GUILLAUME IV

  Esker’s breath was ragged, Guillaume’s companion was in worse shape than it had let on: Ranulf must have injured Esker severely with his cudgel. After they had escaped those horrific monsters in the cave system below the castle and traveled deep into the heart of the nearby forest, Esker collapsed.

  The devil’s body lay sprawled beneath one of the pagan symbols that had terrified Lord Osmond’s workforce and Guillaume was at a loss for what to do. Esker was significantly taller than him and far heavier: Guillaume was exhausted after dragging it only a few body lengths away from the pagan fetish. The forest floor was uneven with gnarled roots and Esker’s tattered rags kept getting caught on brambles.

  As he sunk to the ground, panting, the sounds of animal life hushed. All Guillaume could hear was the rustling of wind through leaves and the creaking of the trees. A mist began to snake through the undergrowth: its tendrils tasted the air like the forked tongue of a serpent. As it coalesced around him, Guillaume’s heart began to quicken. His breath grew shallow and he felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

  When the witch appeared, gliding silently on a bed of mist, Guillaume was too afraid to scream. He rose shakily to his feet, struggling to brandish the severed leg of the Harvestman and tried to appear braver than he felt. The witch cackled dismissively at his posturing and did not slow her approach. This was not an unfamiliar sensation for the young man, he had been bullied most of his life, first by his elder brothers, and then by his fellow squires.

  Guillaume was unnerved by the hag’s appearance: she moved freely through the undergrowth without rustling leaves or snapping twigs, but her gait was all wrong. Her shriveled arms were swollen at the joints and twisted, as if the bones had been broken and improperly set. Instead of swinging her arms in a steady rhythm as she walked, her limbs danced erratically in the air, like a leaf caught in a breeze. Her legs and body were covered in the stained remnants of a gown. Her posture was stooped forward with a bowlegged stride, like that of a crab.

  As the witch scuttled closer, Guillaume reluctantly stepped between her and Esker’s motionless body. The mist around the hag’s legs took form. Gnarled hands grasped from the shapeless wisps and reached towards Guillaume with their palms extended. He stumbled backwards in horror and was able to avoid all but one of the spectral limbs. As it pressed into his chest, he felt an immense force guiding him away as a paralyzing chill crept into his bones. He was displaced as the witch hunched over Esker and examined her intently.

  The witch spoke in a voice like dry leafs being crumbled, “The Tengu is near death child. I must administer aid.” The witch turned towards him, her face was warted and creased like leather, yet her eyes were bright and filled with compassion. Strangely, she seemed to be seeking his consent.

  It took all of his courage to stop gawking and muster a slight nod.

  The witch retrieved items from pouches fastened around her waist and was surprisingly tender in her application of salves, herbs and bandages. While the witch worked diligently in attending to Esker’s wounds, she spoke: “This will stabilize the Tengu, but we must allow her to rest. We will return to the safety of my home. Wrap her in your cloak dearie.”

  Guillaume was wary of trusting the witch, however, she somehow she knew that Esker was a Tengu and that piqued his curiosity. He was also perplexed by the witch referring to Esker as a woman. Esker looked to be gravely injured and Guillaume felt like he was running out of options. As he covered Esker snuggly with his cloak, he wondered how he and an old lady would be able to carry Esker through the dense woods.

  Before he could voice his reservation, the witch closed her eyes in concentration and the mist around her quickened. Arms and hands formed around Esker’s body and elevated her from the undergrowth, passing her from limb to limb, like a ghostly procession. Even more strangely, these ethereal hands only touched the parts of Esker’s body covered in his warm cloak.

  “Uh… ma’am,” Guillaume croaked haltingly. “My name is Guillaume. Is there a name with which… Ah! I mean… is there a name that I may address you by?”

  “Bring the arachnid’s arm Jotling, your friend will have need of it.” The witch gestured towards the Harvestman’s barbed limb. “You may address me as Lady Galdr.” She craned her head back and raised her long and misshapen nose towards the canopy. After taking three wary sniffs, she locked eyes with Guillaume, “We are being hunted child and must make haste.”

