by Colt, K. J.
I followed the fight with my eyes, waiting for my shot. I had no desire to sink an arrow into Drake, as annoying as the human was on occasion. I focused on the witch’s swirling robes, recalling Edan’s stained robe and Hewgrim’s bleak, hollow gaze. This swamp bitch deserved to die.
Reaching back for an arrow sent another twinge of pain up my arm and into my neck but I shoved it aside. I strode forward; my entire focus on the witch’s dancing body. A bolt of crackling magical energy seared past my shoulder, barely missing my ear. The witch ducked away. She started to chant in a sinister, grating language as she struck out at Drake with her daggers.
My brain sifted through the words and their meaning came to me. She was calling on another swarm; I caught the words for poison and serpent from her rising cry. Interrupt her! Drake! But there was no way to warn my companions.
I drew my bow in midleap, springing into the air as high as my tired muscles would take me, clearing a shot for myself. This one had to count. This arrow was for everyone who had died in the broken town behind us. For Hewgrim and his strangling despair. The feathers brushed my lips and I opened my fingers.
My arrow punctured the witch’s throat, hitting her hard enough that her hood was flung back. I caught a glimpse of her surprisingly young face as she crumpled to the ground. My feet hit the mud and the landing jarred me all the way to my back teeth. I slid another arrow free of the quiver, but the witch did not rise. Her body convulsed once, twice, then she lay still and slowly her blood marbled the churned duckweed and stinking mud beneath her.
Azyrin’s own chant died. He sheathed his falchion and squelched to Makha’s side, digging a potion out of the embroidered bag tied to his belt. He broke the strap on her helmet, yanking the heavy metal contraption off her head as he tilted her chin up and dumped shimmering liquid into her sand-caked mouth.
My right shoulder felt as though a tree had slammed into it and I wanted to collapse but we had only killed one witch. There should have been a second witch and she could still be lurking in the swamp, just out of vision. Rahiel seemed to have the same thought I had. She and the unicorn flitted away, circling the clearing, her pale green skirts and wings blending so well with the foliage that her purple hair and Bill’s rose-colored fur made them appear like an exotic flower.
The return of birdsong and the clacking buzz of cicadas reassured me more than Rahiel’s thumbs up as she came back into the clearing. Perhaps Hewgrim had been wrong about the number of witches, or perhaps one had choked on her own evil. I could dream.
Drake had knelt with his kukri in his off-hand and was hacking the head off the witch. Her mouth was open in hideous rictus, her teeth filed to points and her brown eyes already clouded. She looked human enough and satisfyingly deceased.
“Can’t ever be too sure with magic users,” he said as I came over. He handed me my arrow.
I inspected the tip and found it sound, if filthy. Not that any part of me was clean anymore. Mud, sweat, and algae streaked my fine elven armor. Crud even clotted the dragon’s tooth amulet around my neck. I drew my dagger and went to the nearest owlboar. It had crushed one of my arrows, but the other looked whole enough. I cut the broadhead out and smoothed the fletching. Wet arrows would still fly well enough, especially given the short distances I’d likely be shooting in this tangled mess of a place.
The hot copper smell of fresh blood mingled with the swamp’s natural fumes and caused my stomach to rebel. I tucked away my arrows and double-checked that Thorn had survived its impromptu use as a pole. My bow was far sturdier than anything this world could craft, sung into being by my own voice from the heartwood of a blood yew. Its long limbs were deep crimson with thick spines curving out from around the grip, sturdy enough to protect my hands when used as a quarterstaff to block a sword, and there was very little in this world that could scratch or mar the wood.
“How is Makha?” Drake asked Azyrin.
I leaned on my bow and uncorked my waterskin, rinsing the last of the sludge from my mouth with its tepid contents. The ache in my shoulder was down to a dull throb. Bruised then, not seriously injured.
“She will live. We can not go on today. Must rest.” Azyrin helped Makha to her feet. She was still breathing heavily but color had returned to her face and she managed to sheath her sword without assistance.
“There was that spreading oak back not too long a way,” Rahiel suggested.
