Witch Hunt Page 2

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  By the morning of the third day, we had found the muddy track that was generously referred to on Azyrin’s maps as the Barrowroad. The hills gave way to marshland teeming with tasty redfish and stinging clouds of midges. The shaman had an unguent that helped keep the tiny bugs off our skin that smelled of bear musk and pine sap. A slight improvement over the stench of human sweat, I suppose.

  We passed the first signs of human habitation just after dawn, when the summer moon still hugged the horizon like a plum resting at the edge of a giant basket. The main staple of this land was rice, a peculiar purple variety that grew well in the boggy lowlands. Fields of the grey-purple plants spread out around us, the horizon broken by clusters of bog cypress and man-made earthen field-boundaries. We saw no one working and the lean-to shelters we passed were empty of gossiping farmers, lunch pails, or any other sign that these lands were worked and claimed.

  The sense of foreboding grew as we neared our destination and the cypress groves became more numerous, turning to light woodland. Ranging ahead, I smelled the town, wood smoke and human waste carrying on the faint summer breeze, the stink intensified by the wavering heat. Fade padded up beside me, his black-tipped ears twitching. When the mist-lynx started to growl, I stopped in my tracks.

  The leaves on the trees ahead of us were withered and falling, the road and the area around it covered in desiccated corpses of birds and hundreds of insects as though a line had been drawn between life and death and everything on the wrong side had perished. Not even the normal buzzing of the marshland was still here, only the breeze rattling the dead leaves disturbing the creeping silence.

  “Killer, what is, oh. . .” Makha clanked up behind me and took in the strange scape ahead. “Azy, love?”

  Azyrin and the others caught up to us. He bent and dug up a handful of the gritty mud from the dead side of the road, murmuring words too low even for my keen hearing to make out as his other hand gripped his amulet. After a long moment where his ice-blue eyes seemed to stare off into nothingness, he shuddered and refocused on us.

  “Curse magic. Dark ritual of some kind.” He wiped his muddy hands on a patch of reeds growing along the healthy side of the path.

  “When we show up in town and everyone is dead, that would count as extenuating circumstances for the Guild, yes?” Drake had pulled a square of embroidered cloth from one of his many belt pouches and held it daintily over his face.

  “Town? Ashes, no. Bill and I are not going a single step further. My kind are too prone to illness to risk it,” Rahiel said with a look of horror on her delicate green face. Bill supported her statement by pawing at the mud with one gold hoof.

  “What’cha talking about, dipwing?” Makha used her favorite nickname for the pixie-goblin but her tone was strained.

  “If you all would cease staring at the ground for a moment?” Rahiel pointed with her wand to something waving from the nearest stand of dying trees.

  Crude banners were tied into the branches, yellow and indigo. We all knew what that meant. Yellow for plague. Indigo for mourning. Ahead of us, people were sick and whatever the illness, it was deadly. I didn’t even have to turn my head and look at Azyrin to know that despite what Rahiel had stated, we were going ahead.

  Well, I did hope for a sob story. A town full of curse victims will do.

  It took a good candlemark of argument, but Azyrin was adamant and what the shaman wanted, his wife would agree to and what Makha wanted, we all did. I had encountered giants less stubborn than our champion.

  Even if I wanted I couldn’t voice an opinion, so while they argued I ventured down the path. Fade had already stepped onto the cursed ground, still growling low in his throat. Not much disturbed the pony-sized mist-lynx and his few vocalizations usually meant he wanted to draw my attention to something, so I followed him. I hesitated right at the line of death and shivered as I set my foot down, then felt stupid when nothing happened.

  Fade stopped at the bloated corpse of a plate-billed heron and pawed at it, looking back at me. I shook off the uneasy feeling, unslung Thorn, and put my free hand over my nose as I caught up to the cat. The bug-repelling salve smeared on my skin almost hid the stench of decay. The bird had been dead only a few days, though since all the insect life around here also seemed to have succumbed to the curse, it was harder to say. I moved further down the path, looking for more bodies.

