The Great Fissure

The Great Fissure had always been there. None who lived knew how it had come to be. None who lived knew what lay beyond it. There were tales of dragons and restless mountains, constantly clashing, spewing fire and ice at each other, the resulting sky obscuring the sky. There were tales of people living there.

They said the people beyond the fissure knew naught of daylight and the sky’s blueness. They were nomads, constantly on the move, as the earth around them shifted and warped in the ensuing conflict of titans. To better hide from such immense forces, the fissure folk were short and nimble, their skin was gray, and their legs and arms were disproportionately long. Just as none knew how the Fissure came to be, so did no one know how the fissure folk came to inhabit it.

The fissure folk had their own myths, however. They too wished to know how life looked like beyond the Great Fissure. They’d heard rumors that water flows there much in the same fashion as fire did in their Black Lands, and that cattle and woodfolk could roam free, and that men built steady houses, for the earth there was still as a rock. But they would not go there. They believed the Black Lands were theirs to inherit, theirs to guard. The Great Fissure, as the story told from generation to generation went, was created when the Archangel Uriel had the Abyss Wyrm shackled. The fiery sword’s mighty strike was enough to rend the world asunder, and the fissure folk were there to guard the hallowed land, so that the beast may reign the skies no more and there be peace forever after.

And yet, far away to the north, beyond the boundless ocean,  there was a land of people who worshiped the Wyrm. For eons they had prepared a pilgrimage to help relieve the Wyrm of his prison. Only then, they believed, would their befouled land be restored to a peaceful state. They would not allow for anything to stand in their way. Not the fissure folk, not even Archangel Uriel.

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch IV (2/2)

“Wench!” Sir Alistair yelled out in a guttural tenor as he swung his longsword at the barrier, this time meeting my fiery blade. His weapon quickly heated and the strain this put on him was visible at first glance, yet he did not back away. “Your unholy fires will slay the creature! Have you no brains?”

“Ye best check if your brains are in their place, laddy!” I shouted back at him, swinging my own blade, parrying each of his blows. They were strong, heavy, but still very clumsy. And yet, his persistence was admirable. Still, an easy target. I could knock him down in just a few moves. “The creature’s confined, not dead. And the deal was we get rid of it. Ye never said ye needed him alive. Why would Haegyn’s holy knights need a beastie this foul brought back? And here I was thinking ye only intended to rid the land of its evils.”

“Silence, wench!” as he took another swing, I took my chance. Instead of parrying, I pointed my sword at the unarmoured opening he had carelessly left beneath his left arm. The sword fell to the ground with a muffled clunk, and a squeal uttered by its bearer, as I placed a kick in his groin area, sending him flat on the heather.

“That’s quite enough,” I heard a voice behind me. I turned around – Sir Gilroy was approaching me from beyond the fiery wall.

“Yer protégé needs more tempering, Sir Gilroy,” I told him.

“Indeed. Some lessons ought be learned through pain rather than lecture. You have my thanks for that, m’lady,” he lay his emerald eyes on the flame cage. “The beast lies within, I take it?”

“The abyssal flames will contain any manner of creature within, so long as I wish it. Sir knight, ye do me a great disservice yet again. Ye have me for a fool. If ye truly are who ye say ye are, explain yerself. What could the Knights of Haegyn want with an invisible manticore.”

“M’lady,” he turned his eyes to me, a gentle smile on his gallant face. “Your intellect has been a great bane to our endeavor. Let it be known to you, I have you for no fool. On the contrary. And yet, there are some facts I may not impose on you. For some knowledge can be dangerous, and I daren’t endanger a lady such as you with such reckless behaviour. The Order has no need for the manticore. You have seen nothing. The creature has been vanquished. You have heroically slain it with your companions and with the guidance of the Knights of Haegyn. Many a knight has sacrificed his life in this endeavor and you have avenged all of them. Haegyn will forever sing of your valour, wit, and grace. Of Matoya, the Good Witch. None shall ever accuse you of devilish pacts again.”

“A lovely tale, Sir Gilroy. Ye could not even begin to imagine how many times I had heard it. I spit on yer songs and tales, on reputation. Something is clearly afoot, something ye try to hide from me. And I will not have anything hidden from me. Ye knew this manticore was invisible. Ye were meant to find it and contain it, not because ye needed to protect the people. Because it could not be exposed that someone in Haegyn was performing such unholy actions, true?” Sir Gilroy remained silent. “What is it ye want?”

“I would ask you to grant me this one favour and lower the barrier.”

“And set the creature loose?” Sir Gilroy raised his left hand and opened the palm of his gauntleted hand. A small glass vial lay within. My heart sank. “What have ye done with them?”

“They wait for you beyond the knoll. Leave the beast in my care, and their lives are spared. My sword is steadier than that of Alistair. A fine, mythril blade. The bane of mages.”

