Curse of the Night Witch

by Alex Aster

  Melda sighed heavily. “Yes, please do rid us of our only source of light. And by us I mean the two people who don’t have the ability to see in the dark.” She grabbed the orb from his hand. “You don’t even need this.”

  “Hey!” Engle said. “I like holding it.”

  Tor wondered if he should get the calming green crystal out again…for more than a few reasons. A small spark of panic had lit in his stomach, and he worried it might burst into a fire of anxiety. What would they do if the pelilargas came out of hiding? Throwing a ball of light surely wouldn’t stop one of those creatures, let alone dozens.

  “We run,” he said simply. “We don’t look them in the eyes, just like the story says, and we run.”

  They started up a hill covered in soft dirt, one that, according to the map, led to the main passage through the mountains. The Scalawag Range covered several miles of land in all directions and was only passable on a single trail that stretched across its very top—one that was famously narrow and ran up and down in rough, jagged swells resembling stormy ocean waves. Its narrow path often led to travelers falling hundreds of feet off its sides.

  As bad as that sounded, however, taking any other way was worse. Engle often spoke of the terrible, carnivorous animals that called the base of the mountain home, waiting like hungry sharks to tear up whatever fell from its peak.

  No, going across the mountain range’s summit was the only way.

  Melda stopped so suddenly, Tor almost ran right into her back.

  In front of them stood a door, rooted into the ground like a tree.

  “What’s a door doing here?” Engle asked, scratching his head. “Do you think it’s been enchanted by a telecorp to take us directly to the other side of the mountain range?”

  Melda glared at him. “If we were that lucky, then we wouldn’t have this curse in the first place.” She reached out and yanked open the odd door.

  She had one leg in the air, about to take a step through the opening, when she stopped. Just beyond the threshold, the passageway narrowed to three feet wide. A path like a tightrope. One step in either direction and she would have surely tumbled right off the cliff.

  For miles and miles, there was just the slender, snake-like road, with deathly drops on either side. “I suppose this is the entrance,” she said quietly.

  “Looks like it,” Tor replied, before following her through the door.

  * * *

  Tor kept his eyes on his feet. Though there was just enough room for him to walk normally, he chose to place one foot directly in front of the other. One wrong step could send him plummeting. The higher they climbed, the stronger the wind became, roaring in Tor’s ears, whipping at his cheeks. He steadied himself against it, hoping the current wouldn’t tip him to one side.

  Melda was in front, slowing the line down, but for once Tor was grateful for her slug-like pace.

  “Gets a bit thicker farther down,” Engle said from somewhere behind him, referring to the path. “There are a few ledges up ahead, too.” Tor realized Engle should probably be leading the way, given his emblem. But it was too late to switch the order now.

  The light bulb’s illumination reached just far enough for Tor to be able to see where he was going. His stomach dropped as he imagined for about the tenth time what would happen if his balance failed him—this time, in particular, he pictured being cut to ribbons by the slope’s rocky exterior, before landing in the center of a pack of wolves.

  A shiver slithered down his spine.

  Stop it. He tried to think of something a little more positive.

  At least the pelilargas had yet to make an appearance. That was a plus. Maybe they weren’t nocturnal, like he figured, and were fast asleep. Maybe Tor, Engle, and Melda wouldn’t see them at all, would just make their way across the mountain range without any trouble…

  He sighed. Melda was right. They didn’t have that sort of luck.

  “Should we start thinking about our next stop?” she said from up ahead.

  “All right.” It seemed like at least a small distraction from the silence that had blanketed their path, interrupted only by the wind, the same type of quiet he might have expected from sailing in the middle of the ocean—nothing else for miles.

  Or, at least, nothing else yet.

  He didn’t need to get the book from his backpack to know which tale came next. “This next one is the easiest. We’re clearly going to Frostflake,” Tor said, referencing the town in “The Snowbeast.” “Wherever that is. How about the one after that?”

