The Secret of Dirragion: Dirragion, #3

By William Harvey

The sorceress Kalayin is dead.  Living in exile, her former apprentice Nolya asks only to be left in peace.

 

But enemies are gathering.  Some accuse her of a terrible crime, others seek to use her for their own ends.  Nolya is forced to flee to Ankhonis, where the King has not forgotten that she once served the woman who plotted to take his throne.

 

While Nolya unravels the mystery of why so many hands are raised against her, a further secret is laid bare.  A means to wield magic of a kind not seen since the mighty sorcerers of ancient times.  She may gain the power to scatter her enemies, but at what cost?

 

If the day is coming for a confrontation between the worlds of magic and men, Nolya will be forced to choose a side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Harvey
• Release date: Oct 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393944331

Book preview

Chapter 1

The girl's scream was one of helpless terror.

Arched above her like a great black bird, her shadow swirling like spilled blood in the torchlight, the witch shrieked in villainous exultation.  On crippled feet she lurched closer, skeletal fingers cramped into claws, her hatred of all that was good and young and beautiful scrawled into the twisted smear of her lips and the glistening pits of her eyes.

The girl screamed once more and struggled to pull away, but she was bound to the altar by countless chains wound over and about her helpless body.  A tiny, fragile creature like a baby bird, slender as a willow reed, pale as a ghost, she lay cocooned in a glistening mane of silver hair which streamed and tumbled like a waterfall in the light of a new moon.

The witch cackled and taunted her, mocking the naivety which had led her to this fate.  There seemed no hope, but as grimy talons poised to sink into soft flesh there was a heroic fanfare and like a ray of sunlight cutting through cloud there burst upon the scene a knight resplendent in armour of red and gold, his shining blade held high, his voice ringing out defiance.  A single sweep of his sword cut through the girl's chains and she sprang from the altar to seek shelter in his arms.

With a howl of malevolent fury the witch lunged forward, clutching the girl's wrist and hauling her back.  The knight moved swiftly to grasp the other wrist, and for a terrifying moment there was no way to tell who would win her as they dragged her swaying body back and forth, cunning and villainy pitted against heroism and strength.  The witch cursed the knight's interference and threatened a hideous revenge but the knight refused to be cowed.  In words which shone with simple nobility he proclaimed that black magics held no power over a brave and honest heart.  Love and honour would always emerge victorious in the end.  She recoiled, driven back by the truth of her own depravity, and with a fearless thrust he ran her through.  She died squealing and babbling in rage at her defeat, her vile schemes all come to nothing.

The damsel cast herself at the knight's feet, overwhelmed by lamentation at her foolishness in allowing the old witch to seduce her into a life of sorcery and wickedness, broken-hearted that she was tainted forever by the stain of witchcraft.  Though the knight did not hesitate to agree that she had been much in the wrong, he raised her up and forgave her, and in that moment there was a flash of sparks and she was transformed.  No longer the white-skinned, silver-haired creature the witch had made to be her servant.  Now she appeared a blonde, pink-cheeked vision of loveliness, the girl she could have been had she not fallen to evil.  Filled with joy at her transformation, the knight told her that now she need fear nothing, because he would always be there to look after her and show her the joys of an honest and virtuous life.  She wept with gratitude and melted in his arms.  Folded together in a passionate embrace they sang together of their love, and of the golden future which awaited them now that the foul poison of sorcery was cast out for evermore.

The final note of the duet faded into the summer evening, and the lull was filled by the applause of the crowd.  The Witches of Dirragion always went down well.  Rising into view within the narrow confines of his box, the puppeteer accepted the acclaim with crudely stitched representations of heroic Edrik and pretty little Nolya still fixed to his hands.  He was a lean, undernourished figure with a gloomy straggle of a moustache, a disappointing contrast to the heroic tale he told and to the impressive baritone he provided for Edrik.  From behind the box came scurrying his assistant, a round-faced boy in his early teens who lived in fear of the day which could not be far off, when his voice would break and someone else would have to be found to sing Nolya's part.

