Something was very, very wrong. Much of the mist had cleared, consumed by the grotesque abomination, and for the first time in eighteen harrowing hours, Leth could see more than ten feet.

The Duke tramped towards them, alone.

I hope he is going to parley. I don’t want to kill anymore people. I’m not even sure I can.

Leth fiddled with his ring, twisting it around and around. He pushed his mind outwards. It was overwhelming. Mycelium like fronds of magic grew from every surface, waving back and forth in a greater current, like seaweed bobbing with the tide.

Blue, brown, and silver fragments demanded his attention wherever his mind turned, all swept up in a great gale of yellow ripples spreading outwards as far as he could see. Yet one strand of power dragged him back again and again, no matter how much he didn’t want to see it.

Iridescent black coated the Duke’s right hand. Power dripped from his hand like tar and every visible vein in his body was highlighted black. He looked like a living, macabre anatomy doll, his inner workings inked out by some insane medical pioneer.

Pulsing vines spread from the Duke’s hand along the ground towards every corpse Leth could see. Above each body, a whirlpool of life magic spun and was dragged down through the dead, twisting its aspect to its utter opposite and feeding back to the Duke.

The Duke opened his fist. Within, lay a familiar lump of Feorhhord Gimcynn; a heart beat inside.

Who does that belong to?

The stone clouded as death flowed in like swirls of black smoke. The heart beat faster. Leth heard distant screaming.

The Duke didn’t seem to notice. He pointed at the troop.

“Shoot him!” said Leth.

Two bolts and an arrow flew past Leth’s head. Three feet before the Duke, the projectiles disintegrated to dust.

A glittering obsidian coloured beam rushed from the Duke’s outstretched hand and struck the wall right below Leth.

He dived.

Stone poured onto the earth as most of the wall weathered to sand in an instant.

“What the hell was that?” said Cempa.

“No time,” said Leth. “Get behind me or die.”

Everyone scrambled behind him. He’d sounded more competent than he felt. Leth’s fingers danced over his staff.

He heard sloshing.

It’s working!

“Err, Leth,” said Tadhgán. “The Cwylla is rising.”

“I know.”

Why does everyone always have to talk when I am trying to cast a spell?

Life magic flowed and encircled them. Small droplets rose and fused together as their density increased.

The Duke glared at them through the broken wall. What little left of the Duke’s natural colouring was bright red. The pulsing black veins beat faster.

Leth’s gloves began to smoke. Only the very top of his hastily constructed dome was still open.

The Duke’s magic struck Leth’s dome.

The dome’s surface boiled.

Leth pulled more magic from the Cwylla. His staff turned white. He yelped and the staff toppled. The dome broke into droplets. For a moment everything froze as Leth realized the horror of what was about to happen.

A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder and another reached for the staff.

“Steady lad,” said Cempa.

Leth could smell Cempa’s hand burning. Leth took his staff back. The dome stabilized before the drops could fall. The pain was immense, but Cempa’s never left his shoulder.

I can do this.

The dome sealed and thickened.

The Duke advanced as Leth’s hands burned.

Will my hands ever recover?

The dome rippled as the Duke’s beam intensified. It skittered over the surface like water over glass, seeking a way in.

Leth’s staff dripped, the metal flowing down the side like candle wax. He was sure his gloves were gone and his hands were completely numb. Leth’s eyes welled with tears. Any moment now and the symbols would lose too much definition and the spell would fail. He’d led the troop here and they huddled beneath his magic.

We’re all going to die and it’s my fault!

The only smell in the closed space was his own cooking flesh. Leth spasmed and wretched. Nothing came out. He’d left too much of his fear on the ground earlier. The grip on Leth’s shoulder tightened.

The Duke finally approached close enough for Leth to hear what he was yelling, “Go away! Leave me alone! Why won’t you die? You’re supposed to die!”

Duke Mánfeld charged at them.

Hrolf, Milde, and Clæfre stepped in front of Leth and raised their shields.

“DIE!” said Dolwillen, gasping. His charge slowed.

Leth’s vision blurred. His knees wobbled, “I’m going to faint.”

“Just a bit longer lad,” said Cempa. “You’ll make it.”

“DIE!DIE!DI-” the Duke tripped and landed face first. His beam vanished. The last thing Leth saw before he passed out was Weard grabbing his half-melted staff.

What’s that on my lips?

Leth’s tongue quested forward on reflex. Water. He opened his mouth a little. More water trickled in.

Someone was cradling him, rocking him back and forth. It was soft and warm. Leth wanted to sleep. He also wanted to know why he was alive. He forced his gummy eyes open.

Two huge eyes stared at him, they had little streaks of yellow and blue among the white, “Welcome back,” said Elewýs.

