Chapter 21

Day Nine – Sunset

The sky was painted orange by Father Sun’s farewell behind the horizon. To Tonna and Buron, that meant rain might befall them soon. Two days had passed since their irksome first encounter between the inhabitants of the hut in the marshes and their intruders. Zaber was hobbling around the hut, much to the displeasure of his reluctant caretakers.

“Switch!” yelled the broken veteran at Torm.

The boy was handling a crossbow and stood right behind a fully armored Breg. Towering over Torm, the giant swung his bardiche around in repeated dry runs. The unreasonably tall man stepped aside as if he was facing a new enemy after felling the first. Torm stepped into the open space to play his part. He knelt down, cast aside the crossbow, and drew his hunting knife to run it into the ground. The boy even imitated a gesture of raising a helmet or putting aside something before pushing the blade through imagined gaps. For Breg, this wasn’t a challenge at all, his face was still calm and collected. He was fully in control of his movements, but his young backup was glistering and panting. They had been drilling relentlessly for hours. Dry shooting and finishing off one enemy after another.

The two other veterans stood close-by, Buron right next to Zaber. Still looking unusually clean, the mentor was judging and instructing his apprentice from the chopping block. His bald friend was leaning against the hut’s wall, bare-chested and bare-footed.

“Don’t bend over with your back, you got more strength in your legs,” said Buron and stepped in to correct Torm’s posture.

“I–” the boy panted. “I know. But I hit my limit–” He kept on his knees and widened the collar of the dirty-white gambeson under a piece of rusted maille. “Too ex–, exhausted. Sorry.”

“You good, stay down a bit,” said Buron and patted the boy’s helmet. “You move way more confident and well in armor compared to when we started.”

Now that his hair fell in unusual ways, Zaber had to constantly push strands out of his face. It felt like he had lost another protective layer around him, even though he was wearing his old attire again. All of them did, as Buron and Torm had cooked and washed their tainted clothing. And Breg and Zaber had tended to their weaponry. Annoyed, Zaber tried to get up and…

“Ah, ah, ah,” said Thyra from behind. She was leaning inside the door frame, watching the drills beady-eyed. The long talks they had at night showed results and her words were not ignored. She even wagged her finger the same way her mother did when Thyra herself was younger, but was ignored.

“You gotta aim more careful,” said Breg and pulled off the visorless barbuta from his head. It was of the latest Galázion fashion but dents and scratches had robbed it of its beauty. “Couple of your shots would have hit me in the hip or arms. Take your time at peace to build a routine for war.” The unreasonably tall man walked over to his bald companion and hung his helmet on a strap woven into the maille on his chest. His hand gently rubbed upwards Buron’s shoulder, into his neck. Smiling at his bald companion before turning around with a serious visage. “So far, you’re still a distraction to me cleaving them apart.”

“I know,” replied Torm and fiddled with the strap on his chin, not quite getting the skull cap off. “I try to–”

“Don’t try anything,” interrupted Zaber. “It ain’t even much to step further outside or duck down more. You still move like you’re in a duel. I lost good armor, if you hit my arm it’s over.”

“You know, I could be a third front.” Torm stood up and let the crossbow hang down in one hand, placing the free one on his bauernwehr. “I’m way better–”

“Not this horseshit again,” grunted Zaber and scratched the scar along his jaw. “Next fight will be against real soldiers, not some dumb guardsmen. All tinned up, bladework ain’t going to cut it.”

“Heh,” laughed Buron, moving between mentor and apprentice. “Cutting it.”

Three raised eyebrows and a giggle came from the background. “Fuck you,” smiled Zaber, knowing what his friend was doing.

“What you gonna do?” asked Buron, the only unarmored man among the friends, as he slapped Zaber against his bad shoulder. “Right now, even I can outrun you.”

Seething in pain for a moment, Zaber glimpsed at his bald friend. Torm and Thyra looked shocked, but the broken veteran’s face brightened up. “Anyway,” he said and tried to get his hair to stay put. “You’ll back me up, and Buron goes with Breg. No ifs, ands or buts; this is the drill and you do as to–” Zaber clenched his teeth.

Torm sighed. “Got it.”

“Heh,” laughed Thyra, imitating Buron. “Butts.”