Clutched in both hands the boy held the battered remains of an ancient felt hat with which he moved among the crowd, extracting from them a token of their appreciation as expressed in small coins.  He worked quickly, acknowledging the clink of each coin with the briefest of nods before moving on, finding his way to as many potential contributors as possible before the afterglow of their enjoyment died down and they dispersed in search of other amusements.  Most gave him something.  Some were mean and gave the smallest coin they could find, others were more generous, and those who gave nothing stuffed their hands in their pockets and shouldered their way into the night with their heads down as though he would believe that they had somehow failed to see him.  Only one stood like a statue, gazing thoughtfully at the puppeteer's box, not even stirring when he demanded attention with a jingle of the hat's paltry contents.

He had not noticed her before, because there was nothing about her that made her stand out from the crowd.  Just a smallish, youngish woman in a plain blue cloak, the hood pulled down over her eyes, revealing nothing of her face but a pointed chin and a small, neatly set mouth.  Beneath the cloak she was dressed boyishly in a grey woollen tunic and breeches which hung loosely on her slender form.  She was in no way intimidating, and yet there was something vaguely off-putting about the quality of her stillness.  She did not seem to be deliberately ignoring the world about her like a sentry at a gate.  It was more as though she barely recognised its existence.  She was remote from the bustle and noise of the crowd.  Like a ghost.

But this was no ghost, and though the cloak was not expensive it was new and clean, so she could not be destitute.  The puppeteer's boy gave the hat a second, more insistent shake.

Spare a few coins for the show?

She stirred, inclining her head towards him rather than turning in his direction.  When she spoke, her voice was light and soft, with the hint of an accent he couldn't quite place.

I don't think so.

So she was tight-fisted.  There was nothing unusual in that, and the boy met ruder people every day, but still her manner made him stiffen his shoulders.  It was the way she refused to be embarrassed or even defensive about her own meanness.  The way she scarcely deigned to acknowledge his presence while she dismissed him.

You don't think so?  His voice rose in pique.  What do you mean?  You stood right there all the way through, you enjoyed the  show, and you don't think you owe us something for all our hard work?

The hood turned slowly towards him, revealing a pale, stiffly set face and intent grey eyes which, he realised with a lurch of confusion, were glistening with moisture.  Their story was a joyous one, filled with romance, adventure, merry songs and a happy ending.  There was no way it should make anyone cry.

Without a quiver, her voice came again.

Do I look as if I enjoyed the show?

Lost for an answer, his anger cut from beneath him, the boy stood in uncertain silence, and his eye was drawn to a wisp of hair where it had found its way out from the depths of the woman's hood.  It was wrong.  It did not belong to that smooth young face.  It had the silky gloss of youth, but its colour was a gleaming silver.

The boy took a hasty step back.  What he had seen, what it meant, was too much to think about now, when he would soon be busy making excuses to his master for the slim takings.  He hurried off in search of more generous patrons, and he did not see the young woman spend a moment more staring into the dark space of the empty puppet theatre before turning her back and disappearing into the thickening gloom of dusk.

Nolya pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders, feeling the cold grip of tears clutch at her throat, berating herself for the whim which had made her stop and put herself through this.  A musical puppet show based on her life.  It was a joke, and one which most people would have enjoyed.  Was she not the heroine, albeit a rather dim-witted and weak-minded one?  At the time, she had been viewed as Kalayin's sinister, ghostly acolyte.  It was surely better to be remembered as her victim.

Almost every part of the story had been wrong.  The part where Kalayin stole her from the arms of her loving parents.  The part where her immersion in the cursed world of witchcraft transformed her from a lovely blonde to an unearthly silver-haired creature of night.  The part where she fell in love with Edrik only to be terrorised into betraying him.  It was so wrong that at times she had watched like the rest of the audience, as though these were events which had really happened, but to someone else.  She had even felt a kind of strange disconnected pleasure at seeing puppet Nolya go off to live happily ever after at the end.

But three years had passed since she held Kalayin in her arms and wept to feel the life ebbing from her body.  Each year, she had been aware of the truth receding into shadow, leaving nothing but an overblown tale of the triumph of good over evil.  Now, listening to the crowd cheer for Edrik, hiss for Kalayin, and sigh for her, she had wanted to shove her way to the front, toss back her hood, and make them all listen while she told them the true story at great length and in merciless detail.

Fortunately she was not that much of a fool.  With her telltale silver hair tucked beneath her hood and immersed in the bustling crowd, she had precious anonymity which she wasn't about to throw away just to teach history to a few dozen drunken revellers.  Cloaked and silent, she could walk amongst these people like a shadow, barely drawing a second glance, and no one would point her out, no one would shout her name and call their friends to come see, and no one would fear or hate her because of what she was.

