Shadow Witch: Horror of the Dark Forest

by J. Thorn

  Another inn, most likely.

  He thought of Rowan and suppressed a hitch in his chest.

  What if after several days of dangerous travel, we reach Mylan only to find the kingdom in wreckage, the parapets crumbled to the earth, smoke rising off the devastated buildings?

  That was impossible, or at least he wanted to believe it was.

  A thousand Droman Meadows could fit inside the vast expanse of Mylan, with room to spare. Two white walls over a hundred paces tall surrounded the city, the guards garrisoned in barracks between the walls as a first line of defense from enemy attack. The lower angle of the northern sun reflected off of the twin white walls, causing a blinding effect on any army bold enough to attack the kingdom by day.

  Every fifty paces, towers rose above the outer wall like fists punching at the sky. They housed the lethal archers and longbows of the Mylan Guard. Enemies attempting to scale the outer wall met a barrage of arrows as buckets of steaming oil rained down from above. And even if an enemy managed to penetrate the outer wall, they would be challenged by the finest swordsmen in the world—the Mylan Guard.

  The king built the castle on a steep hill in the city center and behind another wall protected by the Guard. In the history of Mylan, the castle had not once been violated by an enemy attack.

  No, Thom thought, even a throng of dread wolves would be cut down along the outer wall before a successful breach could be made.

  His brow furrowed and lines creased Thom’s face as he looked upon the destruction of Arameth, so similar to that of Droman Meadows.

  Kira struggled to keep up with her husband. As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw her loosening the black shawl draped over her shoulders. He was so focused on the tragedy at Arameth, he hadn’t recognized the sweat forming on his brow. They walked directly in the sun’s rays now, and although the day grew late, he felt the temperature rise between Drake’s Pass and Arameth.

  Even the girls wore pink on their cheeks—not the pink of winter’s grip but the color of exertion and warmth.

  “It grows warmer,” Thom said.

  “And yet it does so as we move northward,” Kira said. “How can that be? Has spring finally arrived?”

  As Thom studied the muddy landscape, he noticed shoots of green, switch grasses and weeds poking their heads out of the terrain like worms emerging after a summer rain. Although the first signs of spring’s coming surrounded him and the season raced to make up for lost time, the warmth didn’t feel right. It felt dirty, as though the air traveled over festering mire and held the stench captive.

  “When can we stop for the night?”

  Thom turned his head toward Sarra. Her legs appeared to have turned to rubber as she stumbled through the soil.

  “Soon,” he said. “I promise.”

  Krea scoffed. “The princess is tired,” she said to Jasmine under her breath. “She always gets her way.”

  Jasmine strode past Sarra until she walked alongside Thom.

  “I’m not tired,” Jasmine said. “I don’t think any of us—except for Sarra—are tired. Maybe she spends too much of her time at night thinking about Bran Allador when she should be sleeping.”

  Kira sighed, not finding the energy to break up another fight. But she slowed her gait to allow her oldest daughter to keep up with her. Delia walked alongside Kira and Sarra, watching the twins.

  Their shadows stretched like black ink toward the barren trees that fronted Arameth. The western sky burned in variegated reds which reflected off the underside of the cloud canopy overhead. On a normal day, it would have been a delightful scene. But as the sun sank toward the distant flats of brown fields, it appeared as though the gates of hell opened and invited them inside.

  Chapter 15

  An hour past Arameth, the sky cleared and the color shifted to ocean blue, the hue preceding true darkness. Thom brought his family to a stop amid a ring of oaks and conifers one hundred paces east of the road. They could still smell the residual burning of the village downwind of Arameth. Although the scent conjured haunting images of the tragedy, Thom recognized with some amount of guilt that the smell of smoke on the wind would mask their own fire.

  The building warmth they noticed before sunset seemed to dissipate into the earth at dusk like steady rain on drought-stricken fields. As the fire snapped, the heat radiated outward in waves, Thom thought again of quiet evenings with Rowan at the inn.

