by Niamh Murphy
Gretel shook her head, still not letting the thoughts settle, not letting
the words through. Hans moved forward to grab her, but she turned and ran.
She ran into the woods: she had to see, she had to know for herself.
“GRETEL!” he yelled, but she didn’t listen, she kept running.
‘River, oak, hill, farm’: she repeated the words over and over in her
head as she ran, stumbling, half-dazed through the woods. She felt that just
saying the words would somehow lead her back there, that Maeve’s careful
directions would guide her home.
But her blood chilled as a familiar howl filled the air. She stopped dead
and looked up to see the wolf pack clearly silhouetted on the horizon,
streaking towards her at a colossal speed, a speed she could not hope to
match.
She froze in fear, staring at the beasts. Their speed and their darkness
made them living shadows in the dawn light. All that came to her in that
moment was Maeve, the image of Maeve standing still, staring down at the
wolves.
‘You shouldn’t have run,’ she’d said, ‘they only chase if you run.’
Gretel didn’t know if Maeve was right or if these wolves would kill her, tear
at her flesh until she was ripped to pieces.
“Gretel!” Hans called. She turned to see him looking at her, pale as a
spirit. “RUN!” he shouted.
She went to follow him, thinking she could run; she could at least try
to outrun them. Hide somewhere, climb a tree, reach the village. But she
stopped.
“RUN!” Hans shouted again, backing off, away from the wolves as
they pelted ever closer.
She trusted Maeve. Maeve knew these woods, knew these wolves.
“They only chase you if you run,” she told him.
He looked at her: fear and confusion crossed his face, then anger.
“Damn you to the wolves!” He turned and ran back the way they had
come, back in the direction of the village, and Gretel turned back to the
wolves speeding towards her.
She wanted to go with him, it was so much easier to run away, to do as
he asked rather than stare down a pack of wolves. Gretel had always done
as he asked and now she was about to pay the price for going against him.
She stared at the wolves as they tore toward her, a dozen of them at
least. All teeth and fur, she had forgotten how big they were, how ferocious.
In that instant, she knew they would take her down. They would easily take
her down. But she had left it too long now. She was in their reach, she
couldn’t run.
They tore past.
So close she felt their fur as they sped on into the woods.
Gretel couldn’t move. She struggled to start breathing again. They
were gone. She turned and watched as they careened off. With a sickening
twist in her gut, she knew what they were after and there was nothing she
could do.
She fell to her knees, exhausted with the fear of it. She knew she had
lost Hans: even if he could outrun them, even if he got away, he wouldn’t
come back for her, and as she remembered the look on his face, she wasn’t
sure if she wanted him to.
Then she thought of Maeve, of her body burnt and broken. She hoped,
she prayed that Hans had been lying to her, that he hadn’t harmed Maeve.
But she had to find out, had to see her again.
‘River, oak, hill, farm,’ she thought, ‘but how to find the river?’ She
remembered the fish that Hans had been cooking. The river must be close.
Cautiously, still woozy from the sleeping draught, Gretel stood and made
her way back to the camp.
There was still a little smoke rising from the fire, but the embers were
dying out. As she drew closer she could hear the sound of the river, a torrent
of water gushing forth. She ran towards the noise, overjoyed to have found
the first landmark and determined that was a sign of good fortune, a sign
that Maeve was somehow leading her back.
The river had grown wider in just the few days she had been in the
forest. Spring was surging into life: buds on the trees had started to appear,
more and more birds were adding their song to the chorus of forest noises.
But none of this mattered to Gretel. There was only one thing that mattered
to her now.
She hurried east along the riverbank, heading away from the village,
focusing on her journey, on moving her feet forward and looking out for the
oak. She wanted to think of nothing else, not even to consider her fears.
As she continued forward, for mile after mile, her exhausted body
dragging itself along, she couldn’t help but feel alone. The fear and the pain
only served to push her harder, to keep her feet moving, step after step.
Until eventually she could make out the familiar form of the oak tree, fresh
buds beginning to burst forth on the branches.
Gretel ran forwards, almost wanting to embrace the trunk, but she
hurried on, repeating her mantra ‘river, oak, hill, farm’, as she steadily
clambered up the steep bank to where she would have a view across the
valley.
