The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  As yet another servant approached, Vincent shot an arrow into his leg. Then he fired another clear through the man’s arm.

  “Vincent, remember,” Orin yelled to him, “you must save the arrows for—”

  The boar. From out of nowhere it slammed into Orin’s side, sending Vincent flying. As he crashed to the earth, he fell on his sword, severely cutting his leg. The pain was horrible; he couldn’t get up.

  With a grotesque squeal, the boar rammed Orin again, slamming its tusks deep into his side. Blood spurted forth in a bold stream. Orin stood on wobbly legs, trying desperately to kick the massive beast, but he missed. He connected on the second try, but it was a feeble blow; the boar wasn’t even fazed. It just lowered its head and proceeded to crush Orin’s ribs. The bones cracked audibly.

  Orin collapsed to the hard ground. “Help me!”

  Hearing his friend’s frantic cry, Vincent gathered himself, blood gushing from his wound. He picked up his bow and grabbed an arrow from the quiver. Grimacing through the pain, he aimed for the boar. He pulled the arrow back. He steadied. He had the boar in his sights.

  As Vincent fired, a slave, a small boy, lunged for him and clawed at his arms, sending the arrow wide. It sailed just past the boar’s head.

  The slave was incredibly strong, knocking Vincent down and proceeding to scratch and snap at him like a rabid dog. The boy was hungry for him, groaning and grunting all through the vicious attack, but his eyes, deep within them, showed fear, as if he hadn’t wanted to do this, as if he’d had no control.

  Vincent reached to his side and picked up a rock. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he slammed it over the servant’s head and knocked him cold.

  On his knees, Vincent looked to his right. Orin was being pummeled. The boar was relentless in its attack. After each slam into the horse, it backed up and charged again, an amazing burst of speed and awesome display of strength.

  Vincent picked up his bow and steadied it in the animal’s direction once again. His friend, his poor friend . . . He had to end this. But as he pulled the arrow back this time, he heard a strange sound coming from behind him. The earth quaked, as if something were erupting from beneath it. He turned and saw the cottage begin to rise from the ground. Holding it aloft were four gaunt legs with claws as feet. They extended fully, dirt falling back into place. Then the hut was on the move. The witch knew the boar was threatened and that she was in danger. She was escaping, and possibly Vincent’s mother with her.

  Vincent was going to miss his chance. He had to go after her. But the boar, Orin. The poor horse was howling in pain.

  Vincent aimed again, and this time he got the shot off cleanly, a direct hit in the boar’s side. But the crazed beast didn’t even seem to notice. It just kept attacking.

  “Again!” Orin yelled. “Aim for the heart!”

  The witch was getting away. Her cottage was knocking down every tree in its path, the servants giving chase so as to not be left behind. Soon it would have enough room to run.

  Orin meanwhile was bleeding badly. There were deep gashes all across his body; blood pooled around him. Vincent had to act now or Orin wouldn’t make it. He aimed for the heart of the boar, the sound of falling trees filling his ears. He fired.

  Hit, the boar stumbled back, the arrow mere inches from its heart. It cried in pain, recklessly slamming its body into trees. The protruding arrow snapped in half.

  Grunting and snorting, the boar gazed at Vincent, its new target found. It squared with him and charged.

  Even wounded, it ran incredibly fast. Vincent couldn’t believe how big it was, as large as Orin. It was like a bear coming for him. If he missed with his next shot, the boar almost certainly wouldn’t. Vincent would be pulverized, his body crushed, his bones dust. If he hit the ground, he knew he would never get back up.

  He aimed again, its heart in his sights.

  The boar was very close now, the ground trembling beneath its feet, thick clouds of dust kicked up behind it. It lowered its head, tusks stained with blood.

  Vincent had only seconds to spare. The bow shook in his hands. His aim had to be true.

  The boar was practically on top of him.

  He cleared his head of all thoughts, all distractions. It had to be now.

  Eyes closed, he fired.

  The boar never reached him. The arrow pierced its heart, and the beast crashed to the ground, just feet away from Vincent. It was dead. The witch’s soul was now complete again. The sword could play its part.