  Kira fell asleep as soon as her head hit the soft needles covering the forest floor. The daughters tossed and turned for a bit before succumbing to exhaustion.

  Sarra fought sleep and before she drifted off, Thom saw fear in her eyes, the chill fright of a child whose closet door creaked open at midnight. She clutched the crown of flowers from Bran. Thom’s heart wrenched at the sight. How could he tell her the beasts slaughtered the man she adored while he could do nothing about it?

  He reasoned there would never be cause to tell her, as it seemed unlikely they would ever see their homeland again. Better she never know.

  Thom’s exhaustion drained into aching bones and turned muscle to rubber. If a dread wolf came crashing through the trees now, he didn’t think he could hold his sword steady, let alone defend his family.

  He slept no more than a half hour during the last day and his family caught only a few hours. Before he finished thinking of his need for rest, he fell asleep to the sharp scent of pine needles and the fecund, thawing earth.

  Jasmine was already deep in the sleep cycle. She dreamt of the village dance from the spring prior when the villagers adorned Droman Meadows in a carnival atmosphere of jugglers, minstrels and artisans.

  The sweet smell of roasted pig intermingled with the sour scent of flowing wine. The sky turned a magical blue as twilight teetered on the edge of nightfall.

  She watched the dancers in front of the Fair Haven Inn. They swayed and leaped as a circle of onlookers clapped in time with the music. The dancers wore bright and happy faces, inviting her into the circle. But she stood back, unsure of herself and not wanting to look like a fool because she never really talked or danced with boys.

  As she watched the men spin the women and the women laugh and clap, her eyes fixated on one man in particular—Bran Allador. Moving with a grace that bellied his stocky build, he played through the circle, dancing with one girl and then another. She always thought Bran handsome, but seeing him so carefree and happy made him look like a prince in pauper’s clothing. Her stomach fluttered.

  She inched forward to the front of the circle, clapping with the smiling villagers. A new song started—one with a fast tempo whose note changes evoked feelings of new romance and springtime. As she watched, Bran pulled a fair-haired girl across from Jasmine into the circle, and after the girl curtsied, he spun her, held her by the hips and raised her high into the air like a carnival balloon.

  The tempo built faster still and Jasmine’s heartbeat accelerated as Bran circled past again. This time, he took the hand of a dark-haired girl named Jenna Lobeth and welcomed her into the dance. He came so close to Jasmine she could have touched his hair or grabbed him by his shirt. She edged forward again, clapping and laughing, hoping Bran would choose her next.

  And then what?

  She worried again of making a fool of herself, tripping over her feet.

  Will he reject me if I stumble?

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She wanted nothing more than to dance with Bran Allador, to be lifted into the air like a bird in flight and to feel his strong body pressed against hers. A pretty blonde girl finished dancing with Bran and now he came toward her. The music filled her ears. Her heart pounded with the tempo.

  Their eyes met and he was smiling at her. She reached her hand out to him, ready to be pulled into the dance, joined with him, and—

  His hand grasped the girl who stood next to her—Sarra. Bran had captivated Jasmine. She hadn't see her sister join her at the front of the circle.

  Jasmine already stepped forward into
the circle as Bran took Sarra into his arms, spinning her and tossing Sarra into the air. Jasmine felt alone, as if all eyes watched her, wondering why she stood without a partner amid the other dancers. She stepped back from the dance, turned and pushed her way through the joyous throng. Through her tears, the crowd appeared as if seen through the blur of a window on a rainy day.

  Cursing, she ran from the crowd, the sound of the lute and drums dull and fading behind her. She thought she heard someone calling after her, asking if she was okay. But all she wanted to do was to escape from the festival so no one would see her make an even bigger fool of herself.

  She weaved through the other villagers, their faces surprised to see the young girl rushing at them. She tripped and fumbled over her skirts, banging off jubilant villagers as she regained her balance. She ran faster, her face burning like the heat from spicy, red peppers. She passed a scruffy-faced merchant who waved a handful of necklaces in her face and a burly man who shouted he had the finest scimitars in all of Mylan.