  I found a whole family group of clay-rats, their corpses clustered together as though whatever had killed them had caught them fleeing in a pack. These creatures were nocturnal and should have been deep in the wet mud for the day. There were no wounds on their dark brown bodies and I judged they had been dead perhaps a day or two longer than the heron. So the death line had advanced and killed anything in its path.

  Sending a worried look at Fade, I turned to make my way back to the group, wishing I could tell them what I was thinking. It was a dim hope to think they would notice such things for themselves.

  “We go to town, eat this,” Azyrin told me when I rejoined them. He held out a dried five-petal flower. Cirrica, a rare flower that could stave off most illness for a small period of time.

  I took it with a small shrug and chewed the bitter blossom quickly, washing it down with a sip of tepid water from my waterskin. Fade appeared beside me and opened his formidable mouth, his rough black tongue lolling out. Azyrin took the hint and handed me a second flower. The mist-lynx curled his upper lip after I set it on his tongue, but he swallowed. His kind was aloof and mysterious, populating the ice marshes of the northern wastes, but I had come to respect his uncanny intelligence if not his whiskers in my face when he wanted attention.

  We made cautious progress to the town, passing the first mud and daub houses that lurked like burial mounds beneath the dying cypress branches. Fade left my side, disappearing into the marsh. I wished I could follow him, not being keen on towns myself.

  Occasional patches of insect noise that came and when with a maddening lack of pattern and the sound of a human voice calling out further down the path bolstered my heart somewhat. Not everything was dead. I kept a firm grip on my bow and adjusted the quiver over my shoulder for drawing quickly.

  Though I heard voices and saw movement as someone ducked back behind a grimy curtain as we passed, no one came out to greet or challenge us. Thick, oily smoke hung like a shroud over the town and low bonfires burned in make-shift stone fire-pits, the wood guttering in the damp marsh air. The heat from them turned the already sticky summer day into sweltering boil, coating my skin like a paste and making even the shallowest breath taste of ash. How like humans to turn to fire for comfort. Burn enough trees and perhaps the darkness will recede.

  The central square, if the only paved area in Strongwater Barrow could be called a central square, had actual stone buildings. On the far edge of the paved area stood a beautifully carved marble unicorn, a shrine to the goddess Thunla. Beneath the statue was a brick well. More noise drifted out of a building I assumed from the crude sign painted with a large goblet was an inn. Drake veered toward it, but Makha’s large gauntleted fist hauled him back.

  “Guild first, plague whores later.” She chuckled at her own pun.

  We trudged toward the long, two storey stone building that had the crossed swords and dragon banners of the creatively named Adventuring Guild. Maybe the name sounded better in the original Samsiri, the tongue of the rocky isles where the Guild had started. Farishna Qvet. No. Not much of an improvement.

  No one challenged us at the door and so Makha pushed it open and we filed into the dim room beyond. Two men sat at a scarred old table bisecting the long room. Candles in various stages of melt burned in sconces and helmets in a wide range of styles hung from hooks on the walls. I imagine they were meant to look decorative and impressive, to evoke thoughts of far-away places and exotic cultures, but with the curtains drawn tight and the guttering candlelight, the effect was sinister and macab.

  “Oh thank all
the good gods,” the older of the two humans exclaimed. “They got our message in Brighthollow?” He was a scrawny man in his fifth or sixth decade with a thin moustache and a cumbersome wooden brace bound to his left leg. He wore a dagger in his belt and had a series of old scars over one cheek. When he turned his head, I saw his ear was half-gone.

  “We got no message, nor’ve we been by Brighthollow. We came from the southeast, through the pass.” Makha unslung her pack and shield.

  “We are Gryphonpike Companions, here to pay our dues, if you have scrying mirror and official ledger,” Azyrin added, peering around skeptically.

  “Scry mirror broke. Was one of the things we sent Othe and Wilt for. Damn.” The old man ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Where are my manners? I’m sorry. I’m Hewgrim and this is Deohan. You’ve come at a poor time.”

  The other man stood up. I couldn’t make out his features much beyond that he was human since he had a roughspun cap pulled down around his ears and a thick black beard covered the rest. He was nearly as tall as I, which meant he stood still a head and some shorter than Azyrin and would have looked Makha in the chin if his eyes hadn’t been locked on the floor.