The first stars were pricking their way through the darkening blue of a cloudless summer sky.  Clustered at the foot of the hill, stalls and sideshows did brisk business as people filtered in at the end of a long day's work to take part in the celebration.  Spiced meat sizzled appetisingly on the griddle, musicians busked noisily for coppers, and at the centre of it all a great stack of bundled twigs rose ten feet high.  A looming pyre, ready for the flame, and perched at its summit the sad, drooping figure of a man in a battered hat and ancient coat.  His dark, empty little eyes gave him a mournful air of resignation to his fate.

Nolya lingered for a moment at the foot of the pyre, but moved on swiftly because there was nothing to be gained by staying.  The figure was nothing but old clothes stuffed with straw topped with a head made from some unappetising root vegetable, and the man it represented had been dead these six years.  If she had realised the date, she would not have chosen the anniversary of his murder to come to this place.

A winding track led her up the hill towards a jagged stone ruin silhouetted against the last glow of the sinking sun.  The sounds of chatter and celebration dwindled swiftly behind her and she breathed more easily now that she was no longer hemmed in by the ever-seething sea of humanity.  Half a dozen paces from the hill's summit she halted and gazed at the melancholy sight of what must once have been a fine house.  The strong stone walls still stood, but nothing remained of the doors and shutters but decaying blackened splinters hanging on rusted hinges.  Within, patches of a tiled floor were still visible beneath the accumulated mud of years and the ruined, broken remains of the upper floor and roof.  Everything was scorched and blackened from the fire which had ripped out the building's heart.

Nolya stepped in through the broken doorway and sighed softly, hugging her arms about herself as though the summer evening had become suddenly chill.  But she had been a witch too long to be afraid of ghosts.  She found herself a patch of floor which was not too grimy or obscured by debris and knelt, closing her eyes and clasping her hands on her lap.  She summoned the words in her mind, bit down on her lip to suppress the instinct to speak them aloud, and let the magic flow from her body through the ground, through the rubble, through the crumbling structure of the house.  The power was drawn from some well deep within herself and spread like oil around her, infiltrating every corner, coating every surface, filling every nook.  She could not have said how long she knelt there before, as though surfacing from immersion in a warm bath, she returned to full awareness of the world around her.

She straightened, then instantly dipped forward as the dizziness which always followed an ambitious spellcasting threatened to overwhelm her.  Planting one palm on the floor, she took deep breaths while she recovered her equilibrium.  Then, eagerly, she looked around to see if it had worked.

All was quiet and dark, and at first she had the sinking sense that the long journey here had been for nothing.  But then, struggling to her feet and clumsily grasping for support at a nearby fragment of rotting timber, she found what she was looking for.  A soft golden glow of light which flickered and danced in the wreckage like the final wisp of flame on a dying hearth.  Nolya scrambled past the tumbled ruins of the upper floor and delved in, dragging aside broken shards of fallen roof tiles to get at what was hidden underneath.  At the cost of skinned palms she uncovered a wooden box about which the golden light still languidly played.  It was charred from the fire and battered from the collapse, but it was sturdily made and had remained intact.  Eight inches across, it must once have been pretty, the dark wood inlaid in bronze with twirling patterns of leaves and flowers.

Nolya sat a moment, tingling with anticipation.  The spell she had cast identified the box's contents as magical.  Whatever it was, it was all that remained of the life's work of the murdered warlock Corovel Tark.  A twist of the latch found it locked, and she pressed her thumb to the mechanism, letting flow a spell which was one of the smallest and simplest she knew, but one which over the years had proved more vital than any other.  The lock clicked open and she lifted the lid.

She frowned, trying not to be too disappointed.  She had hoped for tomes of magical lore.  A repository of Tark's learning.  Some means by which the studies to which he had devoted his life might survive his death.  What she found instead was a disc of polished stone embedded in a protective velvet setting.  She pried it out with her fingertips and it sat cold and heavy in her palm, polished smooth as ice, a little narrower at the top than at the bottom but featureless save for an embossed silver thread encircling its edge.  She turned it this way and that, trying to grasp what it could be, then speculatively touched her fingertips to the shallow indentation at its centre.