“Not you too.” Zaber’s mind had been drifting away, but got back on track. He turned around as much as he could. “We gotta murder some fuckers, this ain’t a laughing matter.”

Crestfallen, Thyra slouched down and walked up to Torm, giving him a little jab of encouragement. “You’re doing good,” she said, even though she had no clue if she was right. “My mother can be like that as well when teaching me.” Her eyes followed Breg and she couldn’t resist touching the bardiche axe. All this stuff only existed in her books and she was yearning to give any of these weapons a swing. Every time she got too close, that giant or the grumpy one were staring daggers at her. They were very protective of their murder toys and no fun. “However,” clapped Thyra, a hint of her dramatic mezzo shining through. “How are you doing, Zaber? One more night of rest and song and you should be ready to go.”

“I–” Zaber halted, smirking at what was about to come. “I’ve never been better.”

“Good to hear,” said the rugged woman and fiddled with the fringes of her dress. Something in Zaber’s voice was just not sitting right with her. All four of them were saying things in ways she was still trying to get a grip on. “It’s an even night, so no juice today. And need to get off it from now on,” she paused and exhaled. “And you really need to sleep.”

“Don’t worry, I packed it up,” said Buron, helping Breg with his armor. Running his hands over and around the giant’s chest, smiling upwards into the salt and pepper beard. “Thanks for the stock, again.” The scrawny man looked back at Thyra and winked. Afterwards, he turned his full attention back to what’s in front of him. Adding one more word while looking into his companion’s eyes. “Appreciated.”

“You lot have no idea–”, whispered the young woman. “You know what? We should do something nice for our last evening. Wanna teach me one of these soldier songs you’ve been whistling and humming all these days?” She tilted her head slightly, making her untamed hair fall over her shoulder and half her face. She looked rather silly blowing it away and shaking her head. So much for trying to be puppy-eyed.

“Our songs ain’t for you, missy,” said Breg, muffled beneath the maille over his head. “We gotta get the steel over to the horses before supper. Tomorrow–”

“No,” cuts Zaber into Breg’s words, making him stop immediately. “Let’s make her regret that she asked. We might come back here someday.” He smirked even more, with a clipped nod. “Maybe you can teach me a song then. When all this is over.”

As the rugged woman and the worn-out veteran looked at each other knowingly, a strong contralto reached out to them. “I never want to see you again,” said Tonna. “You are already deadmen. If your forlorn venture succeeds, you can never return here. Or anywhere.”

“Don’t write us off so easily,” said Torm and walked inside the hut where Tonna was cooking. “We’re–”

“No weapons inside, still,” said the older woman. “You can play with your toys outside, but not in our home.”

Fish was their main source of sustenance. She was frying whitefish with salt and the rosemary that she hid under her pillow. It hadn’t shown any of its effect on their patient, but it helped Tonna. She felt relieved at the thought that this was their last night. They’d already left their mark. Their nightly neighbor had brought berries and nuts. Using these, Tonna was making her specialty sauce with leek. She even smoked some eel for them to take on their journey.

Leaving the steel at the door, Torm didn’t try to be soft-footed around the older woman. She had been startled on more than one occasion over the last few days and there was no need to make her more miserable. But he had to follow that smell. The unreasonably tall man and his bald companion were carrying their belongings a couple hundred yards away, and Thyra was pestering Zaber with more questions. His mentor was ignoring her, but there was no running away. It was a nice change for the boy to see the man so eerily enthusiastic. It had to be Breg’s and Buron’s presence, Zaber wasn’t like that before the ambush failed…

“May I help you, Torm?” asked Tonna, looking detached into the pan.

“Huh?” The boy lost his thought. “Only following the smell. Aren’t you happy to kick us out?”

Closing her eyes and rubbing them with one hand, Tonna sighed long and slow. “Boy, if it was just for you, I wouldn’t mind,” she murmured more to herself. “But your elders pain me. The way they talk, the way they move, and the way they look,” she said and flipped the fish. “They are what they are, and everyone who’s encountered men like them cannot overlook that.”

Torm had come to express his honest gratitude, this wasn’t what he expected. “Listen, Zaber has helped–”

“I do not know who your parents are, but I am sure the reasons why you’re living with this man have to be sad,” she interrupted. “But let me give you one piece of advice in their stead:” The older woman turned around and looked deep into the boy’s hazy blue eyes. “Ditch them. You are not like them and they’ll be your death. Stop trying.”