  “That’s the one with the giant, right?” Engle said.

  “Not just a giant, a giantess, too. It’s called ‘The Giantess Nar.’ This one’s my favorite. I know where to go!” Melda yelled enthusiastically, her voice echoing through the night.

  Before she could say another word, the ground began to shake.

  Tor lost his footing, tumbled to the side—and would have fallen hundreds of feet if it wasn’t for Engle’s fast reflexes. Melda was on her hands and knees, gripping the rock tightly. She looked over her shoulder, fear twisting her face. “They’re here,” she said.

  Tor looked over the edge and gulped.

  Women wrapped in dark hair crawled out of caves dug into the mountain’s slope. With long, curved nails, they climbed the side like manic animals, emitting high-pitched screams on their way.

  “Run!” Engle yelled. But that was easier said than done. The ground still shook, crumbling the edges of the path, making their trail smaller and smaller.

  They ran as fast as they could, arms out to their sides like walking on string, swaying with every step. Tor’s ankles twisted painfully as the mountain moved beneath him like a wild beast, and his stomach lurched every few feet, but he kept his eyes on a clearing a few yards ahead, where the narrow path widened. There, at least the ground wasn’t ready to give way.

  All he had to do was get a little farther…

  Melda screamed as she tripped over a large rock, landing right on her stomach. Tor skidded to a halt, arms pinwheeling, and inched toward her carefully, holding out a hand to help her up.

  She took it—

  But when she pressed her other palm against the ground it fell away completely, taking her down with it.

  “No!” Engle yelled.

  But Melda wasn’t gone yet. Tor hadn’t let go of his grip, but the real reason she was still alive was because she had landed on one of the pelilargas’ heads, the creature’s nails clawed deep into the rock.

  Engle lunged to help Tor pull Melda back, and she screamed as the pelilarga reached up and clawed her ankle, leaving five long, bloody scratches.

  “We have you, don’t worry,” Tor told her, before Melda jerked back. The pelilarga had latched on to her shoe and was tugging her down toward the abyss.

  “I’m already gone, go,” Melda said, teeth gritted. The pelilarga hissed, and Melda winced, like it had scratched her again. “Take the drop of color, please. And tell my brothers—”

  Before she could finish, Engle grunted, pulling with all of his might, and Melda flopped back onto the path. The pelilarga lost its grip and plummeted down into the darkness with a final shriek.

  Melda stared at Engle, wide-eyed. Surprised.

  “Let’s go!” Tor yelled. Other pelilargas had made it onto the passageway. And they were right behind them.

  They ran, Melda limping slightly, toward the clearing. But the creatures were there, too, waiting.

  They were surrounded.

  Black hair like wisps of smoke wrapped around their bodies, the ends curling and uncurling, alive. One of the pelilargas stepped forward. Her face was covered, but her locks had started to part, revealing just the tip of a rotting nose…

  “Don’t look at her eyes!” Engle yelled. Tor brought his gaze to the woman’s feet, which he watched walk closer and closer, until t
hey were almost directly in front of him.

  If he did nothing, they would surely die. The pelilarga would rip them open like candy wrappers then steal their souls. Tor knew that. So he did something risky, absurd—foolish.

  He reached into the backpack, grabbed the sack of crystals, and hurled them all to the ground.

  The moment the crystals landed, they popped like firecrackers.

  One set off an inferno ten feet tall, a wall of flames that grew and expanded faster than water spilling out of a broken vase. It swamped the pelilargas, silencing their hissing screams.

  Another crystal turned into a small tornado that toppled off the side of the cliff. A second later, the twister shot up to the sky, suddenly taller than the mountain range.

  Tor felt himself starting to lift off the ground, the tornado’s winds like a hand sucking him into the stars. Perhaps they wouldn’t die at the pelilargas’ claws, but being ripped to shreds in a twister didn’t seem like a better option at all.

