Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

As she entered the decaying church, Wren’s footsteps echoed across the empty chamber, and her shadow melted into the darkness. She stared up at the tall gray columns webbed with cracks and grimed with ice and bird droppings. She looked left and right at the dimly colored starlight falling through the broken stained glass windows depicting men in strange armor and women in strange dresses, all kneeling in prayer or peering up at the shattered sky. And all the while, the foreign words and names whispered in her mind with their own exotic flavors and magic.

Europa. Vlachia. Targoviste. The Church of Saint… someone or other.

She gently ran her fingers over the arms of the long benches covered in scraps of wet paper and clumps of dirty snow. At the far end of the church was a raised platform with a naked marble altar dappled in shadows, and beyond it stood a tall statue of a man between a woman and a boy, all in gray stone. Black shadows clung to the rafters overhead, a cold breeze sighed through the broken windows, and a thick carpet of aether mist glided across the floor.

“This place is amazing,” she whispered, her breath curling in white vapor around her nose.

“What, this?” Omar strode past her, rubbing his gloved hands together. His long coat swished as he moved, his short seireiken clinked softly in its scabbard on his belt, and his little blue sunglasses sat down on the end of his nose as he looked around. “This is a ruin. I’ll show you some truly amazing places when we reach Stamballa, and Damascus, and Alexandria.”

Wren touched the cold face of a column. “How did they make the stones so perfectly square, and round, and smooth?”

“With good tools and a lot of time. Too much time,” Omar muttered. He called out, “Hello? Anyone?” Only his echo answered. “What the devil is going on around here? It’s been four days since we’ve seen anyone. Vlachia was never this quiet before, even in winter. There should be thousands of people here in Targoviste.”

“Maybe it’s a plague,” Wren said. “Just like back home. All the people are dead or hiding in the hills.”

Omar shook his head. “I doubt that. It’s more likely that the city just dried up. Too cold, not enough food, too many wars. Just the usual. The people moved on to wherever they could find food or work, that’s all. It’s a pity though. Targoviste was a lovely little place a few hundred years ago. I liked it quite a bit in the summer time.”

Wren nodded glumly.

“Well, as long as we’re here, we might as well break into the old castle and find someplace decent to sleep tonight. Maybe the beds are still in one piece.” Omar gallantly gestured toward the open doors, inviting her to lead the way back out into the dark street.

Wren took one last look around the shadowy ruin, trying to see every last little detail, to remember every little stone cherub and faded painting and tarnished candlestick. She could see them quite clearly in the gloom. In the shadows, her golden fox eyes could find even the smallest lines and faintest forms.

Woden, when I return home to Ysland, I promise to build you a temple like this one. Only less gloomy and ruined, of course, one worthy of the Allfather. But don’t worry, I won’t make it too pretty. I know how you feel about that.

Boots crunched softly on the icy gravel of the road outside. Wren felt her tall fox ears twitching atop her head under the black scarf she wore over her wild red hair. They were always doing that, her ears, always shifting and twitching on their own as though hungry for sounds. They tickled her scalp when they moved, and sent shivers down her spine. She held up a cautioning finger and Omar frowned as he rested his hand on the grip of his seireiken.

“How many?” he whispered.

She held up two fingers, and then unwound the leather sling from her wrist and slipped a small stone into it. They both faded back into the shadows to one side of the church doors and stood together in the darkness, waiting, as the pale aether mist curled around their ankles. Wren glanced at her mentor.

You know, they’re probably just travelers like us. All this hiding is stupid. He’s too cautious. What is he so afraid of?

The sounds of footsteps approached the doors, and stopped.

“Hello?” a woman called. “Is anyone in there?”

Wren frowned. The voice was almost familiar, which made no sense. Everyone she had ever known was far away, back home in Ysland, hundreds of leagues to the north across the frozen sea.

Who is that?

She started toward the door, but Omar touched her shoulder and shook his head, and they waited.

“Hello?” the woman called again. “I saw you go into the church. You’re the first person I’ve seen in a long time. Do you have any food?”

Wren glanced up at Omar again, who shook his head again.

Well, I’m not going to hide in the cold and the dark from some poor, starving woman. It won’t cost us anything to tell her that we don’t have any food to share.

She shrugged off Omar’s hand and moved toward the door, saying, “Hello? My name is Wren. What’s yours? I’m sorry, but I don’t have any food with me.” She stepped out into the doorway.

In the street stood a tall young woman in a filthy black dress holding a bow and a young man with long black hair and only one arm. In his hand, an Yslander broadsword shone silver in the starlight. Both of their heads were covered by hoods that mottled their faces with shadows, but their eyes flashed gold when they turned their heads to the light of the moon.

Nine hells, it’s Thora and Leif!

How did they get here? How did they find us?

Wren felt her stomach contract into a cold knot, and she swallowed. “Oh, it’s you.”

The one-armed man smiled, and lunged at her.

Wren dashed back, the stone falling from her sling as she ran. Omar ran toward her, but he was too far away. Leif darted through the church doors with his blade raised, and Wren tumbled over the first bench just as the sword crashed down on the frozen wood behind her. Wren scrambled back and stretched out both of her arms in front of her, and then jerked her hands upwards. The thick aether mist on the floor instantly flooded upward in front of her, forming a swirling white wall between her and Leif. The one-armed warrior dashed toward her again, and crashed to a halt against the aether barrier. He stumbled back, wincing, trying to rub his nose with his sword-hand.

“Leif Blackmane. Leif, Leif, Leif.” Omar drew his seireiken slowly. The sun-steel blade shone with an unearthly white glow, bathing the entire church in piercing daylight, banishing the shadows. The air around the short sword rippled and boiled, and blue-white electric arcs snapped and crackled along the single edge of the blade. Omar held the deadly weapon loosely at his side. “You’re looking well. Exile must agree with you.”

Leif glanced from the bright sword to the wall of aether, glaring with bared teeth and dark golden eyes. “We’ve done well enough.”

“Have you been following us this whole time? Since Ysland?”

“We heard a rumor about a girl with fox ears passing through Vienna. And we just had to know who it was.” He tilted his face back to let his hood fall to his shoulders, revealing the vulpine ears on his head.

“Oh. Well, I’m still flattered, either way.” Omar smiled. “So, did you want me to even you out? Take off the other arm to match?”

The tall girl in the street raised her bow and called out, “Omar Bakhoum!”

Omar glanced over his shoulder at Thora just as the arrow pierced his back and sent him sprawling to the floor.