“”You don’t kno–”, tried Torm again, but didn’t get far.

“I’ve heard and seen enough these last few days. Thyra might not notice yet, but I know well what it means to be wrong about the folk around you. The big one hates you and his lover couldn’t care less,” said Tonna and reached out for Torm’s shoulder. “And your big brother, or master, or teacher, or whoever he’s to you agrees with me. You are not like him, boy. You’re bet–”

Overwhelmed at first, with an open mouth, Torm didn’t know how to reply at first. But when the older woman was about to touch him, he swatted her hand away in anger. “I ain’t your boy,” he said dryly with narrowed brows. “I’ll help Breg and Buron so we can scram early.” He turned around and marched out, the same way he came in. Grabbing his weapon and the next best piece of gear, Torm followed Buron and Breg. The boy’s stomps immediately attracted Zaber’s attention and Thyra had to hold him back from standing up.

“One more day,” she said. “Just one day of inaction. This won’t kill you.” Noticing the flinch in her patient, Thyra held her hand in place. “Let’s go inside if it pains you so much to see them work,” she smiled.

Scratching the scar along his jaw, Zaber followed with a curt nod. His eyes wandered after Torm until he disappeared between the trees. Not much sunlight was left and they had to get this done. And the girl was right, thought Zaber. It felt damned shit to not lend them a hand. The broken veteran needed a distraction, constantly. He felt his mind slipping away again, thinking about how to reach the transport. If it weren’t for the poppy juice, it might be even worse. Every moment he wasn’t thinking about how Sagir was suffering for his blunder, Zaber yearned for another chug of sweet relief. Whenever its spell wore off, he felt just as shit as before… maybe even more.

“’aight, let’s go.” Zaber shook off the thoughts that were intruding into his head. “You should talk books with the boy later. He’s losing his calm and I need him at his best.”

“What?” Thyra’s head jolted back. “I will talk books with him, but not so he can do your dirty deeds better,” she said, revolted.

With a disgruntled, “Huh?”, Zaber came to a halt. He braced himself against the walls to walk, but Thyra already came to his aid. “That ain’t–”

“Yeh, yeh,” silenced Thyra the veteran. “You really like to order folk around, don’t you? Your friends seem used to it, so you can play war with them,” said the rugged woman amused. “But me and my mother like to ask each other nicely and wait for an answer. Like normal folk.”

“What would you even know about normal folk,” smiled Zaber, forced. “Tell me when you meet them.”

Thyra stopped and brought both of them to a halt. She opened her mouth as if she had something to say, but instead walked on to get Zaber a seat. Glimpsing at her mother, still cooking, the young woman pointed at the veteran and said, “Good point.”

The unreasonably tall man walked back from their cargo run. When Torm joined them, Buron saddled and loaded the horses. He had sent Breg back to fetch their last weapons and gear. It was a good opportunity to teach the boy, as the bald man didn’t expect him to be a good rider, from all these years in the big city. Breg, on the other hand, did not have the kind of patience for this, at least not for the boy. He was a good hunter, but that did not mean he was good with animals – nor humans.

When Breg had left Buron’s presence, his shoulders tensed up. He straightened his beard with both hands. Without even noticing, his fists clenched at any unfamiliar noise around him. His beard was bristly, but his black and gray hair flowed well with every step he took. When Beg saw the hut, his eyes focused on his polearm from afar and his steps accelerated into a steep march. When he grabbed it, he gave it a small, calming swing; something he did with a lot of things when he got the chance. Even more so when he felt alone.

Not minding any of the female voices within, Breg only gave it a quick peek to spot his friend. Their eyes met, as usual, as Zaber spotted his unreasonably tall friend from the periphery of his eyes. They were always on the same page like this.