The effect was instantaneous.  She felt the stone come to life in her hands like something prodded awake from sleep, and a warm orange light flowed up from within.  Most would have panicked and cast it away, but Nolya sensed that whatever was happening was without malice.  She held the stone level, cupped in her hands, and watched wide-eyed and entranced, her face illuminated by the supernatural glow.

In all of her travels she had never seen anything quite like this.  The twisting, spiralling, ever-moving dabs of light were assembling to create a human figure.  No face, no hands, even the gender was unclear, but it was unmistakably human, the limbs, torso and head all expressed in single strokes, as in the paintings long-forgotten ancient peoples had left behind on the walls of caves.  Afraid to move, as though the tiny creature would take offence at having its footing shifted, she held herself perfectly still, and her lips parted in enchantment as it began to dance.

A stately, courtly dance, arms spread wide, one knee raised while the tip of the other foot maintained in contact with the ground.  The lights which composed the figure's body swirled and streamed into one another, always sustaining its shape as it hopped and pranced and pirouetted with an airy lightness which would elude any mortal dancer.  It was a beautiful, delicate, elegant display, and it did not last.  Nolya was holding her breath while she watched, and before she could suffer for want of air the lights were fading, dimming, shrinking, dwindling into nothing till with a last dying spark they were gone.

She remembered to breathe in, then reverently set the cold lump of stone back into its velvet setting.

It was not what she had hoped for.  In practical terms coming here had been a waste of time and a pointless risk, and yet she felt uplifted.  All she had found was a toy, but that was what made it so special.  It was magic created not to hurt people or deceive people or force their obedience, but only to be beautiful and to draw a smile.  Corovel Tark had seen this too.  She doubted he had the skill to enchant such a thing himself but he had found it and loved it and kept it safe.  It was a link to a bygone age when magic was not a thing of the dark to be feared and hated but something bright and good.

She lifted her head and took in the ruins of Tark's home, the burned-out remains of his possessions rotting into the earth.  They had come for him because they knew he practised magic, and so they assumed he was a monster.  She wondered if it would have been any different if they could have seen his pretty little dancer.

Chapter 2

With Corovel Tark's treasure stowed in the cloth bag slung over her shoulder, Nolya scurried back down the path towards the swaying assembly of flickering lights which marked the crowd milling around the dark mass of the pyre.  She had done what she had come here for  and had no intention of lingering.  If she was recognised, she would explain that she had committed no crime in the kingdom of Trogia and that no law barred her from passing through like any other traveller.  She doubted it would do her much good.  Not when the mob's blood was already hot with the memory of what they had done to another sorcerer before her.

Passing unnoticed was easy enough.  All eyes were fixed in eager anticipation on the unlit pyre.  Torches blazed bright in the evening air, held aloft in the fists of the people as they jostled for a good spot at the front of the seething throng, all of them eager to be the first to cast a flame onto the pile and watch the sorcerer burn all over again.

The sight turned over bitterly in her stomach and she felt an infernal self-destructive impulse to shove her way forward and curse them for their savagery, cowardice and ignorance.  To lecture them on how Corovel Tark had been a harmless scholar who had never harmed them or anyone else.

They'd likely throw her onto the fire alongside his effigy.  She hung back in the safety of the shadows, but just as she was about to turn away her eye was caught by an excited swirl of movement.  A dark-clad man had emerged from the crowd, and the people threw up a cheer as though he had cast a fistful of silver amongst them.  Clean-shaven and black-haired, he had a lean strong face, watchful eyes underlined by the sharp slashes of his cheekbones, and narrow lips which curled in a smile that relished the applause even while it derided those who offered it.  He held up his hands to accept the people's acclaim.

Thank you, thank you, one and all.  Thank you for being here this night, when we mark our liberation from the dark yoke of sorcery.  It's been six years now.  Six years since I led you to the gates of Corovel Tark's fortress, and we cleansed that place with a righteous purifying flame that sent his black soul to the infernal realm where it belongs.

So this, Nolya realised while the crowd sent up a cheer, was Virith Bral.  The man who had ridden into town and stirred the people to violence against their squire, whose interest in magic had till then been tolerated in an atmosphere of wary silence.  Maybe they genuinely did believe that he was a hero who had rid them of an evil sorcerer.  Maybe that was just something they had told themselves when in the cold light of the following morning they had looked on the smouldering ruins of their neighbour's home.  In either case, the reputation Bral had earned as a fearless opponent of the dark arts had seen him proclaimed squire in Tark's place.