I uttered a laugh. A single, nervous chuckle. They had me on my knees. This was hardly the first time. And yet, never before had I felt such helplessness. How love can weigh one down. In any other circumstances, I would be prepared to test what Sir Gilroy had said. I would see for myself if it was a bluff. And yet, too much was at stake this time. I slowly lowered the flames as Sir Gilroy hurled the vial at the angry beast that lunged itself at him then fell to the ground with a deafening thud. The knight did not even flinch. As the beast lay on the ground, it started to become less transparent. Not a minute later, an unconscious manticore could be seen lying on the ground.

“Now, I must ask you to leave, Matoya,” Sir Gilroy said as he knelt down next to his protégé, gently nudging him to wake up. “Go see your companions. This matter concerns you not. Not anymore.”

And walk away I did. I heard horses making their way towards the knights, their hushed voices, heaving, as they struggled to transport the beast. Yet it was none of my concern. I followed the trail on the moor, towards the moonlit knoll, focusing on Isolde and Cillian and Nevermore. I prayed for their safety. This matter concerned me no more. I knew something was afoot. Manticores can be used for many amazing magical concoctions. Many weapons. But that mattered not. Not anymore. I started to run, knowing that the longer I took, the more their lives could be at risk. So I hurried on.

The beast was dead.

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch IV (1/2)

There could be no mistake. The heavy breathing, the low, guttural growl, the sound of tremendous paws pounding on flowers of heather, closer and closer, louder and louder. I could not see it, but I knew it was there. I shot up a burst of bright sparks into the pitch blackness of the night sky. I heard voices in the distance. Sir Gilroy should be right beyond the knoll to the east, Cillian and Isolde somewhere to the north. Gods know where Sir Alistair went. If only Nevermore came quicker, then I’d most likely deal with the beast in seconds. For now, I could only rely on myself.

I had never come face-to-face with a manticore myself. The Tome described it as a beast of imposing stature, baring fangs the size or a large dog’s leg. Its face resembled that of a human male, yet covered in protruding whiskers. Besides the imposing fangs, its mouth was said to be housing rows upon rows of teeth. It was said to possess a gaze most piercing, capable of paralyzing even the boldest of the bold with fear. And yet, by far the most dangerous weapon it wielded was its tail. A long, barbed abomination, swollen with the thick, vilely purple liquid pulsating within. The large, human head-sized, thorn-ridden tip was enough to bludgeon a person to death if a sufficiently strong swing was made. And even if that failed to land a kill, the venom  injected was bound to finish the job. By then the fangs and teeth would proceed to eviscerate the remains, which at this point barely resembled their original shape anyway. A manticore was by all means a perfect predator. Small wonder Sir Gilroy’s party had been reduced to a meager two.

Usually, manticores would inhabit deserts and canyons, making their dwelling in tunnels dug up under the dunes or formed naturally within the rocks. The moors would not offer them such protection, as the ground was too hard for them to dig into with their paws. There were no natural caves to give them shelter. A manticore would stand out like a sore thumb among the sea of violet, making a stray like that an easy target for local hunters, who would seek them out as the amount of gold offered for manticore parts would last them a lifetime (not to mention the magical properties). Pity this one was invisible.

The Tome warns of the beast’s swiftness and advises the use of paralysing potions. As we could not be sure which one of us would be facing the creature and there was time to only brew one vial, I gave it to Nevermore who would proceed to drop it on the creature when he noticed any of us engage in battle. He was running dreadfully late.

The pounding on the ground became heavier, faster. Closer. The beast had already caught my scent and was running in my directions, there was no mistaking it. With no place to hide, I cast a barrier spell, hoping that would at least prevent the beast from bludgeoning me to death. The air surrounding me became warm and appeared to be shimmering. I could hear the manticore break into a gallop and let out a deep, guttural howl. Quite imposing, yet I had heard more threatening sounds before. Cillian had sounded scarier as a strix. I could see the trail the manticore was leaving. A long advancing dent in the flowers, a dark line curving and swinging as it made its way toward me. Almost there. I still had five, four, three…

I sprang sideways, rolling in the heather, barely avoiding the beast’s assault. I could hear it stop and breathe heavily, confused and angry. No time to waste. I muttered words most dark and unknown to all those who live. A wall of fire arose around the creature. Despite its invisibility, a shadowy outline could be seen squirming beyond the flames. None may escape those flames. I only hoped I could maintain them long enough, until Nevermore came back. I could not.

In my carelessness, I let the barrier fall apart, certain none but the beast could threaten me in this endless moor. How foolish of me. I had had my doubts, and yet I set them aside for this goal. The blow to the side sent me flying to the ground, making me nearly lose my grip on the wall of fire, which did get noticeably smaller. Another hastily erected barrier and a makeshift sword made of fire was all I could muster while maintaining the beast’s cage. This was enough to stop the oppressor’s blade from reaching me. I clutched the Eye with my left hand as I gazed into the grey eyes filled with hate, staring back into mine from beneath sandy hair.

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch III (2/2)

“Aye,” Bertha nodded. “Those two say they be chasing that monster, yet I’ve yet to see any chasing from them. I let them stay, hoping they would do something about this.”

