Secret Lore: A Fantasy Anthology: Fantasy Lore Book, #3

1

The Witchhunter

This may come as some surprise to you, but despite my boyish charm and devilish good looks, I am also a capable man-at-arms. I assure you, the cane with which I walk is for pugilism, not for handicap; for no gentleman worth his salt should be caught unawares by roughians or vagabonds, unready to defend himself. Yes, gather around, all of you-- call for an ale, if you like, but save some coin for me as well, for after I buy your sympathies in my tale of treachery and woe, you’ll feel compelled to pay me back for the story of Selby Hamb .

I may be Rivio the tavern storyteller now, but no bard has ever writ song or poem without ever leaving the pub, and once I was Rivio the roving blade. Like some of you, I plied my trade on the road, seeking those with coin who sought those with swords. On this particular afternoon, I had just come into rest at the Silkpillow Inn in Southcragland, after some unfortunate business with the governor's daughter in the Colonies left me quite unwelcome in Imperial territory. Although it was chance that drew me there, it was not what kept me-- Southcragland was a town with a problem, you see, and I am a man of solutions.

The inn was warm and the women comforting, but I’ll tell you as sure as my beard is waxed that no man in that pub was there for leisure. I seemed to have stumbled into a roll call of the town guard, all in their cups for the tragedy that which had befallen the town. With an ale-loosened tongue, an affectionate young guard laid his arm over my shoulder and told me that a young orphan child of ten by the name of Selby Hamb had gone missing. She was a cute and quiet thing; much loved in the town, she often ate by the grace and good will of the villagers who gave her food and shelter each night. The girl spent her days delivering newsletters to the wealthier homes, who had made a custom of tipping her. Her free time was spent out of sight in the garden on the east end of town, nearest the Hollow Woods. It seemed there was no one, from the mayor to the whores, who didn’t treasure the name of young Selby Hamb.

When the drunken constable told me he thought it was the work of the town witch, I was suddenly beset upon by a host of officers eager to offer their agreeal. Opinions are like cock piercings, my friends; those who have them are all too eager to share them, and if you let your guard down, they just might shove them right down your throat. Indeed, the guards were just so at the mention of the town witch, and my skepticism was alight as they spoke of her plan to eat the young girl in a pot of snail stew.

Curious, I set off to see this witch. She lived in what the townspeople all seemed to cohesively refer to as the ‘Snailshack’, not far from the gardens where Selby was known to spend time. Allegedly, the witch there was known for bewitching the stickiest of the local fauna and keeping them in close proximity of her home. Witchcraft, while not explicitly illegal, was a sure way to lose any given popularity contest.

When first I met Morcia, three things immediately struck me in our first conversation. First, she was no witchy hag, but a charming young vixen with fiery hair and pale skin, a slender and shapely frame hidden beneath green linen and an unnecessary but appreciated corset, and a pleasant smile for my delightful countenance. Second, the rumors regarding sticky fauna were oddly and undeniably true; I observed no less than a dozen snails of varying size and demeanors on or about her property. Third, while I am unqualified to determine what constitutes witchcraft, I am happy to say that I perceived no boiled children in her abode, with the possible exception of the delightful tea she put on after inviting me in, which carried a taste I could not place that Morcia assured me was crushed silverwax leaf.

As we shared tea, Morcia confided in me the truth of the matter-- a great many things to which the bewildered townspeople of Southcragland were not privy. Morcia was, in fact, a witch of sorts-- or rather, a druid-- and had decidedly little interest in devouring children. There was another witch, however, who dwelled deep within the Hollow Woods because of just such tendencies. This witch, whom Morcia referred to as her rival and used the name Savira, was truly a vile creature who used dark magics and sacrifices to fuel her power. Morcia informed me that blood magics were utterly forbidden, and that necromancers danced a very thin line between macabre science and illegal sorcery. But the town guard dare not venture outside the city limits to address the witch-- indeed, they were all too happy to prooflessly blame Morcia and do nothing.

During our conversation, Morcia once referred to young Selby as her apprentice; when I pressed, she explained that she was a strange and forlorn child, and the only person in town with whom Morcia felt a kinship. Selby had become a troubled youth lately, but Morcia had taken the child under her wing in the past year in hopes to keep her future bright, teaching her the ways of druidic magic. The child had taken to it so naturally that Morcia had become hopeful about her future as a druid.

I daresay Morcia had not before known the charm of a gentleman of my caliber, for although she appeared at first apprehensive to share, she became comforted and informed me that she, too, had dabbled in the dark during her early forays into magical science. Her experience in blood magic had changed her forever, leaving a black spot on her soul that could never be washed away-- but it also left her with a detailed knowledge and a profound understanding of what the forbidden magic entailed. She and Selby had fought recently regarding Morcia refusing to share her knowledge of the dark magics, and she feared that Savira may have used that to lure Selby into the woods. Morcia explained to me that the ritual which she believed the witch Savira was preparing was one that could destroy the town of Southcragland, and that if the town was to be saved, Savira must be stopped-- for, through the sacrifice of a magic-user and the absorption of her blood, Savira intended to become a lich, and had abducted Selby as the sacrifice.

