. “Do not ever ask me to leave you again,” she told him.

Then she walked quickly away. He stared after her wordlessly and knew that he would not.

The little company arrived at the Deep Fell shortly before midday. The rain had passed and the day brightened, though clouds still screened the whole of the sky. The smell of damp hung thick in the air, and the morning chill had sharpened.

Ben stood with his companions at the edge of the Deep Fell and stared downward. All but the rim of the bowl was screened away by a blanket of mist. The mist hung over everything, swirling sluggishly across a scattering of tree tops and ridges that poked through the haze like jagged bones from a broken corpse. Scrub choked the rim and upper slopes of the hollows, brambles and thickets that were wintry and stunted. Nothing moved in the pit. No sound came out of it. It was an open grave that waited for an occupant.

Ben eyed it uneasily. It was frightening to look upon—the more so from its edge than from the safety of the Landsview. It appeared monstrous to him, a sprawling, misshapen chasm carved from the earth and left to gather rot. He glanced momentarily at a stand of Bonnie Blues that grew close to the rim. They were blackened and withered.

“High Lord, it is not too late to rethink your decision,” Questor advised softly, standing at his elbow.

He shook his head wordlessly. The decision had been made.

“Perhaps we should wait until morning,” Abernathy muttered, glancing uneasily at the clouded sky.

Ben shook his head a second time. “No. No more delays. I’m going in now.” He turned to them, glancing from one face to the next as he spoke. “I want you to listen carefully and I don’t want any arguments. Fillip and Sot will go with me as guides. They say that they know the Deep Fell. I will take one other. The rest of you will wait here.”

“High Lord, no!” Questor exclaimed in disbelief.

“You would trust yourself to those … those cannibals!” Abernathy raged.

“You may have need of our protection!” Questor went on.

“It is madness for you to go alone!” Abernathy finished.

The kobolds hissed and bared their teeth in unmistakable disapproval, the G’home Gnomes chittered and shrank from the conflict, and the scribe and the wizard kept arguing, both at the same time. Only Willow said nothing, but she stared at Ben so hard that he could feel it.

He put up his hands to quiet them. “Enough, already! I told you that I didn’t want any arguments, and I don’t! I know what I’m doing. I’ve thought it through pretty carefully. We’re not going to have a replay of what happened in the Melchor. If I don’t come out when I should, I want someone free to come in after me.”

“It may be far too late for you by then, High Lord,” Abernathy pointed out bluntly.

“You said you were taking one other, High Lord,” Questor interjected quickly. “I assume you meant me. You may have need of my magic.”

“I may, indeed, Questor,” he agreed. “But not unless I run into trouble with Nightshade and need my chestnuts pulled out of the fire. You’re staying here with Abernathy and the kobolds. I’m taking Willow.”

The sylph’s hard stare turned to one of surprise.

“You would take the girl?” Questor exclaimed. “But what protection can she offer you?”

“None.” Ben watched her eyes turn introspective. “I’m not looking for protection. I’m looking for common ground. I don’t want the witch to think the King of Landover needs protection, and that is what she is likely to think if I descend on her with all of you. Willow is not so threatening. Willow is a fairy creature like the witch. They share a common background, and together Willow and I may be able to find the means to enlist Nightshade to our cause.”

“You do not know the witch, High Lord!” Questor insisted vehemently.

“You certainly do not!” Abernathy agreed.

Willow came forward then, and she took his arm gently. “They may be right, Ben. Nightshade is not likely to offer her help simply because of me. She cares nothing more for the lake country people than for the court at Sterling Silver. She cares nothing for anyone. This is very dangerous.”

He noticed that she did not offer to remain behind. She had already stripped away boots and forest cloak and stood next to him, barefoot in a pair of short pants and sleeveless tunic. “I know,” he answered her. “That is why Questor, Abernathy, and the kobolds will remain here—to come to our rescue if we need it. If we all go in at once, we all risk falling victim to the same treachery. But if the strongest of us remain behind, the chances of rescue are improved.” He looked at the others. “Do you understand?”

There was a general grumbling of acknowledgment. “I respectfully submit that this whole idea is both dangerous and foolish, High Lord,” Abernathy declared.

“I would prefer to be there to advise you,” Questor argued.

Ben nodded patiently. “I respect your feelings, but I’ve made up my mind. Whatever risk there is, I don’t want anyone sharing it with me who doesn’t have to. If I could do this myself without endangering anyone, that’s what I would do. Unfortunately, I can’t.”

“No one has ever asked you to, High Lord,” Questor replied quietly.

Ben met his eyes. “I know. I could not have had better friends than you have been.” He paused. “But this is where it all ends, Questor. You have done for me all that you can. Time and choices are running out. I have to make something happen if I wish to be Landover’s King. I have that responsibility—to you, to the land, and to myself.”

Questor said nothing. Ben glanced briefly at the others. No one spoke. He nodded and reached for Willow’s hand. He fought back against the chill that had suddenly settled through him.

“Lead on,” he ordered Fillip and Sot.

Together, they started down into the pit.