The two men started whispering to each other yet again. “And the beast has escaped?” I asked.

“I fear it is still somewhere near. The animals are behaving most peculiar. And I can still smell it. That stench.”

I could not smell anything. To be frank, I had a hard time believing Bertha’s story. I knew of no invisible beasts. Such things most likely did not exist.

“Ye say people had their intestines ripped out of them?” Isolde asked, her blonde locks shaking violently as she hopped up and down with excitement. I could hear Cillian take a deep breath. His face became pale as a sheet once again. “I think ye know of such creatures, Matoya.”

“Aye, there are a couple. A manticore seems most likely, considering how often they lose their way on the moors. But no manticore can hide itself from sight, sister.”

“There are tales in the North,” Cillian began. Everyone’s attention turned to the red-headed lumberjack in an instant. The rosiness returned to his face twofold, as he hesitated, coughed, scratched his beard once, and began once again, his gaze fixed on his feet. “I meant to say, in the North people talk a lot about warlocks carrying out nasty rituals on all manner of creatures. They say dogs came back without tails, ducks came back with teeth, and that… and that cats went all invisible like. Them birds never knew what got them.”

“Beg pardons, Cillian, but ye’d be better off ignoring such country gossip,” I told him, his electric blue eyes now fixed on me. “What the country folk understand of the intricacies of magic is simply pitiful. Such stories have as much merit to them as–“

“I fear your companion is correct, m’lady,” a voice deep enough to reach the very darkest, most locked away secrets of my soul, interrupted me. For an instant, I was in shock. I turned to see the two men that proclaimed to be chasing the beast standing right behind me. They pulled down their hoods, at which point I realized their cloaks were clasped with the gryphon sigil – they were none other than the Knights of Haegyn. The one who spoke to me was forty to fifty years of age by the looks of him. Deeply set emerald eyes, neatly trimmed dark golden hair, a similarly well-groomed goatee, a nose of ideal proportion and shape covered in numerous scars – his face had an incredible allure to it. The speaker’s partner had a face most gallant as well, if much more youthful and naïve-looking. His sandy hair was longer, though groomed as that of his companion, his grey eyes bigger, his chin clean-shaven. A boy, no more than twenty. Probably a knight of two months, no more. “My apologies for eavesdropping, yet I believe it is no chance that our paths might cross, as I feel we might be of much aid to each other.”

“Ye didn’t seem eager to be chasing down the beast before,” Bertha said with a no little hint of irritation in her voice.

“We stood nary a chance against the creature, m’lady. And yet, with the help of this woman and her companions, we may yet slay the foul beast. For unless I am mistaken, we have been grace by the holder of the Crystal Eye, Matoya.”

I was taken aback. Still, no fear took me. There were only two of them, and I had both Isolde and Cillian at my side – should they try to take the Eye by force, I would come out the victor. And yet, I’d rather not risk anyone’s over it if it could be avoided, now. “Aye, I am Matoya. And if ye know that, ye should just as well know that despite me youthful guise, in truth I am much older than ye can most likely imagine. And I consider addressing me without introducing yerself to the lady first mighty unbecoming of a Knight of Haegyn.”

“My sincerest apologies,” said the green-eyed knight. “As you have properly deduced, we are Knights of Haegyn. They address me as Sir Gilroy and this is my protégé, Sir Alistair.”

“And why is it that ye assume we can help each other in this predicament, Sir Gilroy?”

“We both strive for the same result – vanquishing the foul creature. We were sent here by our retainer to bring peace to this moor, as there have been rumours of an invisible beast bringing destruction to the area for some time now. Yet our scouting party has dwindled along the way. Many fell victim to the beast. In the end, it is only Alistair and I that are alive. We know how to track down the beast, yet we stand no chance against it alone. You, however, m’lady, are knowledgeable about beasts of all shapes and sizes, and your spell-slinging abilities are known throughout the land. And thus, I implore you. M’lady, will you do us the honour of helping us liberate this region of the bane that is the invisible manticore?”

The two knights knelt down on one knee each, but only Sir Gilroy lowered his head. Sir Alistair fixed his gaze into me, which seemed incredibly odd. I could see Isolde’s face become blood red once again. A peculiar sense of satisfaction always overcame me whenever I saw that expression. Still, I knew something was wrong with all this. I knew knights had their duties to fulfil, but someone had to have sent them on a mission specifically to track down this foul beast. And they know what it is. And yet, as Bertha kept looking at me pleadingly, I knew that there was no avoiding this. For what good is it being a witch if you’re not a good witch?

“Fine,” I said to them. I could feel the looks Cillian and Isolde were giving me, but it had to be done. “Sir knight, know that we shall aid ye.”

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch III (1/2)

The Cornerstone Inn was a peculiar case. A large wooden shack near Pilgrim’s Road, squarely in the middle of an endless moor. Such establishments often fall prey to all manner of filth, becoming nothing more than flea-ridden whorehouses frequented only by the most violent of rapists, most conniving of bandits, and most deadly of assassins. And yet, the Cornerstone Inn had somehow managed to retain its glamour. It remained clean of all lowlifes, likely due to the influence of its intimidating innkeeper, Bertha, that old hag. A feisty old woman she was, hard as a rock, stern and unwavering. Any bastard ready to stir up a fight would face a cruel fate. That fate being Bertha’s iron fist. Bertha was never one to be messed with and that was a fact few remained ignorant to.