Azyrin nodded and then looked over at me. “Killer? Are you hurt?”
I answered him by striding forward, heading toward the tree Rahiel had mentioned. My shoulder would be little more than an annoyance. It was not worth wasting a spell or a potion, not with Drake bleeding through his makeshift bandage and Makha still gasping like a winded horse.
“Oi! My sword arm? Where’s the concern for me?” Drake pointed at his wound.
“You will not bleed out in the next candlemark, though you might catch some hideous infection from this fetid mud,” Rahiel said, flying past him as she followed me.
“Only in your dreams, shortcake,” Drake muttered.
We set up a grim, makeshift camp. There wasn’t a dry spot to be found, even for Fade, who reappeared and leapt onto one of the wide oak branches. He looked to have survived his chase with the wasp swarm and I doubted he would want me to fuss over him.
“Killer.” Makha caught my arm as I moved past her in my vain search for dry-ish spot to rest. “Thank you.”
Her rough words and the grave respect in her eyes touched me. I put my hand over hers and met her gaze with a smile. My head started to ache but for once I didn’t care. We are companions, I wished I could tell her; this is what we do for each other.
And I realized as I thought this that it was true. This ragged band was working itself into a heart I had thought shattered and incapable of real caring. Friends, I tried to tell her with my smile, with my eyes. She squeezed my arm and nodded. I chose to believe she truly did understand.
The sunlight faded into deep gloom as Makha and Drake, his arm bound with a clean cloth Azyrin had pulled from his bag of tricks, both slept off the effects of the healing potions. I, too, tried to doze. I would take the night watch, since I needed very little sleep and my eyes, pupils shaped much like Fade’s, had no trouble picking out movement and danger in the dark.
No one talked much. We had been in worse situations, but everyone looked exhausted and worried. As the summer moon rose, Rahiel quietly asked the question that disturbed my fitful dozing.
“Where is the second witch? Do you think they could have been wrong? Are we done?”
“No, I still sense much wrong in this place,” Azyrin murmured, his hand gently stroking Makha’s damp red hair as she lay with her head pillowed on his lap. She’d refused to remove her armor, so she looked like a steel kitten curled against the half-orc, snoring lightly.
“Almost makes me wish for bloody undead,” Drake muttered.
Night isn’t over yet. Resigned to not getting any further rest, I checked my bowstring. It was still waxed and relatively dry. My arrows were protected by a spell on my quiver which Rahiel renewed every ten-day for me. Even the ones that had been covered in crud earlier were clean now, their fletching dry. I stretched my sore legs out in front of me, laid Thorn in my lap, and waited for the next attack to come.
When false dawn hit and mist blanketed the oak tree, cloaking the surrounding swamp in a shifting silvery cloud, I stood up and shifted from foot to foot, stretching my cold muscles. The mist might hide the swamp, but it did nothing for the smell and only added to the damp. The night had stayed nearly as hot as the day and I felt like a blister, sticky, warm, and ready to burst.
My ears twitched as my keen hearing picked up the faint sound of language. The sound was so faint that for a moment I thought I had imagined it. Then something splashed in the not quite distance. Somewhere among the branches above me, Fade hissed.
I had an arrow in my hand instantly. With one soggy boot I nudged Drake. His eyes snapped open and wo
rdlessly he rose, his rapier sliding from its sheath. He continued the chain of nudges, bumping Bill where the unicorn had curled up against a root. In the corner of my eye I saw the flicker of Rahiel’s wings as she took to the air, her tiny fists rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Makha’s armor clanged as she shifted. I heard a grunt, likely from Azyrin helping his wife to rise.
Movement in the mist. Red eyes glinted for a moment and I loosed my arrow without a thought. A scaled body writhed and splashed as the arrow found its mark.
“Ack. Twitballs. I hate snakes,” Makha swore behind me.
“Maybe it was the only one?” Drake whispered even though there was little point in trying for stealth now.
I readied another arrow in response to that stupid remark, remembering the spell the witch had tried to cast before I killed her. Something about vomiting serpents.
“If this is random encounter,” Azyrin said, “then I will feed my hat to Bill.”