But just like that, Breg’s ears itched and he threw a troubled look into the darkness of the forest. He skimmed the area until his stare became fixed like a pointer dog. The unreasonably tall man slowly stepped away from the hut and its distracting noises. Until he recognized the cause of his irritation. An animal; with hooves. Powerful, long strides…

Breg squinted. There was a figure afar, covered by the feint hints of the setting sun through the treetops. He opened his mouth, but got interrupted by a brass horn from the bog, reassuring him. “Armored rider!” yelled Breg. A cavalryman was heading straight at the colossus. Wearing an unsegmented sallet, legs and armed tinned, but only a plackart on top of a coat of plated with maille. This was good armor, not a guard or levied footman.

Lowering his stance, Breg shifted the grip of his bardiche to bring it down, ready for an upward swing. He knew what he was facing; half a ton of horse and steel, about to run him over. But the rider wasn’t armed with a lance or spear, only a cavalry sword and shield. Nor was it a barded horse, dressed to show the colors of their regiment. Inhaling once, relishing what was about to happen, this wasn’t this giant’s first game of chicken. And yet, he was still standing here, on this chill evening.

Thyra arrived outside at the right moment to witness what kind of magic comes from a man of Breg’s size. And what her mother had warned her about. The unreasonably tall man didn’t bat an eye when he cleaved into the unprotected face of the horse. When he exhaled, Thyra’s breath stood still, in fear that Breg was about to be trampled. But instead, an excruciating whinny echoed through the forest. The beast’s face was ripped open and parts of its left eye were gaping.

Still in full motion, the steed stumbled sideways with the flow of the swing. Its legs gave in, crashing to the ground. Tackling the pure concentration of muscles that was Breg ever so slightly, forcing him to shift stance. Under the horse’s dying breaths, the rider was screaming his lungs out. The soldier’s legs were smashed under the weight of the animal. A couple of steps and Breg had grabbed the man’s helmet, forced it open, and crushed the rider’s face under his massive fist.

“I’ll take him! Retreat, retreat,” yelled the colossal veteran, planted his polearm blade-first into the steed’s neck, and kicked the brass horn aside.

“Understood,” replied Zaber equally loud and clear, limping outside. He grabbed his lange messer from the door. “I handle the rear guard.” His face was painted in pain, but now was not the time to rest.

Jumping to her patient’s side, Thyra braced herself against Zaber. “What–” Her breath hadn’t returned yet. “What is happening?”

“You dimwitted morons,” rang a dramatic contralto from inside. Hastily, Tonna grabbed as many belongings as she could and threw them into a blanket. “You led them here, into my home,” she said, through tears of anger. “You damned–”

“Mother,” uttered Thyra and turned back. “What… I–”

“Leg it, we gotta scram,” interrupted Zaber as he fastened his belt. “That horn will bring more. Well armed, numbers unknown, and–”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Zaber?!” Buron and Torm ran towards them over the pastures. “Are they coming, was that a signal horn?” asked Buron, already sweating, even though it was evening.

Breg rose after he dragged the soldier out from under the bleeding horse. He had stowed the cavalryman’s sword back in its sheath and wielded the man in full armor like a yoke. Pulling his weapon out of the horse, he looked at his friends. “Four more riders; The Margrave’s coat of arms!” he yelled once more and ran.

“Run! We gotta–” Zaber halted and his ears shifted through the woods. Something beneath these tramples caught his attention, something familiar… “Mage,” he whispered. “It’s the line magician! GO!”

As if she was summoned by these words, Tonna appeared behind her daughter and pulled her around and into her arms. She looked into Thyra’s eyes and pushed the bundle onto the younger woman. “I love you, fawn,” she said. Her cheeks and eyes were red, but filled with righteous wrath when she faced Zaber. “I’ll haunt you if she dies. You’ll never find peace.” Her fists were clenched and her chest heaved with deep, steady breaths from her gut. “Now, by the Stars, take her and run. I will handle this.”

The band of four and Thyra had arrived at the same spot and Buron took the last gear lying around. “Let’s go,” he said hastily, with the three veterans nodding at each other.

Zaber was about to drag Thyra – still bracing him – away, but was stopped by Torm. “On my back,” ordered the boy, turned around and bent his knees. But his mentor was about to ignore him. “No! No!” screamed Torm. “It is my turn! You listen to me: Get your damned arse on my damned back, now!” his voice cracked.

Coming to a full stop, Zaber looked at Buron and Breg, whose gazes urged him to comply. The broken veteran’s teeth pressed the muscles on his jaw out. “’aight,” he said. “Buron; girl duty,” he added and did as told.