Every year, Bral was saying, we celebrate our liberation.  We celebrate the day we came together as a community to stand shoulder to shoulder against sorcery.  We eat, we drink, we make merry, and we give thanks that we are free.  But more than that, we remember.  We remember that one victory does not make us safe.  We remember that everywhere, every day, black magic surrounds us like the dark which clusters about a lantern's light.  Though we may not see it, it is always there, whispering in the ears of the gullible, ensnaring the minds of the weak, ever seeking a way to regain its former power.  So we remember, and we swear an oath.  Never again!

He let the silence linger a moment, casting his gaze proudly over the hushed crowd, then his smile sharpened.

This night, we have been visited.  A creature of the night and servant of the black arts has come here to work its spite upon our happy town.  To seek vengeance upon us all and to drag us back into the filthy pit of sorcery and depravity in which we languished before we set ourselves free.

The people stirred, fearful and angry, but more than anything expectant, anticipating the dramatic revelation to come.  Bral extended an arm and a pair of heavy-set accomplices in bulky leather jerkins shouldered their way through the crowd, bearing between them a cage measuring a yard on each side, roughly hammered together out of planks, the lid fixed down with a heavy iron padlock.  Necks craned up for a view of whatever it was that shifted and slithered within.  Bral let the tension build a moment longer, then seized a torch and thrust its blazing tip against the bars.

People screamed.  In the cage a bestial maw of needle-sharp teeth hissed and spat at them from beneath a pair of wildly glaring yellow eyes.  The thing they saw in the flash of flame was a monster.  Clawed, prehensile feet, reptilian scales stretched tight across the bony ridge of its spine, long-fingered hands which lashed furiously at the bars.  For a moment it seemed the crowd would scatter, but Bral pulled the torch away and addressed them in a voice which carried powerfully through the evening air.

This thing is a spawn of demonkind, risen from the blackest depths of the infernal realm.  It came here with malice in its heart for the death of one of its own.  If I had not captured it, it would have remained hidden in the woods, poisoning our wells, blighting our crops, stealing our children from the safety of their cribs!

His words stirred the crowd like a stick jabbed into a nest of ants.  Some pushed their way back to get distance between themselves and the monster, others pushed their way forward to jeer and spit.  Bral allowed them time to settle before speaking again.

What do we do with such a vile thing?  Do we set it loose across the border and let it plague the Linosians instead?  Do we keep it on a leash and charge visitors a copper to see it?

A grim laugh rumbled through the crowd and Bral nodded with a smile.

No.  In these parts we know what to do when the forces of darkness raise their head.  We do not shrink, we do not hesitate.  We face them head on.  No retreat, no half measures, and no mercy.

At his gesture the two men flung the cage onto the pyre where it tumbled amongst the stacked twigs.  The creature within gave a violent lurch against the bars, rattling them in their sockets and making the crowd shrink back.  The flickering torchlight picked out glimpses of its bony little club of a head, the fleshy slits of its nostrils, its long ears erect as spearpoints.

Bral raised a torch high above his head.

So let the fire consume its body and banish its corrupted soul to the infernal realm it calls home!

Wait.

Amidst the snarl of exultant rage at the prospect of seeing the creature burn, the single word, spoken quietly and without passion, somehow rang out clear as a bell, and the crowd's building hysteria flickered in uncertainty.  Even Bral was momentarily knocked from his stride.  Lowering the torch a fraction, he glanced quickly about him for the source of the interruption.

In the space which he occupied between the press of the crowd and the pyre, a single small figure had emerged to face him.  Calm and still, her blue cloak falling straight as a column of stone, her face hidden beneath her hood, her presence cast a hush over the mob.

Bral's features rearranged themselves into an expression of condescending patience, letting everyone see that he was neither impressed by her appearance nor concerned enough to be angry.

Something you need, young Miss?

Nolya inclined her head and folded her hands in front of her, careful not to clutch them together so that her knuckles would whiten and they would all see how afraid she was.

What you have in that cage, she said keeping her voice smooth and calm, is not a demon nor even the spawn of a demon.  It's a goblin.  It's a creature of flesh and blood not that different to you or I.

