“This is the extent of my ability for the present,” Jynge said at last, moving back from her work in setting up a makeshift ledge for Dákk to rest his broken leg upon. Her bag lay open beside her, and many of her witch’s tools and materials were withdrawn. “I could conjure a draft to hasten the healing, but even that will take time that we do not have, and I have only enough supplies to spare for the mask poultice, and I shall soon need to make more, by the look of things. In the meanwhile, you should all rest if such a thing can be done in this foul place.” She stood up and went over to where Górin had left the findings. “I will look through these things. I suppose that it is fortunate we were not attacked until we managed to reach this place.”

She took a careful handful of the trinkets and began to look them over. Her tired expression soon turned to a grimace. “These carry lasting imprints that vile sorcery is oft to leave. Something must have been done here or close to here, though it was probably the latter. I will do what I can to discern the origin and purpose of these things, but that too will take some time.”

“What of the draft to aid with healing his leg?” Troíde asked, “It might do us well if we could all be fit to make a retreat, even if we would be lacking in the potion for our masks for a few days.”

“Perhaps,” Jynge said, sighing. “But what you speak of cannot be done. Even if I were to create such a thing for Dákk, he would still be invalid for many days.”

Dákk had been carefully carried to the back hall where Górin had found the encampment. At Jynge’s request, several broken bricks had been brought over to elevate his leg and keep him from rolling about. In the end, Jynge had found that his leg and two fingers had been been broken in the assault, and a nasty gash had been cut from just above his knee to the lower calf. Not nearly as bad as it could have been, she told them with a failed attempt at reassurance. Dákk was given a potent herb to chew to numb the pain, and while she wrapped up his cut after dropping some gin upon it, no such materials to tend to the broken bones could be found.

For a time, Górin had abandoned the papers at the encampment, but once Jynge set about to tending to Dákk, he went to scanning through more thoroughly than upon first discovering them. Upon taking a closer look, however, he found that it was largely a pointless endeavor. The text written in Þérgic said little that could be used to guess at the bulk of the notes’ contents, instead relating primarily dates of arrival and departure of some place. Name were listed of what else was written, some was in the Síarner language, which only seemed to tell of addendum. The majority of the text throughout was inscribed in Mhánnic, unreadable to him except for a few scant words. At his request, Troíde agreed to translate it for him, but she would not move from her watch at the doorway until Jynge had finished her work.

The discarded contents of the piles contained many unrecognizable little objects and trinkets. Within, he found stranger twisted metal tools, bent and broken, the purpose of which he could not guess. Most were covered in rust, but others were of þalágan and wore a deep patina upon their cast surfaces. Having nothing else to examine, he put everything aside for the time, and sat himself down on a brick near the others who watched intently as Jynge did what she could to treat the injured ranger.

Górin sighed as he looked at the others. Troíde remained guarding the entryway while Handor remained at Dákk’s side, staring gravely down at him. His fingers twitched and he rarely blinked. Were it not for those two things, he would have been as still as a statue. Jynge herself handled the trinkets closely, as though blind and feeling out their shape. In short time, her breathing slowed and she ceased to look through the trinkets or papers. Rather, she had moved aside and drawn a circle upon the ground with chalk, and was now sitting in its center. In her hands, she held a small bowl and her short knife.

Realizing that it would likely be a long time before the witch would return from her meditations, Górin began to lay out his blanket upon the dusty ground and reclined onto it. He thought of gathering up the noteworthy objects from the trespassers’ encampment to keep himself busy, but thought it better to wait until Jynge had had a thorough look among them. Like before, he attempted to close his eyes and let himself drift away from the madness around him, but this time, he could not. Only just a fathom away, Dákk lay breathing heavily and occasionally moaned in aching. Just next to him, Handor sat and stared, never once moving aside from the shaking fingers upon his knees. In his groans, Dákk had begun to speak again, though this time, odd and nonsensical mutterings were the bulk of his words.

“Air...The air is poison,” he gasped, “It is too cold! I cannot breathe in these fumes.”

“No!” Handor quietly hissed, “There is no poison. Have some water, recover your strength, and think of the revelry we shall indulge in when we are back in Elbregn.”