  An old woman stumbled into the main road before Jasmine. She wore a black, hooded cloak concealing most of her features, but Jasmine could see the woman’s eyes shining within the gloom like twin candles. The evening breeze caught the woman’s cloak, billowing out and making the old woman appear as a monstrous crow. Jasmine caught her breath.

  “Where are you running to, my child?” The scratch of the woman’s voice conjured images of fingers clawing at the inside of a casket. She crouched over, her eyes even with Jasmine’s.

  Jasmine stopped running. As she tried to circle around the strange woman, the cloaked figure shuffled with her, intent on not letting her pass.

  “You have been crying. Why would a pretty thing such as yourself be crying on a festive night like this?”

  Jasmine saw her eyes again, which appeared to flicker like red flames. She felt her mouth go dry, her tongue swelling until she didn’t think she could talk even if she wanted to. Seeing the old woman’s face hidden within the hood, and her eyes—my God, those eyes—glaring back at her like funeral pyres, made Jasmine want to turn and run back to the dancers, no longer concerned with her humiliation.

  “I’m…fine…I just need to…need to find my father.”

  “A great man indeed is your father, I’m sure. For how could he not be with a daughter so precious? I would like to one day meet him.”

  The old woman straightened, appearing to grow before Jasmine. The cloak billowed again, caught in a sudden gust pulling dust into the air and eliciting surprised yells from the festival participants.

  “I must be going. If you would be so kind—”

  “There are many ways into a young man’s heart. Many ways which I would be happy to teach you.”

  Jasmine looked around. The villagers disappeared, no longer congregating at the village center with the music and dancing. Jasmine stood alone in the road with the woman, who now straightened further and towered over Jasmine by three heads. Jasmine could not shake the feeling that soon the woman would be taller than the Fair Haven Inn, and she would reach down with a gnarled hand to squeeze the life out of her.

  “Many ways.”

  Jasmine circled left and sought a clear path down the main road toward the safety of her home, but the woman glided in front of her as though walking on air.

  “Please. I must be going. It grows late and—”

  “But I only mean to help you, my child. If you take my hand, there will be nothing for you to fear, ever again. Won’t you take my hand?”

  The black cloak protruded as the woman’s arm rose toward her. Jasmine turned her head away, imagining the woman’s hand would be skeletal and dripping with rotted flesh. Jasmine darted backward toward the festival and the woman strode forward, her figure a crow-black silhouette in the flickering torchlight.

  “At least tell me your name. Won’t you do that for a dear, old woman?”

  The woman’s voice took on a deeper resonance, like the rumbling earth during a thunderstorm. Long and black, the woman’s shadow passed over her and Jasmine shivered as she felt the temperature plummet.

  “My name?” Jasmine asked, backing away faster. If she could make it back to the festival before the woman—

  “Just your name, my child, and I will bother you no more. There is great power in a name. Names define who we are and how the world looks at us. They influence. Now that is real magic. Think what you could do with all of the names of the people in your life, and of the people you wish to have in your life.”

  “I don’t think I should—”

  “Why? What harm would there be in a poor, old woman knowing your name?”

  A cheer swelled behind Jasmine as the music switched again to a moderate tempo. She recognized the song as Fox in the Hen House. Jasmine quickened her pace backward, feet stumbling over the imperfections of the earthen road, her eyes never leaving the dark presence looming over her. The woman grew larger. She was certain of it. At any moment, the woman would swoop down upon her and Jasmine would be lost in the nightmarish world within that black cloak.

  The woman’s voice crackled with the heat and anger of a brush fire.

  “Tell me your name. If you wish to live through this night.”

  “Jasmine.”

  Hearing her father’s voice, Jasmine turned and ran toward the village center. The dancers twirled in the distance and she shivered from the woman’s breath on the back of her neck. Torchlight whipped past in fiery blurs. Somewhere ahead, the crowd cheered again and a new song filled the night air. The woman was still right behind her. Jasmine could feel her reaching out.