“Come on,” said Buron and grabbed Thyra’s arm. Still in shock, it was easy to drag her along. If she wanted or not.

“Walk close to the trees, they’re a cavalryman’s natural enemy,” said Zaber and tilted his head so that he could see next to the boy’s head. “No looking back. You run and you run fast.” Zaber held on close and Torm nodded acknowledging.

From far away, after Thyra’s breath had returned, Tonna was able to hear her fawn’s voice once more. “Mother!” she screamed over and over. “Mother! Please! I love you, please!”

But it was too late. Tonna had returned inside, the odor of fish and her sauce still in the air. There she sat, out of the view of her arriving new visitors. But her strong, dramatic contralto could be heard all around the hut. Her home, which she built with her own two hands and where she raised her niece as her own. Hands she wanted to cover in tears, but that would break her breath. And Tonna needed her breath. Her daughter needed her breath.

And thus the air filled with oscillations, distortions, and melody…

“Hauzija miz, hauzija miz, hit isti ainaz warōnąs talǭ,

Ubiri þa fērō þat lagjaną bījainaz þa mihstaz sumpaz,

Hwar þa wētaz mōtijanō þa daudaz, uppwrōts fanē lībą,

þa kraftuz þa Wistiz isti bījainaz izweraz graipisōn,

Līką rastō wela at þa butmaz ab þat mihstaz sumpaz...”

The earth shook and the tremors of the spell and the trampling horses mixed. A long-winded chant accompanied the riders. It originated from the last, granting the animals unnatural swiftness.

“Dā eis vēlōcitātem,” sung a sonorous tenor, light, repeatedly from beneath an older bascinet with a latticed visor. Lost between the trees, Genhard did not notice another song. Following his orders, his mind was set on one goal and one alone. “I–” he tried to speak, but keeping his voice, singing and riding at the same time was more than what he was trained for. “Ignore the wench! Follow the men,” he said, letting the spell fade behind them. When they were close enough, Genhard planned on picking up the tone. To crush them beneath their hooves, and avoid all battle…

Tonna’s singing though, was fundamentally different from the patrician’s. Slow and melodic, seeping into nature, as opposed to these methodical chants that violated it. The wind-up had been long enough for the witch’s spell to show its first effects. The humid evening air of the marshes were gathering into a thin veil. The ground beneath the soldiers turned muddy and soft. On instinct, the horses slowed down, lost track and stumbled. Their legs were getting entangled by the roots of the trees, pulling them down.

Only their stirrups kept the cavalrymen on horseback after an abrupt halt. However, one of them was unfortunate and got catapulted ahead, crashed, and sank right away, a few inches, into the miry ground. “Argh!” he cried. “What the fuck?!”

Their leader wasn’t an experienced rider. Genhard held tight, maybe too tight, onto the reins and clamped onto his steed. He pulled up his visor and looked around. “Psht!” His voice was shrill. “Silent!”

„Uppwrōts fanē lībą, aiwaz manniskaz werþaną beun,

Newunmann kunnaną anþikwemaną þa kraftuz þa Wistiz,

Newunmann kunnaną fleuhaną.“

“Cornet!” yelled the soldier on the ground as he was dragged beneath the surface. “Something is grabbing me under–” All air squeezed out of his lungs. The horses were only spared this quick fate by merit of their size.

“Forget what I said; storm the house. Kill–” Genhard hesistated. “Kill that witch!”

“How? We can’t dismount lik–” replied one soldier, sword and shield in hand.

“Mūtāre ad solidum,” sang the sonorous tenor. His spell was quick, drying up the earth around them so much that the grass was withering. “Quick,” ordered Genhard. His blonde mutton chops were flowing out of the helmet. The light wound on his cheek was still there, red and wet.

The cavalrymen abandoned their horses and charged Tonna’s hut. Their cavalry swords were all of slightly different shapes, but their heater shields were uniform. Each displaying the Margrave’s coat of arms with the second banner’s numeral on it. All of them were professional soldiers, wearing cuirasses or coat of plates, tinned legs, forearms and shoulders. With maille beneath and their heads enclosed in steel.

