The Witch of Glenaster

by Jonathan Mills

  The Witch of Glenaster

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  THE WITCH OF GLENASTER

  BY JONATHAN MILLS

  Copyright © 2013 by Jonathan Mills

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was five when I first heard of the Witch of Glenaster, though no one dared mention her name.

  My mother was tracing circles on my belly and my younger brother was chuckling stupidly to himself, and the air in the house was still, and the fire was very warm.

  It had been raining most of the day, and my mother’s hands smelled of wet grass and cool stone. As she sang to us in the twilight, I pulled gently at her fingers, smooth and nimble from years of spinning unwashed wool, and she smiled back at me, and laughed:

  “Little briar-rose…”

  My father was half-asleep in his chair, a small mug of ale on the kitchen table before him, and his pipe lying empty beside it. All was quiet outside, though I knew the watchman would be keeping his station up the hill, pacing the cabin of the lookout post till his relief came.

  The night was undressing the day, and the last of the sun stealing beneath the earth, when there came a knock, soft but insistent, on our front door.

  My father stirred, blinked, and rose all at once from his chair, his big eyes weary and bagged, and his arms swinging by his side. He stuffed his pipe into his pocket, and opened the door.

  On the other side of it, and half-hidden in the darkness, was a young man, wet, bedraggled, and hungry of face, his eyes flashing in the light from the fire, and something long and thin in his hand. He wore the uniform of a guardsman, though before that day I had seen such things only in books, and he did not seem to know where he was.

  “What is it, brother?” asked my father, and his tone was wary, but not unkind. The young man had to think for a moment before replying.

  “Brother. Thank heavens. I’ve seen them – at Fair Leat – not two days ago. They had her mark. I had to kill one of them. I have run all this way. I ask only a little food, and shelter. Just for a while. My people are from the Low Country, many miles from here. Please can I come in? I’m sorry to disturb you like this, at such an hour…”

  My father didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring instead at the thing the man carried in his hand. It was clear now, even in the fading light, that it was a sword - drawn as if freshly used, and stained, my father told me many years later, with what looked like blood: only a kind of blood, dark and vile-seeming, he had never seen before.

  “You cannot bring a weapon such as this into my house, sir. I have children here. You must go to the Head Man’s house, down the hill. I will accompany you.”

  “Please!” And now the young man sounded desperate. “You can have my sword. I know that you are good people here. I only ask for shelter. Not even food. Just shelter. I cannot go further before dawn. I think I am half-mad with fear already. Take my sword. You can keep it parked at my throat all night if you wish. I only ask to come in…”

  My father did not hurry in his reply. He rubbed at his chin, gazing out at the rain, and the cool night. I felt the breeze on my face. My mother had stopped singing. After a while, he spoke.

  “You can leave your sword out here, in the yard. You can dry out by the fire. My wife and children will soon be going to bed. I will sit up with you. But you must be gone by the morning, do you understand? I don’t know how you got past Daniel, the watchman. His eyes must be failing him. But you seem sincere to me.”

  The young man nodded, resting his sword against the side of the house. As he was about to step inside, my father put a hand against his chest.

  “If I am wrong,” he said, in a low voice, “I will kill you myself.”

  The young man nodded again, and entered the house.

  My brother and I stared at him, and he forced a smile in return, bowing a little to my mother, before sitting on the small chair my father provided for him, nearest the fire. He seemed to relax once inside, removing his greatcoat, which he hung over the back of the settle. My mother brought him some ale, and a little bread, and we watched him eat and drink, which he did messily and gratefully. My father offered him a pipe, and he smoked quietly for a while. Then he told us of the Witch.

  “I was part of a company assigned to guard the passes which run south of the Anvil. There has been talk of banditry in those parts, and some of the trade caravans that set out from Oriel and Hammock City have not returned. Our duty was sometimes hard, but never really dangerous, until…” He swallowed. “There was a storm, on the White Mountain, less than a week ago...”

  “We saw it from here,” said my father. “Lit the sky right up.”

  The guardsman nodded.

  “Some of the horses were spooked, and bolted. Half our provisions were washed away. The company was divided in the confusion, and those I found myself with resolved to return north, for fresh orders and supplies.”

  He tugged at his glass, and the shadows seemed to caress his face.