  “Azyrin Stormbane,” Azyrin said, extending his hand to clasp Hewgrim’s arm. “My companions. Makha Stormbane, Drake Bannor, Rahiel Glowbix, and Killer.” He gestured at each of us in turn.

  Rahiel curtseyed and Bill mimicked her gesture, tapping his horn on the rough wooden floor. I followed Drake and Makha’s lead and shrugged out of my pack.

  “The Stormbanes? Of course. I should have guessed. Not as though there are many Winter-orcs registered with the Guild, eh? Eheh.” Hewgrim tried on a smile and motioned toward the empty benches. “You need to pay your Guild dues? Well, the ledger is here and up to date from a fortnight ago.”

  I stayed standing with my pack leaning at my side, the arrows within easy reach. Deohan avoided our gazes and was bundled up in a long-sleeved tunic with a high collar and a cap more suited for cold evenings than hot summer afternoons. Somewhat was wrong here.

  “Well, well then. Yes.” Hewgrim settled himself back in his chair at one end of the table with a grimace of pain.

  “It’s witches,” Deohan said. His voice was higher, breathier, than I would have expected from a large human male, as though something were pinching his throat. “What?” he added at Hewgrim’s glare. “They need t’know.”

  “Witch, witches? Plural?” Azyrin asked.

  The name “witch” gets bandied about and has come to refer to multiple things. Don’t like the pretty girl courting your son? She’s a witch. Old woman who makes love philters and herbal salves with a level of magic a step above charlatan and about a bell-tower’s worth of steps below a true mage like Rahiel? They call those witches, too.

  Then there are the true witches. Not taught, but born. Always female, very powerful, often but not always nasty to folk who disturb them.

  “Real witches, three of them,” Hewgrim said. He dropped his gaze to his hands as he folded them on the table. “They moved into the swamps to the northeast last year. Weren’t a problem until one took a fancy to our blacksmith. Fellow already had a wife. Whole family ended up bloated and black, found ‘em myself that way, dead in their beds. Group of us went out with our priest of Thunla and caught one. Gave her a trial and all, but the other two showed up. We killed one, but lost Amos, our priest. That’s when my leg was crushed.” He balled his hands into fists and ground his knuckles into the table. “Night after that, that’s when the curse hit. Half the town sick and dying. All the animals dead. Horses, chickens, water bison, even our cats. Those that didn’t get sick fled. Just a few of us left now.”

  I bit my lip and took a deep breath. The pain in Hewgrim’s thin face hit me like a punch. He had the wan, hollow look of man filled with despair. I knew the dark secret of his thoughts. Why them? Why not me? How am I to go on? Though my hands twitched with the desire to step forward and offer comfort, I dug my fingernails into my palms and shoved away the tide of my memories.

  Besides, the one and only time I had tried to offer comfort to another my curse had knocked me unconscious. Comfort-offering counted as communication, apparently.

  “What is this plague?” Azyrin asked gently, covering the old man’s hands with his large blue ones.

  Hewgrim nodded to Deohan. The younger man nodded slowly and then reached up and dragged his cap off.

  Makha cursed, Drake and Rahiel leaned away and even I winced. Deohan’s head was bald and hideously marred with deep purple ridges, his scalp looking like fruit left too long in the sun.

  “I’m lucky,” he said, his gaze fixed on the hat clutched in his hands. “I lived and the scarring didn’t get to my face.”

  “We’re calling it the wine pox, since it stains those few who survive.” Hewgrim gave himself a little shake. “If the curse spreads to the fields, the rice will be gone and with it the last hope of saving Strongwater Barrow.”

  “Killing the witches ends the curse,” Azyrin said and Hewgrim nodded as though the shaman had asked a question or perhaps reaffirmed what the old adventurer already suspected.

  As though it is that easy to kill a witch. I choked back a snort. My head already hurt enough from the smoke and the stifling heat in the breezeless lodge.