Dákk slowly turned his head towards Handor, and opened his eyes widely. “There is no help that strength can give us now,” he blearily said, slurring each of his words, “The miasma pours over us all. We will soon become like the others in this dreadful place! Those that watch us will follow us to the ends of the earth. Their minds see us when their eyes fail them.”

“Keep your thoughts straight,” Handor broke in, “There is no miasma in Elbregn. Hear me now.”

“Get some rest, Handor,” Górin groaned, irritated at the inane attempts at consoling the delirious man. “Lay yourself down while you can, for we may have to be on the move soon.” Though he said whatever he thought would be encouraging to his companion, his primary motive in doing so was to keep himself from having to listen to two fools talking instead of merely one. Handor looked up at him, though it was a brief look and his eyes soon returned to his wounded companion.

“These things that pursued us,” he said hardly above a whisper, “Through mist and shadow they hunted us, smelled us, searched blindly for us, yet that was not their nature…The compulsion was of another sort.”

Górin had heard enough. With a foul look to Handor, he stood up from his blanket and walked away from the encampment. The light from the lamp that sat on the ground next to Troíde’s feet glowed softly in the distance, illuminating her and the door against a sea of darkness. She sat close enough to the door with her weapons ready beside her, but her head pointed downward away from the door in a sullen composure. As Górin approached and allowed his footsteps to be heard, she looked up to the shadows, and then looked away. He came into the light and sat down beside her, leaning against the wall.

“I don’t know how we are going to take care of this,” she said after neither had spoken for quite some time after Górin sat down. Actually, Górin had been considering saying nearly the same thing, though he had been afraid to admit it as the leader.

“Neither do I,” he said quietly. He considered their situation plainly for a moment. “We could probably make a carrying bed with our spears and cloaks, but it will be a rough journey for him no matter what. That is to say nothing of our own trouble in transporting him, and whether or not our leaving Kaðrosedd will be impeded.”

Troíde gave a joyless smirk. “Impeded,” she hissed, “It is a marvel that this door is not being clawed at by monsters in as we speak. If, by some grace of chance, those were the only ones of that foul kind, then I would hold us the luckiest in the world.”

“I am not going to allow any to be left behind,” Górin said, “And delirious or not, none will suggest such a thing to me.”

“I never said that,” Troíde muttered. She seemed about to continue, but shook her head. Many moments of silence passed. Górin looked out to where Handor lay over Dákk, and then to where Jynge knelt in her circle, sitting cross-legged with her head hung low and occasionally turning slightly to one side. The sight of a witch in her trance was odd to look at in ordinary circumstances, but to see such a thing in a barely-lit hall while her face was hidden beneath a bizarre beaked mask was quite unsettling. He averted his eyes back to the darkness.

“Well?” Troíde asked, breaking him from his concentration. “What would you suggest besides leaving him? What can we do?”

“I don’t know,” Górin said bluntly. He had no desire whatsoever to admit that they were at a point at which the mission seemed a certain failure, hearing such a plain prompting of that fact made him narrow his eyes in annoyance.

“We will think of something,” Troíde said, her voice now spoken with a hopeful inflection. Although the optimistic words came in the tones of reassurance, they were followed only by another empty silence. For he had no optimistic words to reply with, and she had no hopeful belief to back up her statement.

A long time passed, and even in the near-pitch darkness of the hall, they both became aware that it was getting late. Jynge still sat and muttered incantations and verses to herself, and Handor still watched over Dákk. Neither Górin nor Troíde moved from their spots, though they restlessly fidgeted with their knives and tools of war. At any moment, they expected to hear some set of footsteps or a wild howl in the distance, though nothing ever came. While they felt no immediate danger lurking about, neither wished to have a look outside and scout about for anything prowling in the night. If the two monsters had been the only things which had noticed their arrival, then any little victory was worth holding dear. The thought of spending a night in Kaðrosedd was not appealing at all to them, but they both knew that such a thing was upon them, and it would be so again in a day.

After what seemed like hours, Troíde spoke up in a short stutter. “I think,” she said, slowly, “That we have made a mistake in coming here, Górin. This is not a job for us. With overwhelming numbers, three rangers and a duelist can perhaps fell one such monster of this place. Yet, more will come, and only the spells of Irka’s cultists could hope to stand a chance against more.”

