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vitality, swelled and contracted. The nails stirred like quills. The thing watched him and bent its will upon him with a dreadful force.
    "I can't! I can't!" he answered both the Witch and her god. "Help me!" He rose as high as he could on his hands, but she refused to let him crawl. Her sandaled foot pushed him back. Yet Drushen was still inside, and their home was crashing down. He had to save Drushen!
    He screamed in fear and anger, and as he did, he pulled one knee under himself, the first movement his legs had ever known.
    "Help yourself, Innocent!" the Witch cried with fierce urging. "Help yourself, and help your Drushen. But hurry! How long will the rest of the roof hold? How much time? Get up! Run!"
    Ever so shakily, Innowen rose, barely aware of his miracle. Drushen filled his thoughts. He took his first lurching step, then his second. The Witch stood before him, and he pushed her aside, all his attention on the cottage door and the firelight beyond it. Vashni moved out of his way.
    "That's it!" the Witch shouted gleefully. "Walk! Run! Dance! All you've wanted is yours now. Save Drushen. That's your task tonight!" She laughed, and the sound of it rolled even over the thunder. "But there's another task to come. I've seen your fate!" She laughed again. "Hurry, Innocent! Hurry to your task!"
    He reached the door. One hand grabbed the edge of it, and he jerked away in pain, a gasp on his lips. A huge splinter protruded from his right palm. He wrenched it out, grimacing at the tiny well of blood as he cast the splinter down.
    The foot of Drushen's bed was all he could see from the door, so he focused on that. Every step was a torturous effort. He balanced precariously on one leg, then the other. He had never learned to walk. How he managed it now, he didn't know. Maybe it was the god. But then, the god could have made it easier! Innowen had to think through every movement, and there was little time.
    The wind raged around him, pushing him back, as it blew through the shattered sections. He glanced upward. The remains of the roof hung dangerously over his head.
    Innowen fell suddenly, tripping in the debris that had been his home. Agony shot up his left arm. He raised it before his eyes, terrified at the sight of more of his blood.
    The roof made a menacing noise. A thick beam dipped toward Drushen. Innowen forgot his wound and dragged himself quickly across the ruined floor, using his elbows as he always had. The Witch wasn't there to stop him. But when he reached the bedside, he clutched the rough wooden frame with all his strength and hauled himself once more to his feet.
    He couldn't deny that the Witch had kept her promise—or that her god had kept it for her. He could stand. He could walk. But there was no time to ponder why or how. He pulled his unconscious guardian up and slipped his arms around the old man's chest. He took his first step backward.
    And fell again. He kept his grip on Drushen, though, and they tumbled from the bed to the floor. Once more, Innowen struggled to his feet, bent over uncertainly, and seized his guardian by the wrists.
    The room swam in circles as he straightened and began to drag Drushen through the rubble. Twice more he fell, the simple skill of moving backward eluding him. Each time, though, he rose faster and more surely. Through the door and into the storm he hauled the old man, falling yet again in the slippery mud.
    He screamed in frustration. With a grinding noise, the remains of the roof collapsed. The walls followed, crashing down in a thick cloud of dust that the rain swiftly smothered. The only home he had ever known lay in ruins. A numbness filled him. He stared at the broken pile of timbers that had been a cottage, and at Drushen, who slept the undisturbed sleep of a child.
    He looked for the Witch, but she was gone. So was her servant, Vashni, as was the idol. The little stool stood crookedly, alone in the cold rain, one of its three legs sunk deeper in the mud than the