The day we reached the establishment had been long and tiresome indeed. We’d been walking since dawn, having left mere moments after Leofwyn had delivered the news of our summons. I would not pass up the chance to meet with the Grand Hierophant, especially considering all the happenings of late. The Lord of Malady was making his move, there was no mistaking it. There was hope that this world could finally be put to rights.

And thus we’d packed our things, obscuring our cottage from sight with the eye’s power, and left. I should not complain, however, lest I express disrespect for one of my companions. It was Cillian who was carrying the lot of our possessions, with more than a shade of effort showing on his face. As the sun turned a dark orange, our shadows grew longer and darker, and the outline of a small inn grew larger, patches of dark sweat would appear on his tunic, the crystal eye on his neck swaying back and forth as he struggled to keep his balance under the huge weight of our entire stash. Isolde walked beside him, after she decided she had had enough of badgering me. Her mouth would not close even once throughout the entire journey, be it throwing insults or attempting at banter. As she hopped around between me and Cillian, the crystal eye on her neck bounced around dangerously, as if it could fall any minute. It would be no harm, however, if the chain holding the crystal in place broke. Neither of the two eyes were real, for the genuine article hung on my neck. As we’d decided I was the most potent spellslinger at the moment, much to Isolde’s wild protests. Thus, it would be safest with me. The copies would serve as a perfect distraction. Provided we only encounter shadow men and complete magical dimwits.

All the while Nevermore was making circles in the sky above us, occasionally perching on my shoulder. The bird seemed to be far more attached to me after the recent events. If only his bird brain could comprehend how ironic that was.

“See, Gillian? We’re here,” Isolde squeaked with glee. “I told ye ye needn’t heave so much.”

“That’s…” Cillian was gasping for breath, his face paler than his usual pink shade. “That’s a… bloody relief,” and with that remark, his knees finally yielded under the tremendous weight. He lay flat on his face right in front of the inn. I hurried to help him up while Isolde picked up all reagents that had spilled out of his bag. In all the hustle and bustle I failed to immediately notice something was not as it should be. The walls of the inn were all battered and scratched, the windows smudged with something that looked suspiciously like blood. It was unlike Bertha to let such a thing happen to her prized establishment.

When Cillian was finally up, I opened the door to the inn. I had expected to hear a murmur of conversations, mixed with some laughter and general jubilation. Instead, I was met with complete silence, broken only by the sizzling fireplace, by which two shady gents were apparently having a conversation until we entered, at which point they raised their heads to look at us.

“Matoya,” a gruff voice came to my left. I turned and saw the plump old woman standing at the counter. Her pursed lips resembled no more than a thin line drawn on a scraggly grey map of wrinkles and fat. Her face was as stern as ever, yet there was something unsettlingly fragile about the blueness of her eyes, the wiriness of her tangled white hair. She seemed to have shrunk two heads since I last saw her, but still ready to punch anyone that dared voice concern or pity. “Ye sure chose the perfect time to rear yer ugly head.”

“Bertha, good to see ye,” I said. The jolly tone of my voice did little to appease Bertha, however. “Pray tell, what has befallen this place. We were expecting to rest here on our way, yet I can see something is clearly amiss.”

“And right ye are. Perceptive as always, Matoya,” the old hag replied with a wry smile. “Why don’t ye sit at one of the tables. Yer companion looks like he could pass out any minute. I’ll bring each of ye something to drink and then I can tell ye everything. Of course, I expect ye to do something about this madness.”

And so we sat down. Cillian let out a sigh of relief. Bertha approached us with four mugs of frothy liquid. One was smaller than the others, filled with something else. She placed it in front of Isolde, much to my sister’s displeasure. “And what the bloody hell is this?”

“I don’t care how olde ye really are, Isolde,” Bertha said. “But now ye are a child and a child won’t be drinking any ale in my tavern.”

Isolde threw her a hateful gaze, then looked to me. She too knew that there was no arguing with the old woman, so all my face could express at this point was helplessness. As if searching desperately for a way out of this humiliation, she turned to Cillian. He nudged her to drink whatever she had in her cup. Red as a raddish, she finally gave in and hid her face behind the large stone mug.

“Let me tell ye what happened, Matoya,” Bertha said as she took a sip of her drink. “A beast the likes of which ye’ve never seen has raided this place.”

“I’ve seen plenty of beasts, my dear Bertha.”

“Aye, yet this one ye haven’t. It can’t be seen. Something invisible has come in and slaughtered two men. It flayed them on the spot. Never seen so much guts on the floor in me life. The rest of the guests fled.”

