by Adam Bennett
“Thank you, old friend,” Dimas said, bowing his head for a moment and then, without another word, turned and left. The walk back to his cottage was quick and uneventful. He packed a change of clothes and some food, grabbed his dagger and walking stick, then walked out his door, perhaps for the last time.
At first, he didn’t know which way to go. He could go directly to the wizards, hell, he could see their towers reaching toward the heavens in the distance. Then again, to reach them, he’d have to go through the Deep Woods, which, would probably land him right in the middle of where the witches lived. Wasn’t much of a choice. He would head toward the wizards and stop by the witches along the way.
As he walked, at first leaving the village then passing the few cottages on the outskirts, he practiced the few combat spells he knew. When he was younger, some of the others taught him how to use the blight to bend reality, whether it was to shoot balls of flames from his fingertips or pull mountains of dirt up from the earth. There was a lot more to it than that, they explained. He would be able to bend all aspects of reality, by feeling what he wanted to do and applying the blight to it.
Over the years, he had mainly used the blight to help the community, making sure the crops always grew and provided more than enough food, or blessing every person with perfect health and long life. It was rare when he’d use his blight for defence or combat. Even with the reaping every year, he’d used it more to hide the other blightborn, instead of fighting off the reapers.
He followed an ancient trail that had been cut into the surrounding forest. Woodsmen maintained it, allowing for trading caravans and travellers an easy path to the village. Beyond the wood lay rolling plains of grass where herds of wild cows and horses roamed free. The Deep Woods started at the far west end of the plains.
Three days until the Reaping, he thought. No time to waste, he would have to hurry. Kneeling, he touched his feet, closed his eyes and concentrated on an image of the plains. The familiar feel of goosebumps spreading across his skin chased away the reality around him and in an instant, he blinked out of existence, only to reappear again in the middle of the western grassy plains.
When he opened his eyes, the world was spinning. He sat back and laid down in the grass, letting it tower over his vision. If anyone else was around, they wouldn’t be able to see him, as the seemingly endless sea of grass swallowed him whole.
Dimas focused on his breathing. He’d never teleported himself so far before. Sweat soaked into his skin as he stared up into the blue sky. A light breeze swept over the plains, rustling the grass and cooling him down.
“It’s over here somewhere,” a voice cried, not more than forty or fifty yards away. Dimas froze stiff. Someone had seen him. Someone close by.
“Find it, maybe it’s worth something,” another voice said. Both were deep and gruff. They could be simple traders or caravaners, or much worse. Highwaymen, maybe? Wayward soldiers? Wizards?
Dimas held his breath as he heard the approaching footsteps, they were coming right for him. He imagined the earth beneath him as a living creature, with reaching hands. The footsteps were so close they were about to be upon him.
“You there, where’d you come from?” one of the voices said, his deep voice booming. A scarred and stubbled face with a dented steel helm looked down at him. Rough hands grabbed his ankles and pulled, dragging him a few feet.
Dimas smiled. Fists of earth erupted up through the grass, smashing hard into both men and sending them flying back. He scrambled to his feet and found two men in rusted armour lying face down. His spell worked.
One of the men groaned and pushed himself up on his knees. Looking over his shoulder, he found Dimas. Like a striking snake, his hand moved and a dagger shot out from under his metal bracer, flying right for Dimas.
Diving to the side, he landed on his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Hands grabbed his shirt, pulling him up and tossing him to the side. He missed his feet and landed on his back. Gasping for breath, he tried to focus his mind, think of something to do. Rushing feet stomped through the grass. He closed his eyes and imagined the grass as snakes.
The men were almost on him. Another second or two and they would have him. Of course, they’d kill him, and his mission would fail. The Reaping would still happen, much as it always did. He couldn’t let that happen.
An army of snakes slithered up out of the grass, wrapping themselves around the men. Dimas heard their hisses and strikes bouncing off the metal armour. The men’s cries told him that some found their marks.
Pushing himself up, he couldn’t help but laugh. Both men stood, flailing their limbs and screaming, while the grass itself had stretched up and wrapped around them. No snakes, just grass.
“Why did you attack me?” he asked, planting his hands on his hips and trying to muster up the sternest face he could. He looked around for a second, almost dropped his hands but it was too late. He probably looked foolish, but it didn’t matter.
After some initial struggling, the men stopped and looked at Dimas. “Are you a wizard?” one of the men asked.
Dimas just shook his head, “No.”
“Then what are you? How do you control the earth and grass?”
He walked up to the men, slow and careful, keeping just far enough back in case one tried to attack. “Why did you attack me?”
The men looked at each other. “You surprised us. No one is ever out here on the plains. For all we know, you could’ve been a wizard, a witch’s spy or a legionnaire scout, and we’re not going back.” The man who spoke had a black bushy beard, rusted and dented armour, and a shiny steel helm that obviously was not his.
“So, you’re deserters then.” His words appeared to sting both men, as they looked down for a moment. The other man, also in rusty armour with long dreadlocks hanging down his back and an equally long goatee hanging down his chest, looked at Dimas and a grim smile spread across his dark face. “We refused to kill innocent people. Soldiers, sure, but not innocent villagers.”
