Which witch is which

Previously: Freelance historian Esmiralda and her companions--Merrick, a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation (MOHP), Broo-Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk, and Seymuhr, a brutish but somewhat dim-witted warrior called the Skullsquasher, have fought their way into the lair of the mountain witch to uproot her evil, once and for all...

The air turned bitterly cold as we approached the red flickering light. My feet protested each time I took a step forward, as if my lower bones rebelled against the chill that leapt up like frozen daggers from the ground. I saw varying degrees of effort on my companions' faces as the light intensified. Only Baram looked immune--perhaps the forest sage was in tune with the land no matter what the overlying conditions were; the stale heat of summer, the fresh winds of spring and autumn, the icy grip of winter. Whatever the reason, she walked steadily behind us, urging us silently toward our goal.

Which we saw when we rounded a final bend.

The rock opened before us. Jagged walls reached toward the sky and were lost in the blackness. Below, the red light pulsated, not created by some form of flame or forge or even magic, but seeping from rents in the stone that looked like open wounds. The stench was horrendous; it pushed back against us, baked into our nostrils but the sudden heat. I gagged.

The floor was littered with crawling, twitching things that had once been human. Their scattered remains convulsed is a grisly dance that was terrible to behold, as if their death had not brought them any peace but instead increased their torment. They writhed and shrieked and wailed as they wiggled toward us, groping toward our ankles with rotting fingers.

Merrick dragged the bottom of his staff in front of us, as if he could create a line in the filth-blackened stone. He mumbled something and the gem at the stop of his staff began to glow. Broo Fang Tane pulled his chained weapon from his belt and swung it in a circle, a low battle cry forming at the base of his throat.

I moved behind Seymuhr and stared at the bizarre spectacle that awaited us.

Abilene herself--so I assumed--lounged on a slab of rock that was elevated from the cavern floor on a heap of ancient bone. I didn't know what I had expected--some form of vile, age shrunken wraith with burning eyes and sagging flesh, perhaps--but her appearance surprised me. She was short, plump, with red hair and freckled cheeks that looked more youthful than my own. A black cloth covered her ample bosom and another was tied around her wide hips. Still her bright green eyes and full lips oozed a sort of feminine promise. I could see how Harfigorn could have fallen under her spell and why his crew would have blindly followed them both.

"Hello," she said in a voice that was surprisingly mild and pleasant.

"Hi." Seymuhr answered. Then shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, when Merrick elbowed him.

"I must admit, I didn't think you'd go through with it," Abilene said. "A testament to the power of love, or some such thing."

"Wouldn't...?" Merrick was clearly as puzzled as I was. He looked at me, confusion in his gaze, then scratched his scalp.

Abilene's laugh was melodic. She bent over, her hands between her thighs, as her green eyes lit with mischief. Even I felt my gaze drawn toward the shadows of her cleavage, the promise of her somehow still vibrant womanhood. "Oh, come now," she slid a slender tongue over her perfect teeth--not hanged and chipped as I had expected, at all. "Come forward. Your task is done. Admirably done. Your reward awaits."

Seymuhr took half a step. An exclamation burst from my throat. Merrick clutched at his shoulder.

Abilene's voice was suddenly cold as iron. "Not. You, irf." She lifted her gaze above his head and crooked a finger. "Come forth, woman."

"Irf?" I glanced at Seymuhr. Irf? He had the old blood in his veins? Then I saw Baram steel herself and step forward, pushing a stunned Merrick aside. She gave me a mournful gaze as she walked toward Abilene's perch. My stomach went sour and my throat went dry. "No."

She didn't answer, but Abilene laughed again. "'Fraid so, dear. Did you think you could survive long enough to find me if I didn't want you to? I rule this place. All that happens is within my will -- and my will alone."

Baram walked stiffly toward the divan, shoulders set and head held high, as if she had to force herself not to look over her shoulder at us. She headed not directly to Abilene, but a recess in the cave wall to her right. In the darkness beyond the throne I could barely make out what looked like bars.

"No matter," Merrick called. "You only speed your doom. We are here to stop you."

"You are here," Abilene corrected in a frosty voice, "to advance my dominion over this land. Your companions are here to witness it and carry that image and the knowledge of how powerless they are to their graves. It is boon I will grant you, so your death may be a relief."

"That's very kind of you," Seymuhr said.

I glared at him, shocked. Was he in the grip of some type of charm?  

"What?" He sounded defensive. "She didn't have to do that."