Górin didn’t respond, but gave a deep sigh and rose to his feet. He had not wished to be reminded of the witch, and he had even forgotten for a short while before Troíde spoke up. Actually, Górin had been close to drifting off to sleep, for as he leaned against the wall, he closed his eyes and was content to merely listen for any approaching footsteps. Looking down at his companion, he saw that she seemed to be focused on something in the distance. Following her gaze, he saw the others at the other end of the hall.

They sat within an orb of light, cast against ancient stone and wood. Their shadows flickered with the flame of the lamp, cutting holes of darkness in the safe and gentle candlelight. Upon the floor was a blanket, and upon it lay Dákk, who breathed heavily, grimacing at pain and gazing all around the room around him. Then there was Handor, who remained by him, head in one hand and seeming to twitch with an anxious energy. Then at last, there was Jynge, who by now had removed her mask and was pulsating back and forth with each deep breath she took. Fear and despair were seeped heavily into her face, made all the more grim by the many shadows cast by the lamp. Within the bowl in her hands, a single large flame flickered upwards, and it was tipped with black.

Her twitching and trembling seemed unconscious for the most part, it seemed, yet these were occasionally accompanied by some conscious motion or action. Now and again, she would shake her head in disbelief, and she seemed to be whispering hastily to herself. Her eyes remained closed for much of the taxing meditation, but for some time, she would open them, revealing a deep red born of tears. She always looked directly at the flame she held, as though trying to look into it through some difficult haze. At times, she would reach down to pinch up a flame from a small candle set before her, and placed it within the bowl. The dark fire inside would go back to its ordinary color, but after another few moments of her whispering, it always turned to the same black. Each time only brought more fear and distress to her eyes.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

It was a difficult thing to behold then, but Górin watched all of it. Her distress became frantic, and she shook terribly, repeating the tests over and over again only to receive the same result every time. After what seemed to be the last hopeful attempt, Jynge suddenly dropped her tools in a mixture of frustration and shock. She bolted upright from where she sat, and in doing so, the motion knocked over the lamp beside her, throwing the light about the dark chamber as it sputtered away and died. Though she was enveloped in shadow and only the smallest of lights reflected from her, Górin clearly saw a visage of madness of despair within the darkness. In the point of silence after the thin sound of the lamp hitting the stone floor faded, Jynge’s frantic breathing resumed in a loud and scratching discord. And then she ran towards the pair at the door.

“It is true!” she shrilly cried out, “There is no lie! No misunderstanding!” Halfway to them, she suddenly stopped in her tracks as though remembering something, and ran back towards where she had deposited her pack. Along the way, she passed within arm’s reach of Handor, but he hardly seemed to even notice her. Foregoing a rummage through her belongings, she threw everything all upon the floor and began to sort through them, picking out a few things and stowing only these into the pack. In moments, she slung the pack over her shoulders once again and resumed her run, leaving all else behind. In one hand, she held the heavy brand of Stékkr bark. However, by this time, Górin and Troíde had rushed towards her and took a firm hold of her shoulders. She struggled in their grasp, and jerked back and forth with a surprising wildness.

“You know not of what belies this place,” she hissed, “A bridge between Vilgen and that land where the necromancer dwelt in his fractured existence! Withered and rickety, but even a bridge held by a single rope can still be crossed! I must close the gap and sever the ropes. Let me go!” All throughout, she continued to thrash against their tight grips, but Jynge was no match for the two fighters.

“Jynge, calm yourself!” Troíde said firmly. “We need to-”

“Release me!” she screamed, and her hand suddenly flew to Troíde’s belt and pulled the sheathed knife from it. She brandished it towards both of them in quick succession. In an instant, both Górin and Troíde stepped fearfully backwards, stunned for a moment at the surprise threat, but neither had been cut by the blade.

“I cannot stay another instant,” she went on, “If Kaðrosedd and wherever place it has come in conjuncture with are not soon separated, then so too shall more befall this same fate. The overlap was born high on the hill, and it has only spread throughout the town, like a fraying tear in cloth. If it is not shut, it will only grow further!” As she spoke, she continued to frantically point the knife at both of her companions.