  The third crystal trembled on the ground manically, then burst with the suddenness of a kernel of corn popping, turning into what looked like a small ball of cotton. Once it grew, it took the shape of a cloud. Water shot out of it in a wide stream, then hardened into sheets of ice that kept growing and growing, longer and longer still, until its frozen wake dripped down the mountainside in a sweeping arch to the ground.

  Engle, who was gripping a boulder for dear life, reached a hand to Melda, who grabbed Tor before he could be carried away. And gravity yanked him free from the tornado’s winds as he plunged down the slide.

  The Snowbeast

  Once upon a summer day, a child prayed to the moon for snow. The next morning, she awoke with a ball of ice in her hands and a voice in her ear. Bury it beneath the largest tree in the town square, it said.

  She did. And the moment the ice found the earth, the tree changed from green to white—feathers replacing its leaves. The clouds above turned silver and released sheets of snowflakes. Villagers gathered outside, faces to the sky, catching the frost on their noses and in their palms.

  But this was no ordinary snow. The girl who had wished for the change in weather had a maker’s emblem—and she had unknowingly enchanted the ball of ice. Anything created from the snow came to life. Snowmen walked among the villagers. Children rode around on ice horses. Soon, word spread about the strange town of Frostflake.

  It was not long before darkness came to claim this magic, for happiness and malice always seem to coexist.

  The Night Witch visited this village and stole almost all of its magical snow, from which she spun a dreadful creature. It climbed toward Frostflake, its shadow longer than the town itself.

  Screaming in horror as the beast drew closer, villagers fled into their homes. The child stayed outside and had a thought for how to help. With her friends, she lit dozens of torches, then dug them into the ground surrounding the town. And when the snowbeast arrived, it did not pass, afraid of even the smallest flame. Without a way in, the creature turned around and retreated back into the forest.

  There it sits, awaiting the day the torches blow out.

  12

  The Village of Frostflake

  The slide ended ten feet above the ground, and they landed in a pile of half-melted snow—all that was left of the cloud. Tor flinched as he watched a large bolt of lightning zigzag across the sky, no doubt formed by one of the other crystals.

  The curador had been right about several things, one of them being that the use of crystals had made them very tired. Still wet from the snow, they walked until they were dry and reached a small clearing filled with stones large enough to use as beds. After examining their many scratches and sore muscles, they fell asleep, storms still circling the Scalawag Range.

  Melda had the map in front of her when Tor woke up.

  “We saved a lot of time,” she said. “That slide dropped us off close. Really close.” She had her finger pressed against the tiny word Frostflake. “Lucky we don’t have to go through that stupid place,” she said, motioning toward the Plains, which was the exact opposite of stupid, a city home to the best libraries and scholars on the island. It was known for having a highly competitive school, one that only accepted the best student from each emblem. Melda sounded bitter.

  Tor woke Engle, and barely an hour passed before they came upon a ring of torches.

  He stopped. Beyond the fiery gates was a village white as bone, carved completely from ice. A single silver-tipped cloud hung above it, raining down snow in delicate sweeps. It looked like someone had cut a piece of another universe and placed it there, in the middle of nowhere—a snow globe without its glass.

  Melda shivered. “I’m already freezing, best not linger.”

  They walked between the torches and into the village square. The people of Frostflake wore thick white coats and pants, trimmed in light blue, lined in fleece. And though Tor, Melda, and Engle stuck out in their colored wardrobe, the villagers nodded cheerfully as they passed.

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” Engle said, pointing toward the ice statues lining the main street. A princess in a sweeping dress. A reindeer. An old man kneeling over a cauldron. “I heard they come to life each night. There’re loads of animals you can’t find anywhere else here, since the townspeople create them from snow.” Engle looked like he wanted to make one of his own—something that could join them on their journey.

  Or perhaps something he could eat.