“Rē – Mī – Fā – Sō…” Genhard’s chants oppressed Tonna’s voice. Still singing in the background, forcing the squirming roots to stand still. The tenor filled the air with disruptions. It slowed the witches’ vibrations down before they could reach their target. She couldn't force her Will on it. Walking in armor and singing at the same time made it hard to focus on the seemingly chaotic change of tones the patrician chose. He walked behind the soldiers, choosing each pitch carefully.

“Get her,” ordered the first. When they reached the walls and peeked into the window, the five soldiers assigned to Genhard had already lost two. The three cavalrymen and the patrician saw the middle aged woman sitting on her stool. Eyes closed, when a deafening screech from the woods pierced through Genhard’s chants.

“BʰuHspeḱ méynos Hreyǵ, kʷísheyu legʰhn̥dʰér de méynos dʰergdyé!” sizzled a chaotic yet melodic shriek towards the soldiers. A barely four feet tall creature in shredded fabrics jumped at them at a similar speed to a charging horse. Its grimace pierced by teeth, fallen in uncountable wrinkles. Impossible to recognize as a human. Deep blue skin like the night’s sky. Patches of hair sprouting all over its body and eyes that hardly stood out from its sockets.

Deep green saliva splattered from its moving mouth as it sang an archaic tune and buried its brutal tool in the first cavalryman’s face. Bending and breaking the metal at the hinges of the man’s helmet, his skull broken open. Blood dripped from the splintered stone on a wooden club, fixated with flaxen rope. Even more blood spilled out of the helmet of the soldier. His lifeless body was smashed against the walls of the shack.

“By the Stars, w–” yelled the last standing soldier. He raised his shield to block an incoming swing from the monstrosity. But iron mountings, leather lamination and wood were not enough to withstand the strength of the nightskrat. Skratty carved through the obstacle with such force that its bearer’s arm was snapped like a twig.

“ÉǵhHóm só nókʷts tód óynosleyg perō só dʰogʷʰos!” continued the creature deemed friend by Tonna and Thyra relentlessly. A green fluid dripped from his eyes in contact with the last remnants of sunlight. The third soldier thrust forward his sword and dug it into the nightskrat’s naked side.

Filled with pain and magic, Skratty’s chant was interrupted by a scream. Too fast to even retract his weapon, the soldier got hit by the monster’s primitive weapon. It shattered against the breastplate, no match for modern metalwork. It left a lasting dent and flung the man away. Two cracks might have been heard, if it weren’t for the three voices singing over each other. One from the cavalryman’s rib cage, the other from his neck when he hit a tree sideways.

With only a couple of feet between him and this thing, Genhard had to think fast. He knew very well what this untamed wild beast was. Capable of the most ancient magic and filled with a natural connection to it. Its spells were inferior to his, but one hit and no armor in the world could save him. He had no choice but to give in to the witch if he wanted to survive against this abomination. He had to finish this quickly. And by the Stars, he hated it.

“Ego ventilō,” he sang, and pushed his hands away from himself.

The nightskrat was caught by a stormy gust of wind and nothing but its natural strength kept it afoot. However, the ground beneath both of them turned soft and miry by the strong contralto in the background once more.

Genhard closed his eyes in prayer. “May the Stars stand by me–” he murmured. “I’m a damned enchanter! Ego trahō ferrum!”

As the nightskrat braced itself against the winds, feet sinking into the ground, Genhard pulled back his hands in sync with his words. It was about to leap forward again, when the nightskrat became aware that it wasn’t the target of the spell. Something behind it was. The whirring sound of a sword came closer, fast. It belonged to the man flung into the trees and any normal folk would have been stabbed by it. But not Skratty and his abnormal physique, who caught it before it reached his vitals. Another terrifying scream reached throughout the woods as the blade pierced through the monster’s hand.

Panting and sweating, Genhard felt his feet sink into the wet earth and grass. Seeping through the gaps of his armor. The creature let loose again, its claw-like feet pulling out from the marshes. Both of them were bogged down, but one was more adept than the other. And so, brimming with nature’s rage, Skratty jumped at Genhard and toppled him over. The patrician raised his arm in defense, but got his shoulder grabbed in one powerful motion. Crashed into the ground, Tonna’s spell was about to devour the enchanter.

“Foul beast–” panted Genhard. “Sine pond–” he sung, but was brutally interrupted.