A look of calculation passed across Bral's face before he settled on mockery.

I can see you're not from these parts.  A city girl, perhaps?  Come to educate us ignorant yokels about monsters?

A murmur ran through the crowd which lay somewhere between a chuckle and a growl.  Nolya shook her head.

I'm not here to educate anyone.  I just thought that before you burn that goblin alive someone ought to ask what crime it has committed.  Has it actually hurt anyone?

Bral's smile broadened, but hardened as well.

Oh, we should wait till it murders someone and then deal with it?

Why would it murder anyone?

Why would it not?  Since you're such an expert on goblins, you must know that they're demon-kin and the enemies of all mankind.

They are no such thing.  Their ancestors were as human as yours.  Magic changed their bodies but it couldn't touch their souls.  They're no more evil than the rest of us.

Bral tossed his head back with a laugh.

Oh, is that so?  What is this, the latest modern idea from the big city?  Goblins are sweet and gentle and misunderstood?  Good luck convincing these people of that, they don't need the likes of you to tell them what goblins are.  Like the showman he was, he cast his gaze across his audience, making eye contact, drawing them in.  We have long memories here.  We remember the demon wars, when our ancestors lived out in the hills and fields, not safe behind city walls.  We remember the horror of the goblin hordes appearing out of the night, their yellow eyes glinting in the dark, their howling echoing off the hillside, their fangs slavering with blood.

A snarl of approval acknowledged his words.  Nolya sighed.

You remember all that, do you?  Of course you don't.  The demon wars were four hundred years ago, none of those things happened to you or to anyone you've ever met.  All you remember is a lot of fantastically exaggerated stories.

Even as she said it she knew that she was taking the wrong line.  She could hear and feel the rumble of the crowd's disapproval.  She was dismissing and belittling their fears and they were resenting her for it.

Complacent in the knowledge that everyone was on his side, Bral spoke again.

I suppose you're going to deny that the goblins fought on the side of the demons in the war?

As did many human kings when it seemed the only way to survive.  Anyway it makes no difference.  The goblin you have in that cage isn't responsible for the crimes of his ancestors.

No?  Well, maybe you need a lesson in what those crimes were.  The goblins weren't just soldiers in a war.  They were torturers, slavers, defilers.  They tormented and humiliated human captives for sport.  They mutilated the bodies of the dead and nailed them to trees to terrorise the survivors.  They stole infants from their cribs and replaced them with their own monstrous offspring.  And now you're asking that we show pity for this one?

He jammed the torch against the bars of the cage and the inhuman creature within thrashed away from the light with a hiss.  Nolya saw those bestial yellow eyes fixed upon her and knew how slim her chances were of turning the crowd in its favour.  She could tell them that their stories of goblin villainy were mostly invention, but why would they believe her when this one looked so utterly malevolent?

One last try, she told herself.  She turned from Bral and addressed the throng.

Please, all I'm asking is that you show a little compassion.  I don't know why this creature came to your lands, but it's clear that he's harmed no one.  Are you really going to let this man burn him?  Whatever other goblins may have done in days long gone, they're no reason for you to do something just as bad here, tonight.  Put yourself in his place for a moment.  He is alone, and frightened, surrounded by enemies.  Imagine the horror and pain of being burned alive, and ask yourselves if this is justice.

She looked from one sceptical face to another, and felt sure that in a few of them she saw a flicker of uncertainty.  Some even glanced to their neighbours in search of reassurance.  Bral, she could see, was a man who depended on those who followed him having faith that he would do their thinking for them.  The day they started to doubt him he was done.  She allowed herself a spark of hope before his voice cut harshly across her.

I think these good people have a different question on their minds.  I think they're asking themselves why they should listen to a stranger who keeps her face hidden away beneath a cowl.  I think they're asking what sort of human would defend a goblin.  I'll say it because I think everyone here already knows the answer.  I'll say we have a witch among us.

The sounds of a hundred people shifting their position and drawing in their breath combined to form a sibilant hiss.  Nolya saw them look at her with newly wary eyes while the poison of the idea which Bral had set in their minds did its work.  They saw her hood and cloak and the way she carried herself, and the accusation was making sense to them.  Bral did not need proof, it was she who would have to prove herself innocent or suspicion alone would be enough to make anything she said seem a lie.  It was over.