 
“We were getting close to Fair Leat – it was barely midday – when the sky began to darken. The wind got up, and the leaves were swept from the trees as if it were autumn - and this only May. What happened then I can barely bring myself to say… I was pushed to the ground, as if by an unseen hand, and was knocked clean out. How long for, I could not rightly tell, but when I awoke my companions were all gone, and I could hear only distant screams on the wind…”

  He paused once more, and clutched hard at the table in front of him.

  “And then from out of the woods, I saw them…”

  And here his face grew pale, and he stared ahead as if reliving his vision.

  “There were three of them. They walked like men, and looked like them, but I knew they were not.”

  My father was leaning forward in his chair, listening hard.

  “They walked towards me, and they seemed to speak; but it was no tongue I recognized, and their words sounded evil to my ears. They were dressed in cloaks of grey, and on their foreheads they had each an eye painted…”

  My mother gave a slight start, and held us close. My father bit his lip. I had never before seen him look so grave, or full of worry.

  “The Third Eye…” he said.

  The younger man nodded.

  “I had heard of it. But never did I think to see such a thing, not in this life…!” My father put a hand gently on his arm. “I drew my sword, and that seemed to startle them a little, for they backed away, and seemed almost frightened. But those who walk the earth as men and yet do not live among them are not so startled for long. One of them reached towards me. He seemed – he seemed almost to be singing…”

  There were tears in the guardsman’s eyes now, and he looked at my father as if entreating his protection.

  “I cut his throat. And the blood, it seemed to run and run, and when it met the ground it gave a kind of hiss, as a man gives at his last breath. His companions rushed to his aid, and I ran, down the hill, I ran so hard I thought my heart would burst, I ran and I did not stop running until I reached this place. Oh, my brother…” And he grasped my father’s hand. “I fear I have done a great offence to her… They say she is not slow to avenge those she marks as her own. You are good people, and I will not stay here long. I must depart in the morning. It is likely I will be dead long before I reach my own people.” And his head sank into his chest, and he began to weep; and for a while there was only the sound of his tears, and the rain outside.

  That was the last I saw of him. Our mother took us off to bed, and when I looked back the young man had not raised his head. I heard some time later from my father that he had died shortly thereafter, some days’ journey north of our village. His death was sad, though unremarkable - many travellers succumbed to sickness on the roads in those days - except in this one regard: the woman who had found him said both his eyes were gouged out, and that on his forehead was a third, crudely painted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My father was sick for a while after that, and, though he recovered, I think he was never quite the same again. My mother would lock the door earlier in the evenings, and if we were late home from playing on the hillside she would rush us indoors with short words. Folk in the village seemed to grow more wary, and when strangers came along the road would turn them away, and make the sign to ward off evil. My father and the other men would often gather at the Head Man’s house, or at the lookout post, and talk of things children like us were not meant to understand. And all the time a shadow was spreading over the valley, and birds ceased to sing and laughter was heard only rarely, and then with a bitter ring.

  About a year after the guardsman died, the livestock started to disappear. Only a few at first, but soon more and more, until some gave up their farms altogether and headed for the town, or went mad up on the hills. Some claimed it was the work of beasts and birds of prey, and men had nothing to fear from such creatures; many others said there was a curse on the village, and we should turn from our wickedness and embrace the holy things. And the watch was kept by day and by night up at the lookout post, and there were more guards on the roads with each passing season.

  The happy place I had known became stiff with fear, and I resented it. The sunny days seemed to grow fewer, and the cloudy ones greater, and the paths we ran along became too stony, and the woods we played in too dark. The winters were the worst, when the nights grew so long the day hardly appeared at all; and then the great River Anvil, that washed through the valley, would swell to a torrent, and flood the villages farther downstream. But in the summer it would wither to a crawl, and become hardly more than a brook, even if the sun had not shone for days.

  And so my brother and I grew older, and hardier, as is the way with our folk, for our lives have never been easy; and I felt my limbs become stronger, and less soft; and my skin was roughened by the wind and the rain, and my hair was wild. And the boys in the village called me “the little fox” – but my mother still called me Esther.

  I was approaching my tenth birthday when I learned more of the Witch.

  Though others in the village had mentioned her often enough for me to be familiar with her name, and know it to be a bad one, they never said more while I was in earshot, and no word had ever been breathed of her in our house. Then, one evening, I found myself alone with my father, my mother and brother having gone to bed, when Robert Parsons, one of the men from the village, came to visit. He was old - though no one was quite sure how old – and his hair was as fine and white as snow, often sticking up at strange angles from his head; and when he smiled he showed a mouth almost entirely free of teeth. But my father had great regard for him, and ushered him into the kitchen with warm words. He tipped his hat to me as he entered, and settled himself into a chair by the window.