I could hear Cillian gulp. Isolde had her eyes fixed on Bertha. This time, they were  shining with curiosity. I’ve also noticed the two men at the fire place were listening in on our conversation. “All but two,” I said, gesturing toward the hooded figures.

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch II (2/2)

And so we left. Oddly, the raven did not protest. He seemed pretty eager to be moving about as a human being again. I talked to him all the way to the city, but I could tell he wasn’t paying attention most of the time. It was strange, he seemed so thrilled to be seeing the world from this perspective. I always imagined someone capable of flight would consider an earthbound lifestyle dull.

Come high noon, we’d finally reached the city marketplace. Bustling as ever, the place made it hard to breathe. Nevermore seemed none too pleased to be there, yet he was ever watchful. He must have taken the escort job to heart. That calmed me down a bit. The last summer bazaar ended with the Lord of Malady burning down half the stands. I was not intending to let that happen again.

As my luck would have it, I started to spot some shadowy figures with the corner of my eye. Having Nevermore watch them, frantically shifting his gaze from one end of the bazaar to the other was not exactly reassuring. At least I knew the direction from which I could expect an attack. I finished packing the heaps of asparagus I’d just bought almost for free, and turned toward an alley where I thought I could lose them.

“Come, Nevermore,” I pulled him by the cuff. We entered a dark alley, passing by some homeless people begging for some money. Nevermore eyed them carefully, all the while occasionally glancing back. His pace quickened. I started walking faster as well. As we made a turn, I bumped into someone. We both tripped. My fall was broken by Nevermore who’d managed to catch me before I reached the ground. She had no escort. A tall woman in a maroon robe, her flowing brown hair done in a high pony tail. The distinct mole below her right ear and the shadow figures pursuing her were proof enough – she was one of us. “Can ye get up?” I extended a hand toward her.

“Yes, but we’ve no time,” she gasped for breath. “I must-“

“I know, they’re following us too. There’s no way out. Ye got any magic left in ye?”

“No such luck, I’m afraid. I’ve been pursued for quit be exe some time now.”

“Step aside, then. Nevermore, hold her.”

The raven man listened and shielded the woman as I sent out a fiery whirl to deal with the figures that had been on her tail. Had I not wasted all my energy on making Nevermore useful, I’d probably have done more. That was my last spell for the day.

“Let’s get a move on.”

We ran down the alley the woman had come from. As was to be expected, a whole crowd of them was waiting for us as we entered the main street. There were no back alleys on the way, and we knew there were more and more of them coming from where I had come from. I was sure that was the end. The figures soon approached the other two. Nevermore managed to knock a few of them down with his cane, but I knew that was only a temporary solution. Nothing short a miracle could help us.

Yet what happened I’d hardly call a miracle. The main street filled with terrified screams as a huge beast came rushing down the adjacent hill. It hurled itself at the crowd of shadow people, separating shadowy limb from shadowy limb with its huge lupine, its auburn fur ominously fluorescent in the midst of the blackness, its electric blue eyes a ray of hope to us, the petite rider on its back shockingly familiar.

“Isolde!” I shouted. “What in Lamia’s name are ye doing here!”

Isolde smiled as the beast slowly dispersed the crowd of shadows, black liquid seeping from its multiple rows of teeth as if it were the blood of its victims. Though the body was mostly lupine, the ears, paws and tail were more reminiscent of a lynx. The creature was oddly familiar.

“Is that Cillian?!” I gasped. The shadows had finally disappeared but I could not find it in me to rejoice. I was simply baffled. “Did ye turn him into a strix again?”

“Don’t be silly, sister, I can’t do that,” she grinned. “William here was pretty thrilled with the idea, weren’t you, honey?”

“It’s different this time, ma’am,” Cillian said, his voice unchanged. I saw Nevermore and the witch that joined us flinch. “I mean, Matoya. That is to say, I’m not a strix this time, I’m slave to no one. I mean, this change was not of my own volition, but now I can change at will with no repercussions. The power of the eye is amazing and lady Isolde’s powers are quite impressive.”

“Ye were supposed to keep an eye on her, not let her change ye into a wolf, or cat, or whatever yer supposed to be, ye dimwit!” as I scolded him, his ears lay flat on his head, the look he gave me was uncomfortably guilt-inducing, and I was pretty sure I heard him whimper. His rider was smiling in the most smug way imaginable. “And what are ye smiling at, lady Isolde? I told ye to stay home!”

“No you didn’t,” she grinned. “Ye told me not to touch the biscuits. I didn’t. I was bored out of my mind, though, so I used the eye and took Trillian for a walk,” at this point Cillian grumbled. “Quiet, I’m talking. I believe it’s turned out to have been for the best. Wouldn’t you agree, sister? It did not look like ye were going to handle those by yourself.”

“I thank ye,” I said through gritted teeth. It was true. I owed her my life. Woe is me.

“And who’s the witch ye brought?”

“She’s been running away from that same lot, we’ve met by chance.”