  ———

  There was a commotion in the middle of the night. Guillaume was already ill at ease in the witch’s abode: he had been tossing and turning restlessly as he relived the events of the past few days. He heard the call of an owl, followed by the calls of two unfamiliar voices. Guillaume began to fret as Esker remained fast asleep, recovering on a pallet of reeds. Lady Galdr had left the same night that they had arrived in search of additional herbs to treat his friend and had yet to return.

  The blanket bog that surrounded the witch’s dilapidated hut was perpetually gloomy: once the sun set, that quality was magnified exponentially. Branches of decaying wood coated with Foxfire formed an equidistant perimeter around the witch’s home. The greenish yellow glow was haunting and sent a clear message to trespassers: begone.

  The voice of a man speaking in a strange tongue once again called out. The tone of the man’s voice was what held Guillaume’s curiosity: though he could not understand a single word, it did not sound threatening.

  Guillaume crept towards one of the small windows at the front of the hut, near the heavily reinforced door. He peered out at the meandering walkway which extended from the entrance of Lady Galdr’s house, traversing the bog. When the witch had led Guillaume two days prior, she had grasped his shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand and instructed him to never stray from that snaking path. Her gaze had been unwavering and her grip uncomfortably tight. Before she had released her gnarled hand, she ominously told him to expect the arrival of two more guests.

  Guillaume’s eyes were drawn to the massive tree that marked the entrance to Lady Galdr’s domain. The trunk had grown chaotically and was partially deracinated. The root system extended out of the base like a palsied hand, forming an arched doorway, dotted with the glow of Foxfire. Inside of this natural gateway stood a half naked man with wild hair and a young Gaídel maiden who was dressed in a black habit with white sleeves, a nun devoted to the Broken Man. The man’s forearms were stained with what looked to be drying blood.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The two strangers waited patiently by the tree, yet appeared to be ill at ease. They spoke quietly to each other in what sounded likethe tongue of the Gaídel, but Guillaume was unable to understand their exchange.

  He took a look back at Esker, however, it (or she if Lady Galdr’s assessment was correct) was still deep in slumber. After Lady Galdr departed, Guillaume had watched in wonder as the handle of the sturdy door became rapidly overgrown with vines covered in wicked thorns. He reached for it with trepidation and was shocked when the plant overgrowth responded: it untangled and withdrew from the iron handle. He took a deep breath and pulled open the door.

  EóGAN IV

  The communion Eógan had witnessed between the young girl and her gods had brought tears to his eyes. He did not understand the significance of the ritual, but the love and compassion conveyed was universal. As he crouched atop one of the stone foundation blocks ringing the holy site, he was riveted by what he saw.

  The Gaidél maiden was easy on the eyes, yet the power humming in the air is what held his attention. The ethereal palace that rose up and took shape all around the carefully placed stone blocks was born out of a faerie’s dream.

  Eógan was trapped within the perimeter of the walls that rose up towards the heavens, pulsating with white hot energy. He was unable to resist his curiosity and reached out to touch the luminous barrier. It was unyielding and filled him with a searing heat that he felt more within than through his fingertips. When the girl’s communion with her deities concluded and the glowing projection winked out of existence, Eógan was alarmed by the aggressive approach of the Jotman warriors.

  There was no question that this maiden was who Eógan had been sent to find by Lady Galdr, so he jumped down from his stoney perch and darted towards her. He arrived well before the charging Jotman warriors and was able to catch her as she collapsed. Cradling her in his arms, he noticed that she was wounded, a dagger was embedded deeply in her flank. He held her in a delicate embrace and raced back towards the stone foundation stones.

  Eógan feared that the added weight of the girl in his arms would limit his momentum, but instead felt invigorated as power flared throughout his muscles. The same searing heat he felt when he touched the barrier coursed once more through his veins. He effortlessly bounded to the top of a stone taller than him, skipped across it, and raced off into the night.

  The Jotman were constructing their holy site at the summit of a large hill, the forest was nestled along its base. As Eógan sprinted down the long slope, he heard voices and bells ringing in alarm. There were shouts far closer than he would have hoped and he felt the rhythm of horse hooves approaching. The mating pair of deer on his legs ran swift and true, yet Eógan feared that his pursuers would intercept him before he could reach the safety of the woods.