Dimas studied the pair, then waved his hand dismissively. The slithering grass released its grip and shrunk back down to normal. “I am no wizard or witch’s spy. I am Dimas, a blightborn, on a mission to save those of my village from the reapers.”
The men’s eyes went wide, and they stared as if Dimas was some sort of mythical creature come to life. “I guess that explains the magic then,” one of the men said. “Thank you for not killing us.”
Dimas nodded, and smiled.
“I am Isoba, of the Dafari village. I was taken as a child and sold to the Legion. This is my friend, Paden. He is from the north and suffered a similar fate as mine. And now, we are here.”
Dimas bowed slightly, keeping his eyes on the two deserters. “It is a pleasure to meet you both. What is it that you are doing now that you have left the legion?”
The two friends looked at each other and shrugged. “We had planned to be sell-swords, once we had made our way to a big enough town.”
“I could use some help. I need to steal some blight stones, so I can fight off the reapers. If you come with me, you can keep any treasure we find,” Dimas said as he put his hands on his hips again and flashed a broad smile. He let his blight seep into his words, the air smelling of a summer thunderstorm.
The two deserters looked at each other and shrugged. “Yeah, why not?” Isoba said. The pair gathered their weapons, checked their armour and gear then fell in next to Dimas. “So, where are these blight stones and what must we do to obtain them?”
Dimas laughed, an awkward smile on his face as he wrung his hands. “I don’t know exactly. I mean, I do, but I don’t. The witches of the Deep Wood have some, while the wizards that reside in those towers have some as well.” Dimas pointed to the west, where a row of towering spires scraped the sky in the far distance.
The deserters looked at each other and laughed. “Piece of cake, wizards and witches aren’t much of anything for us,” Isoba said, pulling his sword and thrusting it into
the air. Dimas laughed at the gesture and nodded toward the Deep Wood looming in the distance like an encroaching black fog.
The three set out toward the woods as Dimas focused on his blight. He would need to gather quite a bit to make the next jump to the middle of the woods, especially with taking his two new companions with him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, but such a spell was quite draining and would leave him on the ground and out of strength for a few minutes. It would be best to walk to the woods.
They travelled in silence for the first few hours, making decent time and covering the majority of the distance to the wood. Every so often, Dimas would hear the pair whispering to each other, and he would use his blight to enhance his hearing, making it easier to eavesdrop. It was clear to him, after listening to their conversation, that both were eager for a good fight and to kill wizards. The witches were what worried them.
Night overtook the day, fighting back the light as stars blinked into existence in the sky. They found themselves on the edge of the Deep Wood, feet tired and belly’s rumbling. They made camp, built a small fire and ate until sleep overtook them. None of the three had dreams.
The next day, just as the sun was charging over the horizon, Dimas woke to find the pair up and making breakfast. They were smiling, like kids the night before a holiday.
“Finally awake! I thought you wanted to get yourself some blight stones?” Isoba said, slapping Paden on the shoulder as he tore into a piece of wild boar.
Climbing to his feet, Dimas dusted himself off, gathered up his gear and sat down to eat. “Thanks for not leaving me, guys. I really appreciate it. Today, we will be stealing from witches. Be careful, who knows what kind of traps or spells they have ready for people like us.”
“There are no people like us, Dimas,” Isoba said, his generous laughter echoing across the open plain but dying on the edge of the woods.
After breakfast, they cleaned up camp and marched into the Deep Wood. The air felt thick and Dimas found himself practically gasping for air, unable to acclimate to the change in pressure. The trees groaned and cracked as they walked, and he could’ve sworn they were moving, closing in over the thin trail they followed, hiding it.
The further in they ventured, the darker it grew, until Isoba and Paden were forced to light torches while Dimas used his blight to illuminate his hands in a bright glow. A low mist gathered around their feet as if in response to the foreign light, obscuring the path. They heard a high pitched cackle echo through the trees from somewhere far off in the distance.
The three men looked at each other and Dimas motioned to them, first pointing at his eyes, and then to the surrounding forest. The other two nodded. Isoba pulled his sword from its scabbard and switched the torch to his left hand. Bending his knees, he focused his centre of gravity just above his hips and moved with intentional, long strides.
Paden clicked a button on each of his gauntlets, and spikes appeared from the knuckles. A grin spread across his face as he looked at the spikes, probably remembering some past brawl where he drove them into someone’s skull. He marched on, neither slowing down or dropping into any sort of fighting stance. Dimas simply breathed, watched and listened to the surrounding forest, soaking in as much blight as he could. The air was electric around him.
What little light that poked through the forest canopy faded as a gloom as dark as death washed through the trees and brush. The only light was that which they brought. The three stopped, heads swishing back and forth as a pair of cackles broke through the trees, resounding off the bark and leaves, coming from all directions.
“What the hell,” Isoba said under his breath, sword in a forward position while he moved the torch back and forth. Paden spun and backed into Isoba so their backs were together, his fists up and ready, spikes gleaming in the torchlight.
Dimas whispered a few words under his breath and raised his hands. A bright radiance burst from every leaf, blade of grass, and green foliage, illuminating the forest around them. The cackles grew louder as their surroundings came into view. A coven of witches surrounded them.