“My name is Leofwyn,” she said as she released herself from Nevermore’s protective embrace. The robe she was wearing was actually pretty ornate and covered her body tightly, revealing a distinct, full hourglass figure. She looked at me with large emerald eyes. “I thank you, my sisters, for helping me escape the clutches of the Lord of Malady. You must be Matoya and Isolde, holders of the crystal eye.”

“Aye, I be the holder now.” I said. Isolde’s tiny fist sunk into Cillian’s soft fur with a muffled thud. He didn’t seem to notice.

“That is absolutely delightful. I’ve actually been sent to find you.”

“Really? By whom?”

“The Grand Hierophant himself requests your aid.”

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch II (1/2)

A warm summer breeze entered the room as I thrust open the dusty wooden windows. Dawn had barely arrived, and yet I was already wide awake, ready to clean up every last bit of the household. If I were to stack up any more reagents in this dump, I was sure to drown. I was hoping everything would go smoothly, what with the helper I had lodging in my house. I entered the bedroom and ripped off the sheets from the bed. What had looked like a neat bundle of pillows underneath the blanket was actually a little girl with curly golden hair. She could have been five, judging solely by her looks. As the sheet exposed her, she stirred and greeted me with a hateful glare.

“Ye’ve quite some nerve, Matoya,” Isolde said to me through gritted teeth.

“Come now, sister, remember who’s in charge this time,” I said in a sing-song voice. “My house, my rules, at the very least til yer as big as me.”

Nevermore was sitting by the window above the bed. Silently watching the argument we were having, he shifted his gaze from me to Isolde, and back to me as we exchanged insults. Her voice was driving me insane with its piercing pitch, a quality possessed by most children’s voices, yet the sharpness of her words gave away her true age. Nevermore cawed and waved his wings once, which made us both put aside our bickering and get to some actual tidying up.

Once the sun was high above our cottage, we were already done with the cleaning. The interior now seemed much less gray after all that dusting. I began to prepare to leave for the market in the city. The summer always offered the most bountiful rewards for my products, and the available goods were also most desirable. A knock came on the door. Just in time. I opened it and saw Cillian, a big smile smile on his handsome bearded face. He was looking much better since the strix incident. Though the paleness of his skin turned out to not be an effect of the curse, his cheeks were significantly rosier than when I first met him. The hours he spent chopping wood shirtless in the sun gave his body a fine pink glow. He was almost a full member of our household now. Turned out the poor lad was on his way from the Northern lands which had been desolated by the Lord of Malady. As he had nowhere to go and chopping wood was something I could never bother to do myself, I let him stay as long as he made himself useful. And useful he was. He diligently chopped heaps of firewood every day, rewarding me with not only fuel for my fireplace in the evening, but also a nice view as he worked in daytime. So eager he was that he built his own shack right beside the cottage.

“Ah, Sillian! Right on time,” I knew well how his name was supposed to be pronounced. The wince he gave me every time I mispronounced it was too priceless to pass up.

“I got your firewood, ma’am,” he said as he entered the house. His bright blue eyes lost some of their sheen in the dimly lit room.

“What’s that? How many times do I have to tell ye not to call me that! Do I look that much older to you?”

“No, not at all,” he blushed ever so slightly, his skin tanned pink seemed so dark indoors that it almost matched his auburn hair.

“Look at ‘im,” Isolde uttered as she entered the room. “Such a burly man and he’s shy as a mouse.”

“I’m not,” Cillian muttered. “And I would appreciate it if you would say my name properly for once ma- I mean, Matoya.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Now, I need you now because I’m leaving for the city to sell some goods. Last year was quite a mess, so I figured I’d be needing an escort.”

“Yer taking him?” the look Isolde gave Cillian was that of utter contempt, as if someone had just told her a swamp toad was going to be making her supper.

“No, I’m taking Nevermore.”

“What,” Isolde’s jaw dropped as she said it. “How will that be of any help?”

“And may I ask what my role in all this is?” Cillian muttered.

“Yes, yer staying with Isolde. I can’t take her, people will ask questions. What’s more, I don’t trust her. And I know Nevermore spoils her. Don’t let her touch the biscuits, hear?”

“Y-yes ma’am,” he sighed as Isolde pouted.

“Like Nevermore’ll be a good shield against crooks,” she said in a condescending tone. “Ye should take Gillian here.”

“Ye forget, sister, some fine details,” I said as I reached out to grab the crystal eye lying on the table. I called Nevermore and he landed on the floor in front of me, as if he knew what was about to happen. The ancient spell etched in the Tome of Clarity echoed across the cottage as I uttered them, light seeping slowly from the eye down on the large raven. He stretched his wings which became steadily more elongated. The black sheen of his feathers became uniform, more reminiscent of a glossy black fabric than bird down.  As the light intensified, the form Nevermore took seemed more and more human-like. The crystal fell to the ground with a loud clunk. The man standing before me was tall, dark and slender. His pale face with sunken cheeks and dark, deeply set eyes was strikingly handsome, his tangled dark hair adding to the image of a brooding poet. He was dressed in an elegant ebony suit and coat, a cane in his hand, an equally raven top hat with a single decorative feather on his head. I’d already managed to forget what he looked like.