  He ran with full abandon and gave every ounce of effort he could, but it was not enough. The riders galloped closer and closer, gaining on him and the maiden in his arms. His only hope was to escape the open ground of the grassy hill and lose the horses in the underbrush of the woods. Blood pounded in his temples and he focused on maintaining his footing.

  As the ground began to level and the trees towered above, he could feel the hot breath of the horses on his neck. He heard the creak of leather and the rasp of a blade drawn from its scabbard, but would not turn back, could not turn back.

  He would bring this girl to the forest no matter what. Time stilled and Eógan thought of the fear and cowardice he had shown while his friends were cut down in front of him. The shame that now tainted his soul. He could not make amends for his weakness, however, he would bring this young woman to safety.

  Two of the Jotman knights flanked Eógan and galloped past him to cut off his escape to the tree line, while the third kept pace at his heels. The riders in front cantered to the left and right, weaving past one another, and stopped in front of him with weapons in hand. The rider behind him bellowed an order in his foreign tongue and Eógan had little choice but to halt.

  He was surrounded by the three riders and the knight furthest from the tree line once again shouted in a harsh tongue. Eógan turned, watching the Jotman point his sword at the woman he held in his arms and then gestured down towards the ground that was lightly dusted in snow.

  Eógan looked back towards the other two riders, desperately searching for any avenue of escape. His eyes widened in shock, but he tried to stifle the reaction.

  The shouting from the rider behind him became strained and urgent as his companions twisted in their saddles to face towards the forest. It was too late. The mist was already upon them, their horses screamed. Flesh tore and bones snapped as hungry spirits devoured the Jotman riders in a blanket of fog.

  The twisting shape of the mist continued to flow towards Eógan, amorphous and full of horrors. A chilling cold enveloped him as the fog obscured his surroundings. He closed his eyes as the spirits washed past, their enmity was suffocating.

  Abruptly, he was released from that ghastly embrace. He stood at the edge of the forest, naked, with the maiden in his arms. Bodies of man and beast lay broken at their feet.

  Lady Galdr emerged from the dark canopy of the forest, gliding on mist and beckoned him to approach.

  Eager to leave the open field, Eógan rushed into the undergrowth. Lady Galdr was radiant in the moonlight and smiled at him sweetly. Her attention was drawn to the knife stuck into the maiden’s side and she spoke soft incantations of protection as she examined the wound.

  Eógan’s escape from the summit of the hill had worsened the injury, hot blood ran down his arms, coating his hands. “I will remove the blade and stabilize the Gaídel,” Lady Galdr said melodiously in Pechtish, the language of Eógan’s people. “As she awakens, guide her to tranquility. When her mind is at peace, ask her to draw upon her faith to heal her broken flesh.” The dark pupils of Lady Galdr’s eyes were like constellations in the sky.

  Eógan felt desire flutter within his heart, yet managed to focus on the task at hand and repeated her instructions.

  “Now place her gently on this bed of earth,” Lady Galdr said as she removed a linen bandage and several herbs from pouches on her waist.

  “What is her name?” Eógan asked as he crouched down to carefully lower the Gaídel maiden.

  “She will tell you soon enough Pechtling. Now be silent, I must concentrate,” Lady Galdr said sternly as she whispered words of healing and drew the knife steadily from the unconscious woman’s side. The blood did not flow from the gaping wound, it instead coagulated immediately. Lady Galdr quickly chewed a handful of herbs, grimaced at their bitter taste, and spit the pulp into a bandage. She carefully affixed it to the Gaídel’s side, wound it several times around her body and tied the ends snuggly.

  The young woman stirred and groaned softly, but did not awaken. Lady Galdr pulled a larger piece of knit wool from around her shoulders and bade Eógan to wrap it around his waist. Only then did Eógan feel the chill of the Spring night. He was also shocked that the tartan was of his family, yet this was not what he had been wearing before Osmond’s ambush.

  Horse hooves pounded the earth in the distance as a larger contingent of Jotman warriors rode down the hillside.

  Lady Galdr grasped Eógan’s shoulder with a slender and delicate hand, “Carry her to the heart of this forest and look for the tree with crooked limbs that glow in the night. Pass through it and you will see my home. Announce your presence and wait. I will slow our pursuers.” She rose and a bed of mist began to rise from the nearby ground.

  Eógan picked up the Gaídel woman and ran off into the night.