Purple blood flowed from the nightskrat’s side and hand. Pain had overtaken its melody and its eyes were filled with even more green. With its good hand, Skratty hammered down on the magician’s torso right beneath his neck. A ‘pop’ and ‘crack’ suppressed the patrician’s voice and made him scream in agony, as his collar bone shattered. The creature pummeled Genhard so hard that his eyes went blank. His body got pushed deeper into the swamp that spread under him. The monster’s saliva dripped onto the magician’s face, about to murder him with a devastating final smash…

When Genhard felt wood wrapping itself around his neck, his lids ripped open and life returned into him. Not today, he thought, as he put all his Will into his survival. “Ego accēnsus!” screamed the tenor. Never had he sung as loud when he laid his hands around the beasts head as if he was squashing it. The air between his palms transmuted. A burst of flames, bright as daylight, engulfed the nightskrat’s head at the speed of a chant.

Drenched in sweat, mud, and red and purple blood, the enchanter’s throat and chest hurt like nails were driven into them. But the deathly shriek of that abomination filled Genhard with joy and a surge of vigor. The monstrosity had rolled over and held its face in torment, struck with primal fear of the light. Its eyes and parts of his head had been charred, down to the last wrinkle.

The bog had reached his chin, but Genhard’s hands had found the planks of the hut to hold onto. Just before his lips would have sunken down, he let out the most beautiful verse he had ever produced: “Dā mihi vīrēs!

Filled with a strength he hadn’t known before, his gloved fingers pressed into the wood and split it open. Genhard pulled himself up, roots and sludge all around him. His only thought was to draw the ornamented dagger from his hip and stare at the skrat of the night. It whimpered, as the earth consumed it.

“Rē–” Genhard gasped for air. “Rē – Mī – Fā – Sō.” Filling the air with magic – his Will – the patrician was driven to his limits. With a broken rhythm and off pitch, he pushed down on this filthy beast’s throat with cold steel. With a satisfied smirk, Genhard felt like he had never felt before. He lingered on the act – the first of its kind for him. Only a brief moment before grabbing his armor where his collar bone was broken. Still chanting chaotic sequences, he tried to get rid of his helm with one hand. His blonde hair and sideburns were sticky. The bascinet hit the muddy ground, splashing grass on the half-sunken body of the nightskrat. On his knees, Genhard heaved himself up, dagger held close. Nature was reshaping itself to what it was before magic was forced upon it by that vile woman. With each step, one slower than the next, the earth was returning back to normal. Healing. “Dō – Mī – Rē,” sang the tenor, as he walked up the door and pulled down the broken knob.

“Hauzija miz, hauzija miz, hit isti ainaz warōnąs talǭ

biri þa fērō þat lagjaną bījainaz þa mihstaz sumpaz,

war þa wētaz mōtijanō þa daudaz, uppwrōts fanē lībą,

a kraftuz þa Wistiz isti bījainaz izweraz graipisōn,

īką rastō wela at þa butmaz ab þat mihstaz sumpaz.”

Tonna’s eyes had been closed the entire time. She heard the commotion from outside and knew that Skratty had come to her side, the true friend it was. But she had to focus. His arrival had brought back a smile on her face, as she knew what a truly wonderful being it was. And a powerful ally. Its song, how it was quenched, the screams and how they stopped, Tonna was awfully aware of.

Without fear in her body, she opened her eyes and her subliminal melody came to a halt. She looked at the filthy beast that had entered her home – that she had built with her own two hands. The same way these strangers had entered. The woman’s mind was at ease. She hated these men. But she loved her fawn.

“You fat–” coughed Genhard and leaned onto the door frame. “Witch,” he said.

Rising from her stool, Tonna raised the knife she used to cut fish and onions with. It had rested on her lap, waiting for one last cookout. She knew that it was futile to face him with her magic once they saw the white in each other’s eyes. His blue and filled with spite, and hers brown and filled with love. Tonna had learned her lesson in the past. She had to resolve to an even more archaic way of defending herself now.

“Look what this witch did to you,” she said with a smile. “I’ll join the Stars with a fulfilled heart.”

“Ow, fuck you,” uttered Genhard melodically and the amber dust in his dagger glowed.