I opened and closed my mouth several times as I tried to find something to say to that. Then several things happened at once. Baram, hidden within the recess behind Abilene's throne, shrieked in horror and rage. Broo Fang Tane let out a high-pitched war cry and I saw a smooth stone fly from his sling and strike the witch on the forehead. She snarled and wiped away the blood that blossomed there--and a small sheet of perfect skin came off with it, revealing yellow bone. The jewel atop Merrick's staff was blazing and it sounded like he was singing. Rasping sounds filled the cavern behind us and Seymuhr turned that way, a mace in each hand and a grim smile on his face.

Just like that, the battle was joined. I stood in the middle, unsure of where to direct my attention or which foe to fight.

The witch's armpit

Previously: Freelance historian Esmiralda and her companions--Merrick, a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation (MOHP), Broo-Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk, and Seymuhr, a brutish but somewhat dim-witted warrior called the Skullsquasher, have fought their way into the lair of the mountain witch to uproot her evil, once and for all...


Inside, the wind stopped and the air pressed against us, dank and still. The smell of death was nearly tangible. I pulled my scarf over my nose.

"It wasn't me," Seymuhr said.

"This time," I allowed.

Broo-Fang Tane crept up the cavern and peered around a bend. What he hoped to see, I could not know. It was darker than pitch inside the cave, a blackness that had no beginning or end.

Behind us, Abilene's army of collected souls swayed, hissed and moaned, but did not follow us. Merrick was looking that way, too.

"What if they press in behind us?"

"I don't think they will," he answered me. He sounded grim. "I believe they have, for now, served their purpose. They will prohibit our retreat. We can only go forward now."

"We could fight our way out," Seymuhr said. "They are slow, clumsy and weak. And there aren't as many, now. I saw to that."

"We did," Merrick agreed. "My suspicion is the witch's black power controls those wretches. If we are successful in destroying her, that hold will be broken and those poor creatures will gain their eternal rest."

"And if we're not?"

He looked at me. "Then it won't matter."

I shuddered. Had those unliving things once held the same thoughts as we did? Had they come here seeking to end Abilene's evil? What a bitter irony, then, to be forced into her service.

"If it comes to that..."

"Don't worry," Seymuhr said with a mischievous grin. "I'll free you from the witch's embrace, no matter how many times I have to kill you."

"How gracious of you."

"I would expect the same of you."

I nodded with a thin smile. If Seymuhr fell to the witch, I would most likely run as fast and as far as I could, or invoke my Traveling Stone to escape. With power such as his at her command, what chance would we have? Nope. Escape, find a shoreline, steal a boat and set sail.

We foundered along, feeling our way through the darkness. I could see nothing, not even the shapes of my companions. We bumped into each other, struck walls and knocked our heads on low hanging rocks that felt like daggers that scraped our skulls. Now and again I heard the sound of one of Semuhr's maces striking the soft stone. Later he told me that he held one just above his forehead and used the other as a sort of beggar's cane to protect himself from roof and wall.

Merrick bit back a yelp of pain and muttered a string of profanities so long and foul I thought my ears would curl up and hide inside my head to escape the sound of it.

"Balliessen's bleeding bitch," he muttered at the end of it. I heard him rubbing his forehead faster than a carpenter trying to smooth a piece of pine without first removing the bark. "This armpit of a cavern is itself defeating us!"

I nearly hissed at him to be silent, but then realized our attempts to move quietly through the cavern should have been abandoned long before. We were probably making more noise than a carriage careening down a staircase--horses and all. We would have had a better chance of surprising the dark witch if we had crawled through the stagnant pools at our feet.

We decided to move closer together, our left hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us. Seymuhr took the lead, then Tane, then me and Merrick. Even so, our progress was slow and painful. I had already taken so many blows to the head that I felt dazed. The emptiness around me played tricks on my mind; I was certain I was falling forward, or sideways or backward. Were it not for Tane's steady, but improbably slender, shoulder to hold on to, I surely would have flopped around in the darkness like a beached pike gasping for air.

Then I noticed two things: there was no pursuit, no sound of a shuffling mob behind us. And the darkness was fading. Gradually, I could make out Seymuhr's squat, wide form, mace held high. Tane looked at me, a hopeful expression on his face. The walls took shape, gnarled and twisted and bumpy as a pox-ridden bull, framed in an eerie, flickering redness that beckoned from beyond a curve.

We were close. At last.