  “You said you need to pay your dues? If you help us, I will waive your fee. Even if the Guild doesn’t approve once we’ve got a scry mirror again, I’ll pay it out of my own pocket.”

  “We will do what we can,” Drake said. Even he seemed subdued by the old man’s story.

  “I want to talk to your priests of Thunla,” Azyrin said.

  “No priests left, we’ve only got a shrine here, not a proper temple. Amos’s initiates Edan and Nena are all that’s left. They are doing what they can, but. . .”

  “I will talk to them,” Azyrin said.

  “Is there someone who can show us where these witches might be?” Makha asked.

  “Hiljen. If she’s still alive to talk. She’s at the Silver Cup with the rest of the survivors. Her and. . .” Hewgrim’s voice caught again and he paused for a steadying breath, “others, they went out to try to find the witches and either placate or kill them to end these horrors. She’s the only one that returned and I don’t know how long she has.”

  “If’n you want to bathe, I can haul water for you,” Deohan said. He had pulled his cap back on and now stood up. “Only clean water in town is the spring at the shrine, so don’t drink the stuff from the pump.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. We’re so consumed by our troubles we haven’t even made proper welcome.” Hewgrim pushed himself to his feet. “You can bunk upstairs if you don’t mind plain grass mattresses, stairs are through that door.”

  I followed the others through the door and up to the second storey. I stowed my pack on a bunk and followed Azyrin and Makha as we made our way to the shrine. I kept Thorn and a quiver of arrows on me.

  The initiate Edan was an earnest young human male with a nervous tick in his left eye. He looked to be always winking and his white cassock was streaked with old blood and other even less pleasant substances. He greeted Azyrin as though the half-orc were his unicorn goddess made flesh. I wondered what he would make of our runty pink unicorn, but Rahiel and Bill had stayed behind at the charterhouse. Probably for the best. It was a testament to how exhausted and desperate things were that both Hewgrim and Deohan had barely blinked when introduced to our pixie-goblin and her familiar.

  The initiate took Azyrin and I to Hiljen. The whole Silver Cup had been appropriated as a sick house. Pox-marred faces stared suspiciously at us from makeshift beds that had replaced the tables which should have been adorning the Inn’s common room. Eyes dark with exhaustion, illness, and grief followed us up the side stairs and by the time we reached Hiljen’s room, my fingers ached to make pin cushions out of those witches.

  Hiljen had been spared the pox, but the human woman’s face was a death’s mask, her grey eyes sunken and
lamp-bright with fever. The smell of infection and that sickly sweet stench of dying flesh did not bode well for her chances.

  “One of their crocodile men got me,” she whispered after Azyrin gently asked her to tell us what had happened. “Aetag distracted them and I crawled off, wedged myself under a log. I ain’t proud.” She coughed and thick black sputum stained the cloth Edan rushed to put in front of her mouth.

  “Where did you fight them?” Azyrin said. His jaw was so tight he could barely grind the words out, his tusks digging into his upper lip left small impressions in his blue skin.

  Hiljen gave us rough directions, a rough series of landmarks which I committed to my formidable memory. She sank back into her stained bedding and closed her eyes as she finished, the last of her energy drained.

  “Can you help her?” Edan asked softly.

  Azyrin shook his head. “I can ease suffering. But it will be ending, not saving.”

  “Promise you will kill the witches.” Hiljen spoke again, the strength in her voice surprising.

  I promise. What had been done to this town was evil. I considered it only small bonus that ending the curse would count toward my one thousand good deeds. Bravery and perseverance in the face of such dire circumstances was to be admired. I felt a pang of guilt over my thoughts from earlier about the fires and human feebleness.

  “We will do everything in our power,” Azyrin said.

  “Let me go,” Hiljen whispered, her sunken eyes shifting to Edan.

  Tears filled the initiate’s eyes and he nodded quickly and then knelt at the side of the bed.

  Azyrin’s potion worked quickly. He pulled the blanket up over Hiljen’s peaceful face and we left quietly. I glanced back, fixing in my memory the image of Edan kneeling with silent tears streaking his grimy face, his hands still clutching the arm of a dead woman.