“By the gods,” Cillian whispered.

“Well, well. Nevermore, yer quite the dashing fellow, I must say,” Isolde giggled. Nevermore turned to her, smiled an enchanting smile and bowed. “Can he not speak?”

“Nay,” I said. “And it best stay that way. The best escort it a silent escort. Come, Nevermore. We’ve a whole day ahead of us.”

Sun

It was daybreak. The blinding whiteness of the sun’s rays illuminated the entire valley. She only had a day left. If she wanted to save her, she had to make it through the death wood before dusk. The rays brought hope. A hope that would die along with them.

She had no time to waste. She picked up her things and woke up her companion. The massive gray wolf yawned and stretched. His steel eyes met hers and she knew he understood perfectly. He bowed his head, allowing her to climb his back. She grabbed a tuft of fur and, with bow in hand and supplies on her back, she gently patted the beast on the neck. The wolf howled a howl that pierced the very sky, sending multicolored flocks of birds flying in all directions in a cacophonic panic. Then, he started to run.

The wolf ran faster than the wind. The grass seemed to bow down before him in fear, so as not to get trampled by the extreme force that the wolf was. It was hoping it could avert the fate of the daisies, whose petals were mercilessly being torn one by one by the storm whipped up by the gray behemoth. She paid them no heed. Nature would always find a way, she though, yet only she could save her and only if she ran faster than the wind.

They passed many trees. Still far away from the death wood, these loosely standing trees shook in terror as the duo passed by them. The squeaks of terrified animals could be heard as they desperately sought shelter. She cared not who she trampled over. As long as no beasts hindered her journey, she cared for them even less than for blades of grass.

Finally, a shade fell on her face. The death wood stood looming in front of her, its ominous greenness obscuring the freshly awoken sun. Unlike the previous groups of trees, the death wood was completely still and silent, not a leaf rustling, nor a squirrel scratching. The only sound was that which the wolf made. The smell was also most peculiar. It was not putrid, nor fresh, one could say it wasn’t really there. But it was. She and the wolf could both smell it. It was still. It was death.

She could tell the wolf grew tired, so she patted him on the back. There knew there was a stream nearby, where they could both drink and keep moving. And a stream they found. The wolf drank and drank for what seemed like hours, but afterwards, he seemed completely rejuvenated. She filled sacs with water and hung them over the beast’s back, just in case they could find no more fresh water. She mounted the wolf once again and took a look around the forest. The trees were black as tar, coloring the entire wood ebony, with only hints of the sun’s white rays visible up above, between the thick leaves. There was no time to waste.

The wolf once again ran. His paws seemed to glow in the total darkness of the forest. Many hours passed with no trouble whatsoever. She started to get suspicious. They were getting so close. The sun had already reached the midpoint of its journey a couple of hours before, so the end of the wood should be nearby. And yet, no attackers so far, even though she knew people would try to hinder her journey. Perhaps she was too late, she thought, but quickly brushed away that notion. They ran ever faster, making fewer and fewer stops. The situation seemed to fill the wolf with enthusiasm, as he would not feel the need to stop and drink so often anymore. His fur looked lighter, almost white, almost as if he was a glowing beacon among the black treed.

That’s when she heard a loud, piercing noise. A sharp pain in her shoulder. She put a hand there to see if she was injured – blood. She looked back – four horsemen were shooting at her. The wolf sped up. She pulled out her bow. One, two, three arrows were sent flying towards the riders. She’d hit one right between the eyes and he fell of his steed, but the others missed. Her wound was burning. She could tell it was no ordinary wound. She was prepared for the devil’s poison, though. She had been given a vial with a liquid most precious, one that could heal any wound, even poisoned, but only once and  only if there was one.  She knew she had to be more careful, so she shot out another barrage of arrows. One shot in the leg, one in the eye, two horsemen fell. Only their leader was left, wearing chainmail and a closed helm, he was going to be difficult to take down. Her strength was leaving her. She could tell the devil’s poison cursing in her veins. She was dying. She could tell the wolf wanted to help, but urged him to press on. In that instant that she turned away to face her companion, she heard an ominous sound of a sword being drawn. He was right beside her, ready to deal the finishing blow. He swung his sword fast and steady, his red eyes glowing from behind the helmet. She covered her face with her hands.

A stream of blood splattered in front of her eyes, dying the black wood a dark crimson. But it was not her blood. She felt a strong jerk and suddenly hit the ground. She could hear the vicious roars emitted by the wolf, accompanied by the panicked cries of a man and a horse neighing in desperation. She could hear the wolf tear limb from limb, she could hear more blood spill on the austere forest bed. She could feel the life leave her arm. When she fell from the wolf, she lost her things. Gone was the vial, her only chance to make it out of the wood alive, and she had no strength left in her to look for it. The curse was devouring her from the inside. She winced in pain, but the pain soon stopped, if only briefly. That’s when she heard there were no more sounds of struggle. She could only hear slow steps. She recognized them immediately and uttered a huge sigh of relief.