She ran the last few feet to the top, eagerly looking out across the
forest for the familiar wooden boundary of the fort.
But it was a wreck.
There was nothing left, just the burnt-out carcass of what had been
Maeve’s home.
Gretel rushed toward it. Still disbelieving, still refusing to consider
what had happened, what had become of the place. Hoping she was wrong,
hoping somehow the landmarks had led her somewhere else.
She walked amongst the debris. Numb.
“Maeve?” she called. “MAEVE!” The cry was wrenched from her, as
part of her soul burnt. Simmered and burnt as it was torn from her.
“Gretel?”
She turned.
Unbelievably, unfathomably, Maeve was there. She stood, wrapped in
her furs, standing proudly just as she had been that first time they’d met.
“You came back?” she asked.
“Maeve!” Gretel didn’t think, didn’t question how. She just ran to
Maeve, thanking whatever luck, whatever fortune had taken care of Maeve
and brought her back. Gretel embraced her, kissed her, held her, and
checked that she was real and solid and alive.
“How?” she asked. “How did you survive this?”
Maeve looked at her and laughed, she stroked Gretel’s cheek and
pulled her forward again to hold her, to have her back, to complete her
world and never be alone again.
“It takes more than a little fire to kill a witch,” she whispered.
THE END
Did you love Gretel? Then you should read Dragon Essence by Niamh
Murphy!
DRAGON ESSENCE
A LOVER LOST IN BATTLE. AN OFFER SHE CAN'T REFUSE. A
PRICE SHE MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO PAY.
When Andra, a Captain in the formidable Dragon Guard, sees her lover
killed in a vicious wizard duel, a grizzled half-mage offers a chance to bring
her back from the dead.
But the offer is not without a price.
Torn between her honour and her heart, Andra has until first light to obtain
the life essence of a dragon she has sworn to protect or lose the woman she
&n
bsp; loves forever.
This is a short prequel story to the epic fantasy trilogy, Dark Age, set in a
world of knights and magic, where dragons are worshipped as Gods. For
lovers of Game of Thrones, Skyrim, and kick-ass women-warriors who
battle dragons.
GET A FREE COPY AT WWW.AUTHORNIAMH.COM
Also by Niamh Murphy
Dragon Essence
Dragon Whisper
Escape to Pirate Island
Mask of the Highwaywoman
Get FREE & EXCLUSIVE content at www.AuthorNiamh.com.
About the Author
Niamh Murphy is a historian and novelist specialising in romantic lesbian
fiction.
In 2012, she committed herself to writing professionally and published
her debut novel ‘Mask of the Highwaywoman’, a swashbuckling historical
romance that combined her love of history and adventure. She went on to
complete an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Essex in 2016 and
is now working on putting all her fantastical stories on the page.
She is passionate about experimenting with different genres and has a
fondness for romantic action and adventure. She has written stories with
vampires, werewolves, elves, magic, knights, sorceresses, and witches as
well as contemporary and humorous stories, but always with a lesbian
protagonist and a romantic element to the tale.
Niamh spent her childhood in rural Wales where she gained a love of
the wild countryside and became fascinated with the myths and legends of
the ancient country. She developed a passion for fairy tales, myth, legend,
and fantasy early on and devoured the works of Robert Louis Stevenson,
Tolkien, Elizabeth Beresford, C.S. Lewis, and, of course, J.K. Rowling. She
wrote her first story, about a child that finds a magic broomstick, at the
tender age of six and was always coercing her friends into acting in her
plays. As a teenager, her love of writing continued, and she developed an
interest in poetry and romance. But her taste for adventure has only grown
and she continuously finds herself drawn to books with an exhilarating plot
and fascinating characters.
She currently lives in the historic town of Colchester, England, where
she can indulge her passion for archaeology and history. Her greatest
ambition is to own a medieval castle, complete with turrets, towers, a moat,
and a drawbridge.
Read more at www.AuthorNiamh.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Wolf Chase
The fortress
River, Oak, Hill, Farm
Witch
A New Beginning
The Way Back
Further Reading: Dragon Essence
Also By Niamh Murphy
About the Author
Document Outline
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Wolf Chase
The fortress
River, Oak, Hill, Farm
Witch
A New Beginning
The Way Back
Further Reading: Dragon Essence
Also By Niamh Murphy
About the Author