  Vincent turned, but the hut was no longer in sight. He would have to hurry if he were to catch her.

  “The witch,” Vincent said to Orin. “Come on.”

  But the horse didn’t move.

  “Orin, I need you. I can’t make it without you.”

  “I can’t,” Orin said, spitting up blood. “The boar, it—”

  Vincent knelt beside his friend. One of Orin’s legs was broken, snapped cleanly in two. Another bone poked through his skin. The bloodied horse was breathing deeply; they were strained and garbled breaths. “Rest,” Vincent said, laying his hands on him. “I’m going to finish this. I’m going to set you free. Then we’ll get you the help you need.”

  “You’re going . . . going to do it, Vincent.” Orin said, struggling with each word. “I know . . . I know you will. Ever since I saw you in the giant’s cave . . . Go, bring peace . . . bring peace to this land.”

  “I’ll be back for you. Just hold on. I’ll be back.”

  Vincent ran for the hut, following the path of devastation. He ran with a severe limp, sword drawn. Each step was agonizing pain. He tried to fight through it, but he was losing far too much blood, far too much ground. His pace slowed to that of a fast walk. The witch had gotten away. He didn’t think he would ever catch her. He had failed. He had failed everyone.

  The crow was flying just above his head, screeching, coaxing him on. But he couldn’t go any farther. His vision blurred. He was at the point of collapse.

  The crow called out to him again, and when Vincent looked this time, he saw three more birds. Then he saw a dozen. Then, soon after, he saw hundreds, all different variations, flying together. The forest was filled with birds.

  Vincent fell to his knees and leaned against his sword. “Help me,” he said.

  In unison, the birds swooped down and grabbed hold of his weary body. Vincent watched as his feet slowly left the ground.

  They carried him through the forest at tremendous speed, dodging trees and branches with ease. The freedom of flight was incredible. He felt life rush back into him.

  Just minutes later Vincent saw the hut in the distance. It was bounding forward, kicking over whatever got in its way. But they were gaining. This time, the witch couldn’t hide.

  The birds placed him gently at the side window. They hovered silently before him for a few seconds, perhaps making sure he was well enough to continue on. Then, as he waved to them, they scattered.

  Left alone, Vincent took a deep breath. It all came down to this.

  When he was ready, he raised the window and tumbled inside, practically thrown by the wandering home. But the witch was nowhere to be seen. The room was empty, not even a servant about. As the hut rhythmically tilted back and forth in its rampage, everything was crashing down and rolling across the floor. Cabinets clattered open and closed, their contents spewing forth like vomit. Chairs slid from one wall to another. It was madness.

  Barely able to keep on his feet, Vincent began searching the home, flashbacks of when he had returned home in search of his mother. But no, not quite. There was no warmth, no love in this place. The smell was horrible, tightening Vincent’s stomach with each breath. He kicked the oven door closed.

  “Show yourself!” he yelled, sword raised. “Where are you?”

  No sign of her.

  Then, just above him, something creaked. Vincent glanced up, and there was the witch, crawling like a spider across the ceiling.

  She jumped for him, landing hard on
his back. Vincent, breath knocked clean out of him, crumbled, his nose smashing into the floorboards. The crunch was audible. The witch, mouth wide open, hideous yellow teeth snapping, lurched for his face. She bit down, dug in, and gnawed away like one of her many rats. And that was how Vincent came to bear the scar he was to carry for the rest of his life.

  He screamed and tossed her off. She flew onto the table, crushing it, but she sprang back up as if nothing had happened. She wasn’t anything like his mother had described. She was no longer old, haggard. There was youth in her, strength. She walked toward Vincent again, and as she did, the hut’s lurching movement smoothed. It was still running quickly, but it was no longer nearly as rough a ride.

  “My mother, where is she?” Vincent said, blinking away his pain, blood running down from his broken nose and into his mouth.

  “The golden boy,” she cackled. “The sad, pathetic golden boy. You want your mommy, do you? What is left of her? Then, by all means . . .” The witch snapped her fingers, and seconds later a trapdoor in the floor flew open. Two battered hands bound by chains reached out, scratching against the wood beams. The figure pulled itself up, emerging from the darkness of the subterranean, and Vincent saw the face of his mother.