“How long.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Leth glanced at his hands. They were covered in bandages. He tried to move them, but felt nothing.

“The Duke’s men?”

“They grabbed horses and rode away.”

“Is it over?”

“Sort of.”

Elewýs moved Leth so he could see the Duke.

The Duke was face down and Cempa was sitting on his back. The Duke was trying to wriggle forward.

He’s not going anywhere like that.

Weard squatted before the Duke’s upturned face, swinging the black Feorhhord Gimcynn back and forth on its silver chain. Every time it swung towards him, the Duke made a grab for it, but he couldn’t quite reach.

“Can you take me closer?”

Elewýs stood, took three steps, and knelt again.

“Thanks,” said Leth.

“What do you want to do with the bugger?” said Cempa. “I know we’re supposed to ransom him, but he’s insulted us, incited civil war, chased us around the country, and tried to kill us at least three times.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Give it back,” said the Duke.

Cempa pressed the man’s face into the blood soaked soil, “Well?”

Leth stared at the Duke for several minutes as he spluttered under Cempa’s merciless grip. He sighed, “I think I’ve seen enough dead people for one day. We’ll drag him back and he can wither in a dungeon, or wherever the King decides to let him fester. I expect he’s been stripped of his assets, he won’t be able cause anymore uproars, and we won’t get any money off him.”

“What about this?” said Weard. He waved the stone towards Leth.

“Do you remember what you said about this sort of magic being bad for your health?” said Leth.

Weard nodded.

“That stone has become Heorþ aspect, a lump of solid entropy magic. We’ll throw it in the Cwylla. Maybe the two will cancel each other out enough to limit its effective range.”

“No, no, no, no!” said Mánfeld. “It’s mine. It’s not yours to throw away.”

“It is now,” said Weard and hurled it between the gap in their wall and into the Cwylla. It skipped once and disappeared.

“No!” said Mánfeld. He struggled harder, bucking hard enough to dislodge Cempa. Weard tried to grab him, but the Duke was too quick.

He ran to the edge of the Cwylla, turned back and snarled, “No one takes from me! I will slaughter you all.”

“You’re not going to kill anyone, little man,” said Elewýs.

“You! You, I’m going to kill you most of all.” He dived into the pool and vanished beneath the surface.

“Bugger me,” said Hrolf.

The troop clustered around the gap and peered into the thick yellow liquid. Several minutes passed in silence.

Milde poked her spear in, blade first, “He’s gone.”

“Damn, I wanted to try my new gag,” said Weard.

“No one’s stopping you,” said Cempa.

Leth fainted.

*

Elewýs stared at the point where the Feorhhord Gimcynn had been chucked in.

If this works, I’ll be stuck here, among the ruins of my dreams, the bodies of my friends, and the grinning corpses of the men and women I’ve killed.

Elewýs looked at the crippled boy in her arms and the battered motley men and women surrounding her.

Perhaps they’ll visit.

The Cwylla rippled.

An empty calm filled her. She didn’t have to worry about the future anymore. Her concerns had been washed away by an unimpressive skimming attempt and a quiet splash.

Blobs of black bobbed to the surface.

What are those little blobs anyway?

Leth coughed. He looked pale. Elewýs had seen his bones when Péton wrapped the boy’s fingers.

There are a few nice spots in the forest; I could assemble a shelter. Perhaps I’ll build a treehouse.

She rocked Leth a little, but he didn’t stir.

Thump. Thump.

Elewýs head whipped from side to side as her friends collapsed, only Weard didn’t fall.

The back of her throat itched. She coughed, showering Leth with spittle. She wiped his face with a cloth. It came away pink. Elewýs glanced at the Cwylla. It had lost much of its lustre.

Elewýs chewed her lip as the Cwylla turned from dull yellow, to grey, to black. Only a small circular patch at the very centre remained unaffected, a bright spot of egg yolk yellow, fighting against a tide of tar.

She coughed again. This time she was sure it was her blood.

The black lump of Feorhhord Gimcynn was having a terrible effect.

She had to get away, “Help me.”

Weard didn’t answer.

“We have to run.”

He vanished. His clothes and armour clattered to the ground.

“Weard?”

“I’m here.” His outline flickered at the limits of her perception. He was nude. She looked away.

“Are you alright?” said Elewýs.

“I’m fine. This is a pretty normal state for me.”

“What-”

“I’ll tell you later. We need to scarper.”

“But I can’t carry them all. Two at most.”

“I can.” Weard’s form flowed into the sand. A titan of sand and soil rose from the mix in a crude approximation of his form. The construct was twice her size.

“You’re big.”

“I’m flattered.”

She knew she was blushing, “That’s not what I meant.”

How could he joke at a time like this? Seriously though, it was right in her face.

“Can’t you do something about that thing?”

