The journey had been troublesome. I could barely stand on my injured leg. What’s worse, the wound had begun festering with sprouts of tender rust. I did what I could to scorch them away, little by little, but the pain was unimaginable. At some point I’m fairly certain I permanently scorched my nerves, because I stopped feeling anything at all in my leg.
I heard several instruments being played from beyond the treeline. Percussive instruments, characteristic of the local druidic traditions here. They were playing the same song that they had been for the past week or so; a song of rebirth, of festivities, and of the autumn sleep. It was a song adapted from the old druidic traditions of Coedraig, warped beyond my understanding. Finally having arrived at the village, I was ready to make my introduction. I applied the last of the oil I had left unto my sword, and began what I could only describe as a death march.
It would only be a little while before I would see their faces again. Old family and friends, malformed by the fungus. Their bodies eaten from the inside out, the fungus wearing their skin like a hollow shell. I had seen what the fungus could do to the local wildlife. Never before had I seen a human in the late stages of possession. I steeled myself for the inevitable horrors that would lay beyond this thin shrubbery. It was a veil, concealing my eyes from the truth. It had to be cut down.
As a final preventative measure, I ensured that some of that oil I had was also applied to my body. In the worst case scenario, if I were to fall… I want to go out on my own terms. Fighting to the death.
As I stepped out of the comfort of this little camp I had set up, I could see the roofs of nearby houses. The smoke rising from campfires. I heard the cheering and dancing of people, the joyful harmony that permeated the village. Although the song still droned in my head, clawing at my memories, I resisted its allure. It, and that of the fungus itself. This was another one of the witch’s tricks. There is no joy to be found within these lands. Only death. “I must cling to these tenants,” I told myself.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Some people came into view. Distant, foreign people I had never seen before. Their faces seemed normal, as did their clothing. Were they newcomers here? How did they cross the border? Or was this, perhaps, another illusion? I kept my sword sheathed for now. After all, entering the village as a hostile maniac would get me nowhere. I would need to secure an audience with the Witch herself.
One of them spotted me. They probably saw me limping towards the village, because they immediately called for help. I bit my lip and cursed under my breath. Of course I wasn’t going to blend in, but I didn’t expect them to immediately summon the whole village here. Soon enough, a crowd had gathered around me. Some of them approached me cautiously, attempting to help me walk. I could see the tendrils of fungus run up their arms and down their legs.
If I were hostile now… it would put me in a predicament. I would be fighting the victims of the curse, and not the source of it. I could not live with myself if I were to commit such a sin, no matter how merciful a death would be for these people. But in reality, I was too tired to fight back. Too tired to resist their placations, too hungry to think about anything else.
As gross as it was, I let them touch me. I let them carry me, treat me, feed me. I let them wash me, bathe me. They fed me spores and honey, kept me in a small dirty house filled with the scent of fungus. And yet… It was the best I felt in weeks. No longer malnourished, no longer feeling the rumbling of my stomach. This must be the Witch’s strength. She keeps her subjects loyal by making them content. Surely.
A few hours after my arrival, I heard some rustling from outside the house. The villagers had not confiscated my armor and weapon, but they no doubt recognised who it belonged to. The Knights of Coedraig had long and loyally served the goddess of the forest.
In walks none other than the Witch herself. The self-proclaimed Lady Coedraig, who had possessed the girl known as Fals. She hesitated upon seeing my face, but smiled nonetheless.
“I believe we haven’t been properly introduced to each other yet. My name is Lady Madru, goddess of the Tender Rust. You are the former captain Leonard, are you not?”