For those of you who may not be as traveled as I, a lich is a fearsome mythical creature whose very existence is magic, neither living nor dead nor anything in between. They are not from this plane nor the next, not from heaven or hell or Ipsxilliovn or the Sanct. Little is known, and few are those who seek to know it, as liches are the very last breath of every evil mage or sorcerer or wizard or necromancer in the world. Their very existence is an affront and a threat to every living thing.

So you can understand the concern upon its mention, and why I offered my service to the druid in the interest of assisting the good, if perhaps a bit misled, townspeople of Southcragland.

We began on the road to the Hollow Woods at once. It was perhaps a day’s walk given that we had no mounts, and the road was well-traveled but oddly lonely that day. In the evening, as we came to a crossroads which would lead us either to the woods or further south, we were approaching a lone traveler set to pass them on the path. It was a tall fellow, well-built and adorned in beaten armor and a crimson cloak, wearing a steel kite shield over his shoulder that bore the charge of a sword thrust through a golden sun. Whereupon seeing the standard, I recalled an ill-concluded encounter I had suffered perhaps a year prior in which I encountered a woman with a tattoo of just such an order on the small of her back, which looked decidedly more pleasing from behind than it did upon this shield. The woman said she belonged to the Order of the Sacred Sword, a devout bunch that routed out evil magics wherever they were hidden.

I realized two things as we approached the fellow on the path. First, that the presence of the Sacred Swordsman was no coincidence, and perhaps that he meant to do us harm; and second, that the Sacred Swordsman was in fact a Sacred Swordswoman, and that beneath her battered armor and crimson cloak and steel shield, she had a tattoo of a sword thrust through a golden sun on the small of her back.

Amelia was, as it turns out, as displeased to see me again as she was to see Morcia. With her arming sword in hand, she stopped us on the road.

Should you attempt to cast, I will cut you down, she said to Morcia, and I could see that she meant the truth.

Amelia, darling, I said, in an attempt to enrapture her attention, Would our last meeting mean so little to you as to make a threat of violence upon my good friend here?

The mention of our previous affair did indeed enrapture her attention, and I saw a flash of recollection cross her face-- but for whatever reason, she then sought to strike me down. As the arming sword closed in upon me, I deftly deflected it with my cane, drawing from it the blade within. I knew I stood at great disadvantage, partially because she wore plate and chain whilst I wore only quilted doublet, and partially because Amelia was so very beautiful when enraged, her brunette hair glistening in the setting sun like a river of coffee streaming over a porcelain stone. It was difficult, as we crossed blades, not to imagine her hard body beneath the armor and what it looked like that night a year earlier, coated in sweat and the scent of exploration; but, my friends, I am sad to say that the thoughts could not linger long, for her attacks were grievous and dire and nearly had the better of me until dear Morcia stepped in. Amelia’s lust for my blood was so intense, it seemed, that she forgot all about the witch in my company, who succinctly thunked her on the head with a knotted staff. The blow did not put the Swordswoman out, but it dazed her enough for a fellow skilled swordsman to disarm her most expertly, leaving her suddenly without a blade. Suddenly unarmed, Amelia had no choice but to sit and listen.

We shared with her our tale of the townspeople of Southcragland and the poor stolen orphan Ms. Hamb, and that although Amelia made her fortune as a witchhunter of a sacred order, that there was a much greater and more dangerous foe at the end of the road than the one that stood before her. Reluctantly, begrudgingly, Amelia began to see things our way. I may be no witch, my honored listeners, but I tell you now that no storyteller who tells stories worth telling can tell such a story without the ability to bewitch; and I am pleased to say that with a flash of my dastardly handsome smile and the plying of my honeyed words, I bewitched the beautiful warrior.

The three of us made entry into the Hollow Woods under the cover of night. We shut out our lanterns and navigated by the light of the fireflies, which cast an eerie amber glow upon the wood, making every tree and branch look like spooks and devils. But, as we came to learn, there was only one devil in the wood, and he was searching for us harder than we were for him.

It was perhaps a few hours past when we found the desolate cabin, which I may have thought abandoned were it not for Morcia’s insistence that this was the Savira’s home, and that the dilapidated appearance was only an illusion. As we readied ourselves and prepared to make our approach, as clearly as you hear my sultry voice right now, we were startled by the deep and rumbling voice of some otherworldly creature which bellowed through the trees from nowhere and everywhere around us.

WHY HAVE YOU COME? demanded the great and terrible voice.

At first, we the three were too uncertain to speak, afraid that we might betray our position in the woods.

Again, the voice demanded, now much louder and angrier, "WHY HAVE YOU COME?"

Bristled at the detection of sorcery, Amelia strode confidently from our hiding place-- against my behest, mind you-- and into a clearing away from the cabin. Show yourself, demon! she commanded in return.

The entity, however, had no such plans. YOU ARE IN MY WOODS, boomed the disembodied voice. "YOUR BODIES WILL FEED MY LEAVES, YOUR BLOOD MY SOIL, YOUR BONES MY CREATURES."