Weard glanced down and gave an immodest shrug. It jiggled, “Not really, this form has to be an authentic replica or it will fall apart too quickly.” He smirked, “I can’t discard my manly identity like that.”

Weard picked up the troop one by one and stacked them side by side in the palm of his hand. She wished he would wipe that stupid grin off his face. Weard cupped his empty hand over the top of the troop.

“Lets go,” said Weard.

“Me first,” said Elewýs.

There is no way I’m going to sprint through the Wúduwésten staring at Weard’s titanic, knobbly buttocks.

Elewýs jogged among the ruins, trying hard not to jostle Leth or trip. They reached the edge of the wall and circled round until they found the eastern road.

“You’re bleeding,” said Weard.

I thought those were tears.

“I can probably travel for another hour,” said Elewýs. “You?”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Weard. “Will you be alright? Does it hurt?”

“No to both.”

“Are you dying?”

“Probably.”

“I’m sorry I threw the stone in Elewýs.”

Elewýs nodded. She sniffed; not all of her tears were blood.

They reached the eighth milestone. Elewýs sank to the ground.

Weard placed the troop on the verge and removed Leth from her arms. His form dissolved, leaving a huge mess in the middle of the road. He was still naked.

She passed him her pigskin doublet, “Please put this on.”

He laughed, “Thanks.”

“Do your friends know you can do that?”

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Fine.” The silence stretched.

Weard rummaged through their remaining gear, “This would be a really bad time for them to wake up.”

“What are you doing.”

“An experiment.” Weard placed helmet in the middle of the road and filled it with water and soil.

“Isn’t that Cempa’s helmet?”

“I can’t use my own now, can I?” Weard’s naked buttocks were perilously close to Cempa’s headgear.

“I don’t think he’d agree,” said Elewýs.

“I’d better be quick then.” A glass vial appeared in his hand, filled with life magic.

“Where were you keeping that?”

“It is my firm policy not to answer questions people would rather not know the answer too, even if they ask them.”

Weard uncorked the vial and let a single drop fall into the muddy mix. Plants sprouted immediately. In less than a minute, the helmet was filled with flowers.

Once they stopped growing, Weard pulled out the plants and carried the helmet over to the unconscious troop. He smeared the mix onto Leth’s bandaged hands, Cempa’s burned palm, Clæfre’s slashed, grimy face, and Hrolf’s damaged arm. For Milde, he daubed a substantial lump onto the centre of her forehead and over her heart.

Weard squatted, “Now it’s your turn.”

Elewýs eyed the remaining muddy goo, “My injuries are internal, and without the Cwylla, they’ll keep coming back.”

“Do you still have your tankard?”

“It’s in my coat pocket.”

Weard fished it out and filled it with the remaining water. Weard added a single drop of magic. The water turned thick and green. He handed her the mixture.

“I’m not drinking that!” A tooth dropped from her mouth and chimed off the flagstones.

“You sure?” said Weard. “We not only need to counter the entropy magic, but also your body’s degradation from the sudden absence of the Cwylla’s sustenance.”

Elewýs shivered as the implication of Weard’s words hit her, “You mean, if this works, I could have left the forest at any time?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Elewýs pictured Fustrendel’s happy face when they’d first met. She recalled her first kiss with Eormenric, her dead friends and family, and the time she’d lost with her father.

“I know green water usually makes you sick, but you’ll be a lot more ill if you drink it straight, and dead if you don’t drink it at all.”

Elewýs twitched, “That’s not why I’m hesitating.” She looked back towards Wigsteall. A hot wave of anger suffused her decomposing body, “They imprisoned us.”

“Has your reception outside the Wúduwésten made you resent the time you spent there?”

Elewýs pictured her exclusion at the ball, Duke Mánfeld’s irrational hatred, and her mother’s rejection. She’d never forget that last one. In contrast, she’d enjoyed the Galdorcwide’s genuine kindness and enthusiasm. It wasn’t something they could have universally faked consistently for five years.

Elewýs necked the verdant slop. It tasted like cold spring greens soup. She shot to her feet, “Whoa!”

Weard crabbed away as fast as he could, “You’re not going to explode, are you?”

The effect was exhilarating. It reminded her of the cavern beneath Wigsteall. A smile spread over her face. She couldn’t stop it, she felt like someone had stuck their fingers in the corners of her mouth and was pulling with determined enthusiasm. Her cheeks ached.

Weard handed her the vial. There wasn’t much. How much did she need to take? How long would it last? Her smile dropped.

“You can put a bucket on a pole and take more from the centre of the Cwylla.” Weard picked up a discarded plant and bit down on a spicy dandelion leaf, “Don’t use wood.”

Elewýs nodded. She was too happy to speak.

I am free.