  She looked as if she had aged a half century. Her hair had grayed and thinned, her face sagged, and her mouth was missing teeth. There were open sores, bruises, and deep gashes across her yellowed skin. She was dressed in tattered pieces of cloth that reeked, and there was a metal collar around her neck from which hung a long chain. But worst of all were her eyes. They had dimmed of all life.

  She was one of them now.

  Vincent glared at the witch. “You—you took her as a slave.”

  “Oh, not just any slave, boy. She is my most prized possession. She is my pet. My beautiful pet. You see, unlike the others, I didn’t steal her as a child, and so my spell isn’t quite as strong. I have to control her in other ways.” She tugged on the chain. “She’s not so obedient, this one. She’s more like a stubborn dog I have to beat to keep in line. She is a fighter, but I like that.”

  Vincent stepped closer to the woman in chains. “Mother, it’s me, Vincent. I’ve come for you. I’ve come to take you home.” He reached out his hand for hers, and his mother recoiled and hissed.

  “You have no mother, boy. You lost her the moment you ran away. This is your fault. You did this to her.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “She cries at night, my pet does. She whimpers. Sometimes, if I’m feeling generous, I will throw her a bone. I’m sure you’ve noticed I have an abundance of them around my abode. It calms her. You should see how she clutches it, how it helps her sleep.”

  “Witch, hear me now,” Vincent said, his chest rising and falling. “I have found the bow. I have found the sword. Your boar is dead, and that leaves you vulnerable. You return my mother to her rightful state this very minute, and I will see that your death is quick.”

  He raised the sword, ready to strike.

  The witch, however, just laughed at this, raising her hand. Her palm glowed blue, and suddenly the sword flew out of his hands and across the room as if pulled by a string.

  “You thought by following those rules you would finish me, did you? If someone else were to try, then yes, I would be in danger. But you see, I’ve been expecting this. I’ve seen this day long before you were even born. I saw it all, my death included. I knew it would eventually come, it had to, and I knew you would be the one to kill me. I couldn’t allow that. And so I found a loophole. I found a way to escape such a fate. This is how a witch survives—at whatever cost. Once it was to separate my soul and meld it with that of the boar, but with you, all I had to do was make sure you were cursed at birth. You are under my spell, Vincent. Thanks to your mother, you always have been. And by being under my spell you cannot kill me, not even with the sword. Fates can be changed.”

  “If that is so, then what makes you think you are safe now? Fate was changed once; it will be changed again. You are meant to die, and so you will.”

  The witch threw her arm back, and the sword hovered to her glowing blue hand. She extended the weapon to Vincent. “Here, my confident friend. Try. Just try.”

  Hesitantly Vincent took the sword from her. Feeling its weight in his hands, he pulled it back. For my mother, he thought, and with all his strength he slung the steel forward. But just as the blade was about to strike, his arms stopped dead. He found he couldn’t bring the sword any closer, as if there were a shield protecting her. He brought the weapon over his head and tried again, but to no avail. She was right. He couldn’t kill her. It was hopeless. Fear shadowed his face, and the witch guffawed at his terror.

  “I will have you for myself, Vincent, like I was always supposed to.”

  Vincent backed against the wall, nowhere to go. “I will never be your slave.”

  “Oh, I don’t want you for a slave,” she said, creeping closer. “Why would I want you for a slave when I am utterly convinced you will taste so very delicious?”

  The witch leaped for him, but he knocked her away with a solid blow from his forearm. Suddenly she was all over the house. She jumped from wall to wall, crawled across the ceiling, hissing and spitting. Vincent had no idea where she would be next. With her hand, she levitated knives that zipped just past him, digging deep into the wood behind him.

  The hut meanwhile continued its run through the forest, and it was again wild and lurching, as if picking up speed. Everything shook, more objects falling from cabinets, human bones sliding back and forth, and Vincent was tossed violently to the floor, the sword skittering far across the room. Seeing her chance, the witch jumped atop him, her hands suddenly burning red. She laid them upon his gold body. Vincent could feel his skin bubbling. The pain was excruciating.