“Jynge...calm yourself,” Troíde gently repeated, “We must be vigilant and mindful if we all are to remain safe.” She slowly stepped to her left, attempting to place herself in between Jynge’s path to the door, but it was too late. The witch dashed to the side and ducked past her friend, sprinting toward the entryway. Górin shouted after her, but she did not so much as slow her pace. Pushing open the door in the same stride as she arrived at it, she exited the hall and ran off into the darkness. Górin rushed first, and Troíde quickly bent to grab the lamp before following. By the time Górin had made it to the door, there was no sight nor sound of the witch.

Although they only had the vague direction in which Jynge had run off to, they ran across the courtyard without so much as slowing their stride. Though they were confident that that either could easily overtake her if she could be seen, even partially, both looked about frantically, fearing that a wrong turn might prove to do more harm than good. To the castle atop the hill, they were certain, but as to whether or not she had headed off in the right direction, they did not know. Dejected, they had made it to nearly the opposite end of the square before they finally slowed to a stop. The night was deep, though even without the light of the lamps they carried, the mists floated thickly enough to obscure their vision much further than the light would illuminate anyway.

The two looked grimly at each other, and then ahead at the pitch-black streets. Neither wished to openly admit it, but there was no way that either could envision catching up to Jynge, aside from meeting her at the summit of the town. They knew they could not go forward and leave their companions unguarded, but they were loathe to turn back and leave the witch alone in the open. Neither said anything, but turned to retreat back to the hall. If they could not recover the witch in her delirious fervor, then the might as well try to protect those they were able to.

“She certainly won’t be leaving the town tonight,” Górin said dryly.

“I don’t know what to hope for,” Troíde replied, “Would she be better off remaining within a short distance of us but being killed in the night, or escaping the town only to get lost in the wilderness and perish?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Górin’s voice was sharp, and he had had enough of everything. “Forget whatever reward was offered. If we have to carry Dákk on our shoulders, we will be leaving Kaðrosedd. I am loathe to break any promise, Troíde of Elórdn, but I do not see any well end for our witch.”

Troíde’s eyes were heavily shadowed behind her mask, but even in the dark, she widened them to such a degree that Górin could plainly see the expression of shock. “Leave her?!” she gasped. “Treacherous coward! How can you think yourself our leader and still consider such options?”

“Would you rather us be picked off like mice beneath the claws of a prowling cat?” Górin retorted angrily.

“There is still a chance to do something! We don’t know for certain that doom is upon her. There is still time to-”

“Look around you!” Górin exclaimed, “Doom is upon all those that remain in this vile lair. If she wishes to remain within, then such is her willful deci-”

“That does not mean we should leave her to pain and death!”

“I’ve no wish to do so,” he agreed, “But whether or not we should do has little effect now on what we must do.” Górin put his hands to his head and rubbed at his neck in exasperation.

“If we act with stealth and speed,’ Troíde said haltingly, as though attempting to ignore the odds against them, “we might still be able to get to her side before any trouble comes to her.”

“You aren’t listening,” Górin replied, shaking his head. “Imagine trying to hide from or outrun the Veil. Perhaps we might try to do so for a while, but even if we go completely unnoticed by it, we can hardly hope to leave unaffected. We are in too deep to leave this place without further casualty. All we can do now is try to minimize the-”

“But there is still a chance!” Troíde cried out, “Even if a small one, even if we should perish in the attempt, we might still all make it to safety!”

Górin’s hands shook as waves of wrath trembled throughout him. “No!" he groaned loudly, "Listen! You aren't listening to a word I say!" Reaching out with bent fingers, he took hold of Troíde by the shoulders. “This place was thought to be safe enough for an ordinary party, but it turns out that we were wrong in our assessment. Kaðrosedd was not in the realms of deep blight but for whatever reason, perhaps what the witch was going on about, it now shows many of the telltale signs and harbors horrific creatures.”

Troíde made a strange movement, and in a moment, Górin’s hands held only air as she hopped backward from where he had tightly grasped her. “Neither do you listen, Górin of Dormedon! Perhaps this place might not be what was thought, but as guardians, we cannot forsake our duties when an unexpected trouble comes about.”

