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...
Broo Fang Tane let loose another stone that ripped through the air and bounced off the witch's cheek. This time, the impact loosened the flesh on her face like a ripple in a still pond: the skin roiled and dropped and fell, revealing a curved jaw studded with pointed, blackened teeth. Her eyes turned black and cold and an inhuman shriek filled the chamber, so ghastly and shrill that I covered my ears--nearly stabbing myself with my knife in the process.
A wave of cold energy swept over me and knocked me to the ground. For a second I couldn't breathe--it felt like snakes made of ice were wriggling up my nose. I rolled, spat and coughed. My companions had fared better. Merrick was still on his feet, although the wave of cold had knocked him a few steps backward. Tane had joined Seymuhr, who battled the horde of shuffling dead things that cut off our escape. They were violence and destruction personified--Seymuhr with his two maces causing ruin wherever they landed and Tane a one-man storm of chaotic precision. His fists and feet scattered liquefied brains and putrefied flesh wherever they landed. His eyes were wide with rage and nearly every blow was punctuated by his bizarre, high-pitched war cry. Both of them were coated with gore.
"On your feet, woman!" Merrick hissed at me. His face was red, his eyes puffing and his chest heaving. He growled some form on incantation and cocked his fingers in what looked like a painful fashion, but the mountain witch only cackled at his attempt to overcome her own magic.
I rolled, grabbed my knife again and said a prayer. My heart raced and I tasted dirt and stone. What could I do? I could be no help to Seymuhr or Broo Fang Tane--they appeared to be holding their own. It was Merrick who was failing. He was clearly overmatched. I crawled off to the side of the cavern, where the shadows were deeper, and made my way laboriously around the cavern. Maybe Merrick could distract Abilene long enough for me to strike her. If my simple blade would have any effect, I did not know.
The air sizzled with arcane energy and stank of rot. Sounds unlike any I had ever heard assailed my ears, horrible syllables that awakened in me an icy panic. I am shamed to admit it now, but I found myself cowering in the shadows, covering my head with my arms in a futile attempt to block those repulsive noises. I whimpered and tried to will my body to move to help, to stand and strike, but could not. My fingers felt for the Traveling Stone that rested between my bosom. Escape was so close; I could call on its magic and be free almost instantly.
Merrick shouted in pain just then, and I pulled my hand away. Tears burned in the corner of my eye. I felt dirty and small. I forced myself to my elbows and crawled forward--until I saw a ragged pair of boots in front of me. Baram. With a tremendous effort, I lifted my head and saw her gazing down on me.
"What?" I gasped and spat. "Have you come now to finish your work, witch?"
"Yes," she said. She half-opened a hand, revealing a twisted piece of wood that I first mistook for a broken shard of bark. The she twisted it and I saw it was a slender blade, not carved, I somehow knew, but shaped through some other means. I was unfamiliar with the making of it, but I recognized it for what it was and I could scarcely believe it--even after Baram ran a thumb over its edge and her bright blood spilled in a straight, thin line.
"Is that...witchwood?"
She nodded once and pressed the blade into my palm. At once I felt its warmth, like I was enveloped in an invigorating bath. I stood.
"We must hurry," she said. "Our time here wanes."
Next: The Witchwood Blade
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