So she had tried.  She had seen an atrocity about to happen, and rather than turn away she had done everything in her power to stop it.  No one could ask more of her, it was not her fault that she had failed.  It was time to save herself now.  To withdraw and hope they lacked the conviction to block her path.

But she saw the goblin's eyes gleaming watchfully in the dark, and imagined herself walking away through the night, hearing the flames blaze up on the pyre, knowing the torment the creature was suffering while she fled to save her own skin.  She straightened and spoke as though what she was about to do was nothing.

Fine.

Boldly, trying her best to maintain her calm facade while she inwardly cringed with fear, Nolya grasped her hood and pulled it back, letting her silver hair tumble free.  Disbelief rippled through the crowd but Bral's face blazed with triumph.  It was the look of a man who had broken open a chest and found it stuffed with gold.  The smile broadened on his face and a viciously acquisitive glint came to his eyes.

Well, look what we have here.  Seems I was more right than I knew.  A witch, yes, but not just any witch.  Our little town is graced by the presence of a legend.

"Witch... witch... little witch..."

Nolya heard the whispers pass among the surrounding crowd just as she had been hearing them for years now everywhere she dared show her face.  A mixture of fascination, loathing and superstitious fear.  Smugly certain that he had won, Bral addressed them in the florid tone of a carnival barker trying to draw people in to gawp at a freak.

Apprentice to the arch-sorceress Kalayin, conspirator in her plan to seize the power of the demon Rivla Schor and overthrow the royal line of Ankhonis.  Those of you who have enjoyed that adorable puppet show will be disappointed to see that she never did reclaim her humanity.  Even after Kalayin's death she chose to remain a half-human creature of night.

Surrounded by a sea of hostile faces, Nolya spoke, futilely clinging to the hope that a voice of calm reason might yet appeal to them more than one of ignorance and fear.

I'm not a creature of the night, she said.  It's just that my hair is an odd colour.

Bral continued his monologue as though she had not spoken.

Witches and goblins spring from the same source, so it's no wonder she has such fellow feeling for this thing we have in the cage.  Her compassion doesn't extend to humans, of course.  His expression sharpened but he met her eyes with a look not of anger but of challenge.  She was happy enough to murder the witch hunter Albus Crayl.  Burned the poor man alive.

A growl rose from the encircling crowd.  Nolya fought to keep her voice level.

Albus Crayl was a sadistic butcher who hunted women like me for sport.  I was a sixteen year old girl and innocent of any crime when he tried to kill me, just like you want to kill that goblin now.  I burned him with the same fire he was planning to use on me.

And you're proud of it, I can see, said Bral, taking a slow, almost casual step towards her.  Is that what you'll do to me if I don't send you on your way, hand in hand with your precious little goblin friend?  Am I supposed to be afraid?

Nolya took a tight grip on her instinct to back away from him, because she knew that any sign of weakness now would be an invitation for them all to be on her like jackals.

Why don't you just let the goblin go?  We'll both leave and never trouble you again, and you can get on with your celebration.  It would be a mistake to raise your hand to me.  You know I studied under Kalayin and she taught me real magic.  Old, dark magic.  Don't confuse me with a harmless dabbler like Corovel Tark.

The mythic weight of Kalayin's name settled over the crowd and they looked nervous.  Not panic-stricken, but nervous enough that she believed she could have bluffed her way through them, taking the goblin in tow, without any of them wanting to be the first to bar her way.  But this Bral was of a different kind.  Accustomed to lead, accustomed to be obeyed.  Perhaps he was afraid, but he would never back down because he could not afford to let his people see it.  His smirk mocked her attempt to intimidate him.

You're quite frightening as tiny, skinny little women go, but I think I'll risk it.

Nolya shook her head, doing her best to look solemnly regretful that he hadn't taken the chance she offered him when in truth she was grimly absorbing the fact that she had been cornered into her last and most desperate resort.

I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.

She dropped her eyes to her hands where she held them clasped in front of her and let the magic she had kept spinning at the back of her mind surge forth.  She threw back her head, clapped her hands sharply, and a sheet of flame roared from between them, a white hot dazzling wave which blotted out the torches' mortal flame and engulfed the watching crowd.

There was instant pandemonium.  People screamed and scattered, tumbling over one another, the strong and the fast