The unicorn snorted and I could almost feel Rahiel’s glare burning away some of the mist around the half-orc.
Then Azyrin screamed. I whipped around as he threw a thick snake from himself, blood droplets flicking like dark tears from his bitten hand. Makha’s sword took its head off.
Fade dropped from the oak, another twisting serpent struggling in his jaws. Thick venom flowed from the snake’s huge fangs and it flared its hood, trying to find an angle to strike the thick-furred cat. Maiden-fang cobra. Their poison was plentiful and melted skin like acid, killing within minutes without magic to stop it.
“Killer! Behind you!” Drake yelled.
Fearing there would be no time to turn and shoot; I sprang forward and whipped my bow around. The lower limb thwacked into the striking cobra and sent it sliding through the muck. I followed its path with an arrow.
Two more sets of red eyes shimmered in the fog, but the cobras were learning caution and none came in close. I took aim but the eyes winked out. We closed ranks as Azyrin dropped to his knees, his hand already swelling and his normally pale blue flesh turning deep red around the bite. The skin sizzled as the venom burned into his hand.
“Bag,” Azyrin said through clenched teeth.
“Tell me what you need. Don’t you die on me you icelump.” Makha’s voice still sounded like her throat was growing its own beard on the inside.
Red eyes flashed again, closer. Rahiel tossed a handful of dried white petals onto the ground in front of us. A sudden wind flared up in a half-moon wall, pressing outward and clearing the mist away. The cobras were caught in the open, my arrows and a bolt of blue energy from Rahiel’s wand took the remaining snakes down.
“Drink it,” Makha said. “Swallow.”
She had Azyrin cradled in her steel-clad arms, a tiny vial of silver liquid in one hand. The shaman shook and convulsed, the red stain of poison streaking up his arm. When it got to his heart, he would die. His jaw was locked shut and the first drops of precious anti-poison draught spilled and ran off his lips.
I threw down Thorn and grabbed onto Azyrin’s legs, trying to hold him still. Taking my cue, Drake joined me, pinning the shaman’s arms. Makha ignored Azyrin’s sharp tusks as she pried his jaw open and then dumped the remaining liquid in. His jaw snapped back shut, a tusk catching one of Makha’s gauntlets and tearing through a leather strap.
For a few moments we all held still, everyone focused on Azyrin’s arm, watching for the spread of the ruby-colored poison. The scent of burned hair and rotting fruit filled my nose and made my eyes water, but I dared not look away. My heartbeat seemed as loud as our harsh breathing in the silent pre-dawn swamp and a thick lump choked my throat.
“Saar don’t let him go don’t let him Saar I beg you,” came Makha’s harsh whispered prayer to the orcish god of storms that she and Azyrin had sworn to follow.
The sizzling of the acid poison stopped, his skin no longer blistering and melting away around what was now a hideous gaping wound. I sucked in a deep breath as the red streaks retreated down Azyrin’s arm and he stopped convulsing, his muscles going slack beneath my hands.
His eyes opened, rolled for a moment, then fixed on Makha’s relieved and tear-streaked face. “I would crawl through a thousand winters to stay by your side, storm of my heart,” he murmured in Orcish. “No mere serpent’s bite will part us.”
“He’s talking, that’s good right?” Drake moved back, giving them room as Makha bent and pressed her forehead to Azyrin’s, squeezing her eyes shut in relief.
“I think so. I do not speak gruntish,” Rahiel said.
I retrieved Thorn from where I had dropped the bow, my face growing hot. It felt like eavesdropping on a very private moment, but I couldn’t help that no language could hide its secret from me for long. Knowledge is the gift of my kind, language in all its forms our ultimate power. Though my tongue could not speak, my mind still remembered.
The cobra which Makha had dispatched started to glow with greenish light that coalesced into a ball. It floated very slowly toward the north, joined by other bobbing lights as the dead snakes disappeared.
Fade dashed after the balls, pausing to turn and yowl at us.
“Summoned creatures. Fascinating. Not the way I would have done the spell, but it conserves a lot of power to pull the essences back like this.” Rahiel cast a quick spell of her own, her eyes staring into the odd middle distance only mages seem to know.