  They passed stores that looked like houses selling sugar-coated pastries, gingerbread, and diamond-dusted cider. A woman holding a silver tray of mugs sang a song Tor had never heard before. Something about an enchanted pine branch. She stopped when she spotted Melda, map opened in front of her reddening nose like a newspaper. “Here, have some, you look like you’ll soon join the statues!” she said, handing Melda a mug of something emitting a swirl of steam.

  Engle looked at the woman expectantly and she handed him, then Tor, a drink as well.

  He took a sip, and the liquid was thick as honey, sweet as sapphire; it warmed his throat and settled down into the center of his chest.

  “This is lightning!” Engle said, his drink already gone. His eyes went wide when the woman offered him another mug.

  “I’m going into the bookshop,” Melda said. “We’re closer to the Shadows now. They might have something useful.”

  Tor doubted a cheerful village like this one kept books about death and Night Witches in stock. Still, he nodded. “We’ll wait at the gates.”

  Before he could reach them, a little girl stepped in his path. Blond braids came out of a hat that looked like an upside-down teacup. “You look cold,” she said, mittens coming together. She was about Rosa’s age, Tor realized with a pang of sadness.

  “We are,” Engle said from behind him, his freckles especially visible against his now-pink cheeks.

  She crouched down and began smoothing the snow with one of her mittens like painting a canvas, until she had a large rectangle. Then, with a flick of her wrists, she peeled what looked like a sheet of ice from the ground. She shook it the way Tor’s mother had taught him to open his sheets, and the frost softened into a blanket. It was made of thick fabric with blue edges.

  “Here you go,” she said, leaving them with the blanket of snow, then skipping away.

  Engle tossed the blanket at Tor, who quickly wrapped it around his shoulders. “I wonder how many things I can make before Melda gets back,” he said excitedly, jogging away.

  Tor followed him to the edge of town, where the most snow sat, piled in small hills. Maybe they had time to make a few more weapons from the enchanted snow, Tor thought, though he had no idea how long it would take for his creations to harden into something real. The little girl was an expert and likely had an emblem that made creating easier. He sat on the ground and began crafting his best take on a sword.

  He quickly reco
gnized the skill that had gone into making his blanket. The snow was lifeless in his hands, falling apart like crumbled pastries. A few failed attempts later, he realized he had to compact the frost in the middle of his palm to make it stick together, which quickly froze his fingers. Still, he kept working. When he was done, the hilt looked a bit lopsided, and the blade might have been too stubby, but it would do. He shrugged, leaving the snow to transform, and tried his hand at a shield.

  “Ow.” The force of a snowball against his cheek sent him a few inches back. He looked up to see Engle standing there, grinning.

  Tor didn’t waste a moment before making his own snowball and sending it toward Engle as hard as he could. His friend dodged it at the last moment, then bent down to make another, then another. Engle then combined the two, forming one massive chunk of snow. Tor started to run, laughing, zigzagging. When Engle finally sent it flying, he ducked, and the giant snowball flew right over his head.

  Hitting one of the torches instead.

  It fell over onto another. And that one also fell, knocking over its neighbor. Tor and Engle watched in silence as the torches tumbled, one by one like dominoes, until the very last light burned out in a hiss against the snow.

  There was just a second before the first scream.

  A handful of trees trembled slightly, their leaves shaking almost gently. Then a few more—less gently this time. Finally, the entire forest shook.

  “Fire! Make a fire!”

  “Gather wood!”

  “Quickly!”

  Tor and Engle rushed back into the village, where chaos had transformed cheerful Frostflake into madness. A man was bent over a pile of branches, desperately rubbing two black stones together. He moved with urgency, but the falling snow made building a fire difficult. After a minute, he produced only a single spark.

  “Does anyone have an elemental emblem?” Tor yelled. No one replied. He looked around for the little girl. Could she somehow make flames from the snow?

  Melda came rushing out of one of the shops. She locked eyes with Tor. “What on Emblem did you do?”