  “Why don’t you die?” the witch howled. She strained even more, her hands glowing like the brightest of fires.

  Vincent pulled his knees back, then shot them forward, kicking her clear across the room.

  “The gold,” the witch said, rising to her feet, “it protects you from my spells. I should have known. No matter. If I can’t kill you with magic, you will die by my hands.”

  As she flew toward him, Vincent dived beneath her and lunged for the sword. He didn’t know why he grabbed it, he saw how useless it was, but he felt stronger with it in his hands.

  The witch, however, merely extended her hand once again. It glowed blue, and the blade was yanked from his grip and flew against the far wall as if magnetized. It hung there as if on display.

  The witch turned to Vincent’s mother. “Anna, my dear, my lovely pet. Finish him.”

  Vincent’s mother didn’t budge. She just stared out blankly, as if she were sleepwalking. The witch bent down and grabbed at the chain connected to her collar, yanking hard. “Kill! Kill!”

  Anna was nearly jerked to her knees. Her eyes blinked as she turned to the witch.

  “Kill the golden boy!”

  Slowly she focused on her target. Then, with a hiss, she staggered forth.

  “Mother, no!”

  Anna attacked her son, her jaws snapping, as the witch looked on, her cackle filling the room like a lunatic’s cry.

  Vincent backed away madly, hid behind tables, shoved chairs in her direction, but she kept coming. “Mother, please. It’s me.”

  But there was no reaching her, no stopping her. Hurdling like a beast, she jumped on the table and then soared through the air at her son. The two clashed in the center of the room. Vincent found his mother to be far stronger than she appeared. She had the strength of at least three men. She gripped his arms, digging her nails in, and tossed him four feet backward.

  “I see you in there. I know you’re still fighting. The witch isn’t in control of you, Mother. You fight her. You fight!”

  Anna screamed and charged. She struck her son in the chest with her shoulder, cracking a rib and pinning him against the wall. Vincent saw the sword dangling just beside his he
ad. He could almost grab it, but to do what? He couldn’t strike his mother.

  “Yes! Yes! Now hold him,” the witch said, gliding closer. “The golden boy is going to burn. I want him in my oven.”

  The witch was binding his hands with magic. He could see nothing when he looked at them, but somehow, they couldn’t move.

  “I’m hungry, boy. Time to eat.” And she pulled him off the wall and shoved him closer to the oven. He tried to resist, but she overmatched him at every step. He was being pushed closer and closer to the flames, closer and closer to a fiery death.

  Her fingers writhed for his eyes, to gouge them. Vincent pulled his head back. His world was upside down. He saw his mother leaning against the wall behind him.

  “Mother,” he called out. “Please! Help me!”

  But with his attention diverted, the witch kicked him in the stomach, and he doubled over. Then she quickly dug her sharp nails deep into the gash in his leg. Vincent crumbled.

  Laughing, the witch grabbed his head and began to shove it closer to the oven. The heat burned his face. As if assisting its master, the hut tipped him closer to the flames and slammed his body against the warm iron. A human bone, a femur, came tumbling out, falling at his feet.

  Vincent couldn’t fight anymore. She was too much. He had to do something.

  With the last of his strength, writhing in her grip, Vincent reached for the bone. Fingers extended as far as they could go, he was just inches short.

  His face neared the threshold of the oven. Soon she would throw his entire body in.

  “I’m going to eat you up, Vincent! Every bit of you!”

  The hut rocked yet again, and the bone nearly rolled toward him. Come on, come on. With both bound hands, he stretched as far as possible, but it still wasn’t enough.

  “Don’t worry,” the witch shrieked, “I won’t cook you long. I like my meat rare.”

  The heat from the oven was unbearable. His body sizzled; his hair was singed.

  “Perhaps your mother too would like a taste. Maybe the heart!”

  The hut rocked again, knocking over a tree. But this time it did so in Vincent’s favor. The bone rolled to his outstretched hands. Grabbing it tightly, he amassed whatever strength he had left. With two hands he swung the bone at the witch, striking her right across the face, shattering her teeth.