Unintelligible words bounced between the women, growing in volume and vibrating, shaking and rumbling the very earth. “Hold your ground men, and be ready,” Dimas shouted over the noise.
Paden, fists raised in front of him, laughed. “Is this all you have? Pathetic.”
The two warriors pushed off from each other, charging the circle of women. The witches raised their arms, started swaying back and forth, chanting louder. Before the warriors could reach them, the trees reached out with their massive branches, swatted at the men, batting them off their feet.
Dimas pushed his hands out and a force of rocks and stones shot up from the dirt, flying at and smashing into a few of the witches. Their spell faltered and the trees resumed their original, stationary positions. The two warriors jumped to their feet and continued their charge.
As Isoba dove into three of the women, swinging his sword and torch, Paden plowed through one, knocking her to the ground and stomping on her face with his plated boots. A branch picked him up and tossed him into Isoba as he ran his blade through the throat of a gnarled and pocked witch.
Dimas raised his hands to the sky, calling for lightning, but before he could bring it down, a rolling mound of earth toppled him over, opened and began to swallow him, feet first, like a hungry python. The witches began chanting in unison once again, their voices filling the forest.
“Help!” Dimas yelled, his voice cracking.
Paden pushed himself to his feet and pulled his friend up. Isoba shouted, pointing in the direction of Dimas. He was clawing at the ground as a massive earthen mouth sucked him into its gaping maw. Isoba jumped back and swung his sword, cleaving a witch’s head clean from her neck. Her body fell to the ground like a sack of grain.
The earthen mouth stopped for a moment, just long enough for Dimas to drag himself out, thrust his hands into the earth and shout a spell. Pure blight shot from his hands, as dark and cold as the grave. The witch’s spell broke, the earthen mouth fell lifeless. The raw blight jumped out of the ground and moved like grasping hands of shadow, reaching for the witches, who continued their attack. A tree swung its branch, knocking Isoba to the side. Paden took three solid steps, cocked back his spiked gauntlet and swung, catching a witch by the cheek and ripping her jaw off. Part of it hung from his spikes.
The shadow hands reached the remaining witches simultaneously, clawing up their robes and dresses, wrenching their mouths open and climbing inside. The chanting stopped completely as the forest grew silent; the only sounds were the witches choking on the blight that filled their throats. A moment later, the dark gloom that had suffocated the forest lifted as the bodies of the witches fell lifeless to the ground.
Dimas was on his back, chest heaving, sweat dripping from every inch of him, his eyes closed. The two warriors sat down and fell back, following suit. A deep rumble of a laugh, followed by a slightly higher pitched one, crept up from the two friends. Dimas glanced over and couldn’t stop himself from laughing as well.
They didn’t rest long. Dimas, glancing around, could’ve sworn he heard someone. Scrambling to their feet, they looked around for any sign of enemies. Nothing. The path had been made clear again and they took to it, slow and wary, then faster when a low glow rose in the distance, sparkling at first but growing brighter the more they approached.
“What is that?” Dimas asked, his voice hushed and low. Paden shook his head but Isoba stopped and pointed. “Look, is that a cottage?”
It was. Dimas took off, sprinting toward it with abandon. Isoba hissed at him, his voice a hushed whisper, telling him not to run, to wait for them, but Dimas didn’t hear. He knew that in the cottage he would find the blight stones. He could feel them, feel the blight hovering around them, like drifting fog over a lake.
The light from the cottage windows grew brighter as he approached, and as he ran, he let his blight reach out, feel for life or any other magic users. Someone was t
here, inside the cottage, with the stones.
Dimas heard the clang and bang of his companion’s armour as they ran to catch up. There was no point in being sneaky. He put his hand out as he reached the cottage door, using his blight to shatter it. He walked in, slow, almost casual, just as the wooden debris hit the ground.
Standing, hunched over slightly, was a craggy looking woman wearing a long green and black dress that bunched around her feet. Her face was pocked and covered in boils, her grey hair hung long and stringy over her shoulders and down her back, like wet noodles. She was smiling, her eyes meeting his, her mouth full of pearly white teeth, the only thing about her that looked healthy.
“You broke my door, dear boy.”
“I’m here for the blight stones,” Dimas said in reply, his voice flat and empty. Her cackle rocked the cottage, filling it and resounding off the walls. He tried to keep his face from showing fear, to let it remain emotionless, but he failed.
“We can talk about that in a minute, but first, we should fix my door, yes? We don’t want any more uninvited guests,” the woman said, then, waving her left hand in a circle, she whispered a few words then tossed up her right hand, some sort of powder flying from her palm into the air. Within seconds, the door was back to normal, as if it had never been broken. “That’s better.”
The door was shut, and Dimas heard banging from the other side, voices, shouting; Isoba and Paden.
Sweat started dripping down the back of Dimas’ neck. The woman took a hobbled step forward, her smile still plastered to her face. She was whispering something her under breath, casting a spell. He was going to die. What the hell was he thinking, charging into a witch’s cottage alone? He backed up, bumping into the door, eyes wide and voice choked back. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words refused to come.