At this juncture, I noticed that the demon was doing a surprising amount of conversing for a demon, given that demons are typically not much for conversing at all. Given that the gift of gab is among my many talents, I moved to stand by Amelia’s side, confidently displaying no weapon but for my trusty cane. My body, though remarkable in its form, I explained to the disembodied voice, is composed too much of alcohol and imbalanced humours to feed your woods. I’m afraid it may, in fact, poison them beyond healing.

For a moment, the disembodied voice was silent, before again repeating-- this time in a confused tone, rather than an enraged one-- "WHY HAVE YOU COME?"

Now, it seemed to me at the time that this being was terribly concerned about his woods. Furthermore, it seemed to me at the time that Savira would be less concerned with ownership of the trees and dirt and more about the kidnapped orphan and black ritual. I therefore made the calculated gamble that this being was not directly in the employ of the witch, and instead was some kind of spirit that dwelled within the woods. Thus, I spoke up, admitting our purpose.

We are here for a child that was stolen, I said boldly; and then, upon hearing a brief response of silence, I clarified, A child is to us like a tree is to you, grown from the seed of our kind after it is planted deep, deep within a woman.

That is disgusting, Amelia protested.

But accurate, Morcia admitted.

Then, from the wooded shadow emerged a figure, shaped like a man but taller than we by a foot and adorned with a crown of horns upon its head; its skin was ebony and its body hard as steel, its eyes obsidian slits on a field of orange and crimson. Between its horns stretched oiled black hair, or perhaps fur, and in its hand was a rusted-- or perhaps bloody-- morningstar mace. It wore the armor of a rogue, perhaps some poor bandit who befell a terrible fate in the Hollow Woods, only to have his armor lifted by the demon of the trees.

As the demon stepped forward, weapon in hand, it peered at me with soulless, chilling eyes and said in its heavy voice, no longer disembodied, "I know what a child is, you dolt. And I know where it is." Surprised, I looked on in silence as it thrust a long, beclawed finger at the cabin.

Then you know the witch? inquired Morcia, stepping forth carefully to address the demon.

Its voice became low and sullen. I do indeed, it said, glaring past us at the cabin with all of the hatred one might associate with the demon. "These are my woods. None who enter may remain but for my leave. The demon snarled as he said, That fowl cunt wove some spell that forbade me from exacting my power upon her or her cabin. Yet, nothing she does here is done without my knowledge; she brought a child here only a day ago."

Utterly fascinated by this creature, I could not help but ask, What is your name?

It looked at me with a cold glare, but more shocking than its reply was that it smiled obligingly at me, a crooked and toothed smile bearing sharp fangs and black gums. I have no name, human, but some have called me the Hollow Fiend.

If she is an intruder in your woods, Morcia interjected, what if I could penetrate her ward?

The fiend turned slowly toward the young sorceress, bearing his same smile, which seemed to grow even wider. If you can bring down her spell, he replied, his voice low and creaking from his throat, then I will rend her bone from bone, and you will have your child. I will grant you passage through my woods.

At that time I glanced at Amelia, who had an expression on her face as though she had just bitten from a raw radish. It appeared to me that all this business of working with witches and demons and handsome gentlemen sat ill with her, which concerned me not only because I did so enjoy looking at her, but also because I feared that the witch would not go quietly, and she was a capable companion.

Morcia led the way as we approached the cabin. It was quiet and dark, the only light provided by the lightning bugs that hovered betwixt the trees. Planting her staff in the ground, Morcia began to weave her hands through the air as though she were painting ripples in a pond. Amelia grit her teeth and turned away, but I watched with fascination as all the fireflies in the wood began to move in tandem with her fingertips.

As she cast her spell and weaved her magic, I turned my attention back to the demon. He was a stunning specimen, the likes of which I’d never before seen; to be so close to a demon, let alone in party with it, was an experience I had never in my strangest dreams or most unsettling nightmares imagined.

If you allow your eyes too long to linger, you shall be afflicted with a curse of blindness wherein you will only see my face, forever upon the back of your eyelids, ever shut, he said to me.

Remarkable, I said in curiosity, averting my gaze. How does such a curse work?

The demon scoffed and gave something that may have been a laugh, replying, I am fucking with you, foolish human.

I would be remiss to say I was not embarrassed to be so gullible, but who am I to question the threat of a demon? Ignoring the jape, I moved on to better questions. You mentioned that the witch brought a child yesterday-- how did she transport her?

The fiend looked back to the cabin again as the fireflies swirled in the air. They walked, he replied with a shrug.

I thought it was strange that the child simply walked along with Savira after being abducted, but then I suppose if I was gullible enough to be deceived by the fiend, the child could be gullible enough to be tricked by a witch.

At just about that time, my attention was snagged by the sudden flash of lights as every firefly in the Hollow Woods seemed to converge on the cabin. They swirled and twirled around it, surrounding it entirely, and for a brief moment I swore I saw lines drawn between each of them, like a child’s connect-the-dot puzzle;