Douglas Niles - Circle at center

Philistine, Roman,

Muslim Christian Jew;

All bleed red beneath thy holy walls.

The witch lived at the top of the steepest crag in the Lodespikes, but Sir Christopher would go willingly, gladly, up the precipitous trail. Dismounting at the foot of a steep slope of boulders, he leaned his shield-upon which could still be seen the red cross of a Knight Templar-against a nearby stone. The symbol would ward against evil and the horse wait patiently, Christopher knew, while the man went about the work of God.

He started upward with his sword sheathed at his side, using a stout staff as support on the jagged, rocky mountainside. The rod was smooth and dark, higher than himself by a foot, and showed the gleam of meticulous oiling and no little polish.

In his other hand the knight carried a leather sack, holding the bag away from direct contact with his body. The serpent confined in the leathery prison twisted and writhed, hissing angrily, occasionally poking outward with a lethal fang. Sir Christopher was well satisfied with the vitality of the asp he had captured.

Surely the witch would do the rest.

Finally he came upon a trail that led him out of the boulders, then twisted up to a knifecrest of lofty ridge. A single step to either side would have sent him tumbling to his doom, but he marched forward resolutely.

Now his goal was in sight, a tiny hut of stone and thatch standing at the crest of the domed summit. It was simple and rude, but from what Sir Christopher knew of witches, the interior would be well-furnished and spacious.

She was waiting in the doorway, watching as he strode onto the broad cap of the mountaintop. Though he was winded, the knight betrayed no sign of fatigue as he walked up to the witch and stopped.

His first thought was that she looked old for an elf. Her gray hair was incongruous on one of these folk who so rarely showed any sign of age. In his experience, even elven witches were vain enough to slick their hair with gold as they grew older.

“You are human, but no druid,” she said.

“I am a knight in service to Our Lord Jesus Christ,” he declared. “And I come seeking a boon from a witch.”

“I am the sage-enchantress Allevia… I am not a…”

The woman’s voice trailed off as she stared, wide-eyed, at the white pearl that Sir Christopher drew into his hand. He extended his clenched fist, allowing the stone to swing on its chain of gold. A crimson shape, a mark in the shape of an X, blazed from the face of the stone.

“You bear the Stone of Command,” she said, awestruck. “The talisman of Caranor, my sister-how came you to hold it?”

“She bestowed it upon me,” Christopher replied. “And now you must perform the task I request, correct?”

“I will perform your task,” the witch said without hesitation.

Sir Christopher seized the bottom of the sack, inverting it to dump the thrashing viper onto the ground. Instantly it coiled, then struck at the narrow shin of the elfwoman’s leg. The witch snapped a single word, a sound unlike anything Christopher could have duplicated, and the snake halted in mid-strike. Jaws wide, fangs extended, it was frozen like an image carved in wood.

The knight tossed his staff to the ground beside the immobile reptile. “I want the snake to become the staff-and the staff, the snake. I desire a rod of righteousness, and you will give it to me.”

“Of righteousness?” the witch said in wonder. “I do not know that word.”

“It is not necessary that you do,” Sir Christopher replied. “Righteousness is the Immutable Law of God, and that law is carried in my heart and my immortal soul.”

The witch turned to her preparations as Sir Christopher followed her into the hut. As he had suspected, it was very large inside, at least as spacious as the knightly manor he had owned in England-before the calling of the Templars had carried him to Jerusalem so long, long ago.

He watched intently as the elfwoman prepared for her spell. She spoke a word of incantation and a blaze crackled into life, radiating fiercely from the hearth. Though Sir Christopher looked closely, he could see no sign of fuel within the fireplace. The witch then lifted a bucket of water above a sturdy table, pouring the liquid onto the tabletop as she croaked more guttural, arcane words. The knight was careful to conceal his astonishment as he watched the water turn to ice.

With deft movements the woman called Allevia used her hands to curl the ice, which was somehow pliable, into a long trough. She set the staff in that trough, then took up the snake. This time her spell-casting was like a reptile’s hiss, and abruptly the serpent stretched, still rigid and now straight as the shaft. She placed the creature into the trough of ice, beside the rod of wood.

Finally she took up the long container, which had not yet begun to melt. She called a harsh sound and Christopher skipped backward with undignified haste as the fire advanced out of the fireplace to snap merrily in the middle of an ornate rug. He was not surprised to see that the carpet suffered not at all from the flames-even though he could feel the heat clearly warming the skin of his face.

The witch fed the trough of ice slowly into the fire, and the ice hissed into steam, obscuring the heart of the yellow brightness.

Christopher went to the far side of the blaze to take the object that came out of the flames. The wood was cool to his touch, and he could clearly feel the ripples of thin scales on the surface. It had an admirable heft, with a head that was wooden, but carved into the perfect visage of a striking snake, jaws gaping.

“You have your staff,” Allevia said, staring at him with a directness that made him uneasy. “Now, are you righteous?”

“Aye,” he replied without hesitation. “Aye, witch, I am righteous.

He smashed her in the left shoulder with the blunt end of his staff, hard enough to break the bone-though he was careful not to kill her. She flew against the wall and slumped to the floor, gasping, her good hand pressed to the awkwardly twisted shoulder.

Sir Christopher crossed to her and stepped down, hard, on her slender shin. Once again he heard a sharp snap, and-as always-he was startled by the brittleness of elder elven bone.

But, strangely, this elfwoman wasn’t crying. Usually the folk of this corrupt and hedonistic race, so unused to pain or violence, would break down pathetically under the severity of their punishment. Angrily he tapped her broken shoulder, hard, with the end of the staff.

“Why do you attack me?” she asked, and those clear eyes pinned him with a fire that seared toward his soul.

“You are an abomination-a tool of Satan, cursed to eternal Hell.” He spoke the words mostly for himself, knowing that she wouldn’t understand. They never did, these witches that he punished.

“The stone!” she insisted, her voice surprisingly strong. “Give it to me!”

He laughed. “You are wise in the ways of witches, but overall a fool. The Stone of Command is mine, now.”

“No!” For the first time he saw real fear in her green eyes. “You cannot-”

His next blow smashed her jaw so hard that, for a moment, he was afraid he had killed her. But no-once more those emerald eyes were watching him, albeit with a look that grew ever more dull and clouded. Still, she followed his movements as he pulled wooden shelves onto the floor, smashed furniture to kindling, and tore many of her books into shredded tinder. He was fortunate enough to find several jars of oil, and these he poured over the gathered wood, forming a ring around the witch.

A single spark from his tinderbox started the blaze, and he quickly retreated from the hut, backing away even farther as flames swiftly engulfed the structure. Soon the fire was high, and so hot that even the encircling cornice was hissing, lending a cloud of white vapor that swirled about the pyre of smoke.