“Translation for tall people?” Drake asked.
Rahiel batted her wings in annoyance as she dropped onto Bill’s back. “The witch made snakes go bitey bitey. Snakes dead now. Magic that made them appear go floaty back to witch. Got that? Or should I draw you some pictures?”
“Nah. With your preferred color palette, I’d probably go blind.”
“Those green lights lead back to witch?” Azyrin’s voice was weak, but it was a relief to hear his carefully articulated accent.
“No, love,” Makha said, cutting off Rahiel before the pixie-goblin could reply. “I know what you’re thinking. No doltkicking way. We are in no shape to fight another witch.”
I rolled my shoulders. I was still a little stiff, but otherwise I felt as good as I would given the heat, the wet, and the crawling stench. I was willing to fight again and those green balls of magic would lead us straight back to their caster.
“I made promise to dead woman. Must kill all witches. Killer knows.” Azyrin’s sunken eyes found mine.
I lifted my bow in salute, wincing as a warning throb of pain lanced up my neck. This time that gesture came too close to communicating for the curse, but I didn’t care. I would go after the witch myself if I had to, though Fade seemed eager. The two of us might make better pace through the swamp without my companions anyway and we were no strangers to hunting on our own. It had been just us for years before I’d found my companions and started this less lonely era of my exile.
“I’ll go with Killer,” Drake said, surprising me. “Makha can get you back to town.”
“We are splitting the group? But, we do not split the group. It is one of our rules.” Rahiel’s wings beat their own tiny hurricane of distress as she looked up at us.
“You comin’ with us or going with the lovebirds?” Drake’s lighthearted tone was a grand attempt.
“Oh burst you all. I will go with Killer. You cannot go against a magic user without your own caster. She will have you boiled and baked into a man-child and elf pie without my help.”
“Go,” Azyrin said.
“But we’ll be here,” Makha added. “Not goin’ back to town with tails between our legs. We’ll stay and recover and be closer if you need us.”
Azyrin reached into his embroidered bag and took out a tiny silver bell. He handed it to Rahiel. “Ring if trouble. I know. We come. I will rest, pray to Saar. Get stronger.”
Fade yowled again and I turned, seeing that the lights had floated out of sight. I started after the mist-lynx, jogging through the mud to catch up. No point in saying a long goodbye. Trying would only g
ive me stomach cramps and a splitting headache.
Rahiel, riding Bill through the air as though it were an invisible, solid road and Drake caught up to me. We moved with very little noise now, free of Makha’s armor. I found myself missing the reassuring clanging of knowing I had a large, deadly woman guarding my back.
But Azyrin was right. We had made a vow to Hiljen, mine silent but no less binding. Kill the witches. One down. One left.
We caught up to the balls of light and fanned out, staying back far enough that they were just barely in view. It might be a trap, I wanted to point out. I wished I could ask Rahiel if the witch would have felt her summoned creatures’ deaths.
The swamp changed again, the water flowing freely now between thin strips of semisolid ground. As the sun rose, the mists burned away. The trees grew further apart, revealing patches of bright blue sky. The dank stench of the swamp lessened, replaced by a light fruity scent that grew stronger as we went. Blue frogs slipped off the banks as we moved past them, sliding almost silently into the myriad of branching streams around us.
The bog cypress and black willows gave way to more spreading oaks and wild apple, which turned out to be the source of the scent as hard green fruits ripened on overladen branches. My stomach clenched, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the morning before. I ignored it, intent on studying the landscape and wary of another attack. Up ahead was another clearing, this one a large, somewhat elevated hill. What I had taken from a distance to be a clot of vines around an apple tree revealed itself as a cottage woven from living plants and rough-hewn stone.
The balls of light shimmered and suddenly disappeared. Before Drake could form the words asking Rahiel what had happened, a gentle feminine voice hailed us. A young woman stepped out of the cottage. She wore a rose-colored gown and had soft golden hair that crowded her heart-shaped face in bouncing ringlets and her smile echoed the bright summer sunshine.