  “It’s a brisk night, Joseph; I just thought I’d look in on you on my back from Pepper’s. There’s a storm coming up the hill.”

  “I heard it,” said my father, putting the kettle on to boil. “It’s cold for the time of year.”

  Robert nodded, and narrowed his eyes a little.

  “Too cold, I’d say.” He stretched out his long legs, and yawned slightly. “You’ll forgive me. Been a long day.”

  My father laughed; and as he brewed up some coffee, and hummed quietly to himself by the stove, Robert started to doze in his chair; and I felt my own eyelids grow heavy, and was about to drop off to sleep myself. Then, as my father brought the old man his coffee, he said suddenly, without opening his eyes:

  “Jack Webber’s boy was in town Wednesday morning. Saw him on my way up the hill. He says all the talk there is of the Witch of Glenaster.”

  My father stopped dead, and cast a worried glance at me, though my eyes were already half-closed, and it must have looked in the darkness of the parlour as if I was asleep.

  “Never mind the girl, Joseph,” said Robert, taking the coffee. “She’s old enough to hear these things; and she’ll need to learn them soon enough, anyway.”

  My father retreated to his chair by the kitchen table, and sat in silence. Robert looked around at me, then continued:

  “Word is all the land is in fear of the Witch now, from the Broad Shore down to Sophia. Drew Peters has doubled the strength of the militia in Hale, and even in Beauchamp Sam Woolrich has ordered the watchtower be rebuilt. There’s little word from the emperor, except for what comes through Lord Fyra, and some say he’s powerful enough already.” He kicked a stone loose from his shoe, and the scrape sounded harshly in the quiet of the room. “God knows, Joseph, I’m not a man to scare easily; but I’ve found myself afraid sometimes, these past months, when I think of what may be coming…”

  Thunder rumbled away in the distance, and I shivered slightly. My father smiled at me, reassuring. I smiled back. But I could not help noticing that his knuckles, as he clutched his mug of coffee, were white as bone.

  Robert looked at him, and then at me, and then stared for a while at the fire, and was silent. But when my brother cried out in his s
leep, and my father went to look in on him, I asked the old man about the Witch.

  “So your parents haven’t told you?” he said, then sighed. “Oh well, I suppose I’m old enough now to be forgiven if my talk scares you at all.” And he looked me full in the eye. “She is drooj - a magus of the ancient world. No one has seen her - no living man anyhow - and it is said that she cannot leave her home, which is far away to the north, beyond even the Lessening Lands. But she has many agents throughout the world - birds and beasts and men without souls - who walk abroad and are her spies. She never ages, they say, yet she is over a thousand years old; and many have died trying to destroy her. Long ago, when she first appeared, she wrought havoc across the land, and darkness covered the earth; men lived in fear, and children were sacrificed to her, and Ironford and Tengates and other great cities of the empire were razed to the ground, so that people thought that the end had come, and many killed themselves in their despair. But then, one day, she just disappeared – like that! - and everyone assumed she was dead, or had been claimed by her own. That was many centuries ago. But now, with all the sorrow that has come upon us, they fear she is awake once more, and set on finishing what she began.”

  Again he fell silent, and the firelight barely illumined his face; his eyes were like hollow pits, full of shadow.

  “But if all this is true, why doesn’t the emperor stop her…?” I asked, indignant; and he gave a start, as if woken from a dream, and said quietly:

  “Perhaps he cannot. And perhaps he will not… There are many powerful people at court, and not all of them love the emperor as they should. And so few venture to the far north these days, and those that do never return…” He looked up for a moment at the ceiling, as the storm growled away down the hill. “Once, long ago, there were great heroes in this land – men who would not shrink from death; great warriors who fought with the warlocks of the Dying Sea, and wrestled the fire-drakes of the Broken Islands. And there were wise magi, who could conjure the winds and make the sun do their bidding. Such men would have been capable of defeating even a creature as powerful as the Witch of Glenaster. But they are long gone, and their spells are all but forgotten; now no one dares stand against the Witch, and those who dwell with her, in the dark. I fear she will not stop until she has forced the emperor to kneel and worship her, and all the known world to live beneath her shadow; I fear this land will never have peace until she is slain, or death take her. And I would gladly kill her myself, were I not grown old already, and weary with my life…”