James West - Lady Of Regret

“It will be over in a moment, child,” the witch said, grinning broadly. “Just a moment more, and my wee ones can feast upon a sweet dinner spiced with fear, and made tender with pain.”

Flaring spots dimmed behind Wina’s eyes, weakness washed over her. Her hands fluttered to her lap, the edge of one striking a hard shape. What … what is that? She slumped forward, and Mother Safi beckoned her to lay down her head. When her cheek bumped the rough tabletop, the shape under her hand dug into her belly, and she remembered. If she could only … she might be able to.… But no … so tired.

“Sleep, child,” Mother Safi crooned.

The weasel got down on four black paws and crept toward Wina. Its grinning teeth glinted in the candlelight, its nose twitched eagerly. It’ll eat my eyes first … next my lips.

Wina’s eyes fluttered shut, and the unseen hands around her neck gradually released their hold. A trickle of air seeped down her throat, easing the fire within her breast. If not for her last thought, a single breath would not have mattered, but too easily she could see the old hag laughing over her corpse, drawing a rusted blade from under her sackcloth robes, using it to quarter her like a lamb, tossing those bloody chunks into an iron crock. Or will her wee ones eat me raw?

Her next breath, deeper and stronger, fanned rising horror. “No,” she gasped.

“Eh?” Mother Safi said, startled.

Wina’s eyes opened to find the weasel had come within an inch of her, its needle teeth white and sharp and poised to sink into her flesh-

With a cry, Wina sat bolt upright and batted the foul creature aside. It gave a hissing squeal, as it flew into the darkness. Wina paid it no more mind than she did Mother Safi’s astonished squawk.

The hard shape at her waist filled her hand, and she tore the belt knife free of its sheath. Bright steel flashed between her and Mother Safi. Wina felt a brief tug of resistance as steel tore through old wrinkled skin, muscle, sinew. The witch toppled back, one hand clutched to the growing necklace of blood spurting from the folds of her neck. Before the hag could fall out of reach, Wina snatched the Wight Stone, the salvation of Ravenhold.

The rickety chair creaked under Mother Safi’s immense backside, burst to kindling, and dumped her to the floor. Making bubbly retching noises, one flailing hand raised against another attack, Mother Safi failed to notice that the edge of her roughspun robe had fallen upon the coals on the hearth. The coarse fabric smoked, then flashed ablaze, as if she had been doused in oil. In seconds, the witch became a shrieking pyre. Seconds more, and the back wall of the hovel was burning with her.

Wina thrust the amulet down her bodice, its cool touch against her skin filling her with a sense of purpose and excitement. Ravenhold would be saved! As she spun to leave, a furious racket erupted in a corner where the room’s shadows gathered thickest. Howls and screams raved within that swirling darkness, as if a pair of frost leopards were tearing at each other.

Wina crashed against the plank door, ripping it half off its hinges. Her bone-white palfrey waited at the porch rail. She yanked the reins free, and bounded into the saddle. A prod from her heels jumped the mare into a gallop. They raced across a meadow, then down off the mountain following a twisting, rocky trail that would lead her to Ravenhold.

As the moonlit Tanglewood embraced horse and rider, the thatched roof of Mother Safi’s hovel fell in with a whoosh of sparks and leaping flames. Wina thought she heard an enraged scream, but told herself it was only the rush of wind in her ears.

Something was hunting them, using the chill mists to steal closer. Be it man or beast, Rathe did not know, but he felt its nearness in his gut, same as he felt the cold damp of the Gyntor Mountains on his cheeks. In more hospitable realms, summer reigned. Here, patches of winter snow yet lingered.

Oblivious that Rathe had reined in, Loro rode on, grumbling under his deep hood, the hooves of his mount scraping and knocking over the trail’s rocky surface. His complaining faded into the distance, and quiet fell over the forest.

Rathe drew back his hood, peered around, listening for any furtive sound. High mountain evergreens grew thick as dog hair right up to the trail, sometimes leaning over it. Sluggish white fog eddied through gray-black tree trunks, concealing anything beyond twenty paces. The fog had been a constant companion since he and Loro had escaped into the mountains, one short step ahead of men who would earn their gold whether he and Loro were brought back intact, or headless.

Despite the rising sense of danger, nothing worrisome showed itself. Rathe’s fingers danced over his sword hilt, a restless drumming. He preferred using a bow to keep threats at bay, but the relentless wet had already fouled one bowstring. Ruining another served no end. He searched the mountainside above the trail, found a stubby spine of rock littered with boulders. From there, he might be able to see more.

Breath steaming, Rathe dismounted, tied his horse to a clump of scraggly brush. The sturdy gray gelding gave him a curious look. Rathe patted its neck, then started upslope, leaving the horse to graze on what little it could find.

The lightest touch against drooping branches sent cold water raining down over Rathe’s head and shoulders, wetting the few parts of him that remained dry. The climb warmed stiff muscles, if not much else. The cold of the Gyntors had a way of sinking deep into your bones, stealing heat and hope. Rathe ignored discomforts, as he scrambled over root and rock, using tree trunks to pull himself up when the way grew too steep.

He went still at the base of the outcrop. Other than Loro, now rounding a bend farther up the path, he saw nothing. The flutter deep in his belly persisted. After spending a fortnight running from men who wanted to steal his life for reward, he had to assume danger waited at every turn.

Unseen ravens croaked far overhead, calls muted. Only at night did they depart. Doubtless the birds were waiting for some grave ill to befall him or Loro. He had watched ravens and crows and vultures at work on scores of battlefields, first plucking out the eyes of the dead, before moving on to other tender bits. He did not begrudge such creatures their appetites. Neither did he care to fill their gullets with bits of himself.

Careful to remain behind cover, Rathe climbed up and around the outcrop, then crept through the boulders until he could look down on the trail. He glanced at his horse, almost lost within the screen of misted trees. The gray munched contentedly, sharing none of Rathe’s concerns.

Preparing to turn back, Rathe froze when a dark figure glided swiftly and silently across the trail. He could almost believe he had imagined it, but the mist swirled where the shape had slipped across the path. A spidery prickle crawled up his spine. Shadows disturbed fearful hearts, not mist.

Rathe drew his sword, the whisper of steel clearing leather loud in the dead still. He stole back down the hillside, coming out on the trail a few paces from where he had seen the figure. The gray stamped restively, snorted a blast of steam, went back to grazing. Curtains of fog meandered down the mountainside and into the forest. Nothing else moved.

The longer Rathe studied the surroundings, the more he began to doubt he had seen anything. What seemed the shapes of kneeling men became rocks, as the fog continued its slow march. A horse’s legs became four crooked birches at the last twist in the path.

“Would you test your blade against mine, Scorpion?” The question seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.