  Thom stepped from the shadows with his cloak pulled about him. With tears streaming down her face, Jasmine flung herself into her father’s arms.

  “What is wrong, Jasmine? Why aren’t you with the dancers?” Thom raised his head over his daughter’s shoulder, feeling a cold breeze drifting down the main road as though the wind crossed the snow-capped peaks of the Wyvern Mountains.

  “We have to go,” Jasmine said, grabbing Thom by the arm and pulling her father back toward the town center. “We have to go before she—”

  As she turned her head back to the west, she saw nothing but empty road and a faint swirl of dust kicked up by the wind.

  “Before who? Did someone hurt you, Jasmine?”

  The wind groaned through the eaves of the building along the side of the road, whistled over the blacksmith’s forge and rode along the roof to the Fair Haven Inn. A cold pool drifted over her skin and then dissipated into the warm, spring night. Jasmine buried her head into Thom’s shoulder and cried in her dream.

  As she squirmed outside the fire’s perimeter north of Arameth, fresh tears streamed down her cheeks.

  The twitter of birds and gray of the eastern sky announced the coming of dawn. Thom bolted upright and surveyed the surrounding forest. A quick head count confirmed his wife and four daughters were still there. They huddled about each other like newborn puppies, arms wrapped around shoulders to hold in their body heat. The fire, once blazing and almost uncomfortably warm, was now black cinder. Thin tendrils of smoke arose from a handful of glowing coals.

  As he gathered twigs for kindling to reignite the flame, he was overcome by the feeling he was being watched. The tight copse of trees in which they hid was silent, save for the flutter of birds flying among the tall branches of pines. The murky gray of predawn crept through the trees, beginning to paint the flora with greater clarity. Distant trees appeared in the growing light like gaunt sentries arising to observe them.

  Thom scanned the forest again and pulled back the kindling from the coals. Creeping onto all fours, he crawled toward the border of needled trees shielding them from the road. He chose this site so they would be hidden from travelers along the Mylan Road. As he carefully parted the lower branches of the spruce, he saw the path to the capital wind away in the distance like an umber serpent.

  His instinct told him something changed despite the emptiness of the Mylan Road. Squi
nting harder, he saw nothing unusual about the road or the thawing field that preceded it. He glanced back at Kira and the girls. They slept, their chests rising and falling with each breath as they curled up next to each other.

  A branch snapped.

  Thom’s eyes pierced the diminishing gloom and looked northward. The sound of a breaking branch could have been caused by most anything—a limb falling to the forest floor, a branch snapping under the weight of a large grackle, a rabbit or deer bounding through the undergrowth.

  Or a dread wolf.

  His mouth went dry. He froze in place, like a hen sensing the weasel after the farmer forgot to close the pen door. For a long time, he sat and listened. Nothing. No twitter of morning birds, no wind through the tree limbs. The light grew stronger now, the contours of the copse becoming sharper. As he studied the terrain, the barren trees appeared ominous in the gray like ghouls rising out of a graveyard.

  Something warm touched the back of his neck and he turned with one hand on the sword hilt. He exhaled in relief, feeling the first warm rays of dawn shooting out of the faraway hills. With nary a cloud in the sky, the fields would soon be awash in the cardinal swatches of sunrise and his ability to move with stealth would be hampered.

  Looking one last time toward his sleeping family, he broke through the two spruce trees that fronted the copse and slipped into the clearing to investigate the noise. An expanse of low hillocks with whispers of new growth protruding out of thin crevices dotted the field, along with young stands of tree growth. He rushed from one tree to the next, stopping for a moment with his back pressed against the bark as he scanned the horizon for movement. Thom raced to the next tree, zigzagging until he was within thirty paces of the Mylan Road. He looked back and forth and his heart hammered inside of his chest. The two stout maples could not hide a man of his size from an observant traveler.