“Do you wish to die?” Górin hissed as he stepped forward to follow her. “You might have sworn some oath to offer your life for a witch, but I never did any such thing.” He reached out again, but Troíde evaded his grasp. “You come from the cities, where fights are ended with a wound and witches are there to administer potions should you fall ill. The wilds and the blight are not like that. If a ranger of Þérge warns you that a place means certain death, only a fool would refuse to listen!” This time, he did make to grab hold of Troíde, but swung the back of his hand towards her head, sharply and quickly. Yet, Troíde was quicker still. Rather than stepping backwards away from his hand, she darted to the side.

Troíde’s voice cut through the night like a knife through cloth. "Be quiet!" she screamed. "Silence yourself, you oafish rat!"

With two dancing steps, she had come behind Górin in the blink of an eye. At some point between those two steps, a sharp ring echoed out only once. Górin did not hear it. He only felt five fingertips upon the side of his head and a cupped palm over his ear. The cowl dampened some of the force, but the bolt of lightning still pierced through. Then came the fog and stars in his eyes and endless peals of thunder in his skull.

He felt his body fall forward, though he saw none of it through his own eyes. He saw not Troíde before him, but the wavering image of her face appeared within the swirling mists of confusion. Far off in the distance, her voice sounded out, angrily saying something, though he could not comprehend the words.

What a sick racket she makes now. Why will she not shut her mouth?

He saw himself kneeling over her, and as she lay upon the ground, yet she only scolded him further. Senselessly suggesting actions that would only get them all killed.

I'll give that worrysome gilt something to scream about, he thought.

She still spoke nonsense and chided the difficult decisions he was forced to make. He had had enough of her talking. He started with her slit, splitting her in two with his knife first. He grabbed her legs and pulled her apart like a butcher. He crushed her neck in his grip. He ripped off her head, and crunched on her bones.

...And yet, her crushed and mangled head wouldn't stop its talking. He ground it further beneath his feet and bit out more of the things in her crumbling skull.

Just stop screaming at me! The thought repeated over and over in his mind.

He rained his heavy boots down on her pulverized flesh until nothing was left that resembled her form, even slightly. A mass of motionless and lifeless meat, blood, flesh, and everything else...And still she screamed at him. Not only did it continue, but it only grew in intensity.

He punched the sinews until his hands bled. His ground the slime until his fingers broke.

Stop screaming at me!

Nothing more would do. She would scream, he would destroy her, and the cycle would repeat with one more incensed than before and the other in more pain than before. And it would continue forever.

Suddenly, Górin became aware of the bleary itching in his eyes and blinked repeatedly. He groaned and reached up to rub the ache surrounding his ear. It was then that he realized he was on his hands and knees with his head bent low in dizzy swaying. Standing before him, Troíde said something, but he did not hear half of it through the faint rumbling. His face loosened as he looked up at her. Her eyes had lost their fury, but none of their conviction.

"I just want for all of us to leave this place alive and well," she said, desperation packed into every word, “Is that so much?”

Górin went to speak, but found that his breathing was far too heavy and rapid. After the span of several deep and slow breaths, he had recovered enough to form words without nearly choking.

“No,” he whispered, and he cleared his throat enough to speak louder. “I’ve the same wish, but some things simply cannot happen.” Groaning, he rose and massaged his aching head. The thunder in his skull was quickly diminishing, but the skin around his ear still stung. Troíde held out a hand to help him up, which he shamefully took.

“What are we to do, then?” she asked quietly.

Górin hung his head and shook it once. “I don’t know. I must sit and think, but I doubt that I have even the time for that.” He began to walk back towards the hall. “We might as well get back to the others for the time being. If we can’t catch Jynge now, we might as well put all of our heads together to formulate a plan.”

Troíde took a deep breath. “I think…That we have made a mistake in coming here.”

Górin nodded in agreement. “Then let us not weep over our losses now,” he said, “A foul situation we are in, and no amount of mourning shall get us out of-”

His words were suddenly cut short as a grotesque trill rolled out from not far ahead of them. Kneeling upon the stone grounds of the square just in front of the hall, and looking directly at them in menacing curiosity, a terrible abomination watched in wait.

“Oh...no!” Troíde’s voice trembled as she stared in horror.

“Indeed,” he whispered, so softly not even Troíde could hear. “This was a terrible mistake.”