She soon saw the wolf approach her, blood dripping from his white teeth, staining the object he was holding between them. His tired eyes met hers as he dropped the vial with the miraculous liquid in her hand. She looked at him lovingly, as words could never express how grateful she was for such a loyal companion. His eyes closed. The beast fell down on its side. That’s when she noticed the huge gash on his side. His fur turned darker and darker. The same curse that was plaguing her was eating him away. The vial could only heal one. And yet he opened his steel eyes once again, looked into hers, as if nudging her to drink it herself. She pondered that for a minute and felt a huge pain, different from the one caused by the curse. She knew there was only one way out. Twilight was upon them, and the place they were holding her was near, but not near enough for a human to reach it on foot. She struggled to get up and forced the contents of the vial down the beast’s throat, disregarding his growls of protest.

“Go,” she told him, as she dropped to the ground. “She is my light, just as she is yours. Now, you can be her light. You can be mine, too. Please.”

The wolf stood up. He sniffed at her face as she ran her fingers through his mane which was now white as snow. He licked her wound, but she pushed him away. After one final exchange of gazes, she embraced his neck one last time. It was soft, warm, comforting. She knew she had made the right decision. He was always there. He would finish the job. She was sure of it. As she let go, the wolf ran. She could hear him stop for a second before resuming his run. That made her smile, if only just a little. She faced the sky. It was a mixture of orange and pink. She knew that meant there was little time. She didn’t know if even he could reach her in time. And yet, that small, weak light was enough. Her job was done, if cut short. As death engulfed more and more of her body and the view of the sky was taken away from her, she remembered the light and warmth of the wolf’s fur. She smiled once more. He truly was always there with her. 

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch I (2/2)

I decided to step out of the cabin and admire the stars reflected in the clear surface of the black lake, whilst collecting some wolfsbane. The thorny blue petals pricked my fingers ever so gently, though I was prepared to face any torment for the gold the weed warranted. I soon made my way on the overgrown grass back towards the cabin, when, with a muffled thunk, I received a soft blow to the head. It was Nevermore. He was holding a small leather package in his beak. I took it from him, hissing at him, to which he turned his head, seemingly upset, and I noticed that the package seemed to have been assembled with great haste. Within were three objects. Our crystal eye. A small vial with two liquids – one red, the other glowing silver. And a torn note with a peculiar symbol and the word:

RUN

Not again, I thought to myself. I took another look at the symbol – it matched the one I saw while admiring the chiseled young lad. It all seemed pretty obvious, yet I needed to make sure. I made haste to the Tome of Clarity in my cabin, while listening closely to the sounds of the forest. Nevermore was following me. The forest was still, until I reached the door. That’s when I heard a nightmarish howl from deep within the woods. It sounded nothing like a wolf’s.

Knowing that time was flying ever faster, I quickly dove into the basement. The door to the underground library had a padlock, to which I seem to have misplaced the key.

“What the bloody whorechild of a leshy!”

Nevermore seemed to be fed up with my tantrums and quickly disabled the padlock with his solid beak.

“Bloody brilliant! Now I need a new padlock!” I screamed at him, but then caressed his little bird-brained head slightly, while sighing: “But thanks anyway.” Nevermore didn’t seem to care in the slightest, however, and quickly made his way into the library, right next to the pedestal with the Tome of Clarity.

I blazed through its parchment pages and found what I had been looking for. The peculiar symbol was that of two straight lines forming a cross, with a curved one forming a crescent above it. That lad was no lycanthrope. That was a strix. Beings similar to werewolves, yet they only took control of their hosts under a New Moon and were thrice as bloodthirsty. Servants of the bloody Lord of Malady. I’m sure the poor lumberjack had no idea what he was doing, only knowing he wants the crystal eye for his master on an instinctive level. Time was running short and I was sure I saw in the small basement window a figure making its way towards the cabin door. The eye was safe in my pouch, yet I still held my life quite dearly. If only there was a way to undo the curse. That lad was still young, I was sure he could woo a lady or two if he got to live a bit more as well. The book did not elaborate much on that. It only stated that while silver was the bane of a werewolf, sulfur was what made strices shiver. I figured an antidote would then be similar to one for lycanthrope. As fate would have it, wolfsbane was what I needed. I sighed at the thought of losing some of the gold I could get for it instead, but what’s the point of being a witch if you’re not a good witch?

I ran up the stairs and found the beast in all its glory standing in the doorway. A bipedal lynx of sorts, with a flowing auburn mane and three rows of knife-sized teeth, it just stood there, sniffing the air. That’s right! The newts reeked of sulfur. It gave me all the time I needed to prepare the antidote. Nevermore was standing at the table, glaring at the beast, fearless, though the strix’s enormous claws could tear it to shreds if the beast decided to enter the house regardless of smell. And it looked as though it was trying to. It made a shaky step forward and let out a low, guttural growl, all the while flailing its arms at me. I made nothing of it and lay the vial my sister gave me next to the raven and asked him to take care of it. He glanced at me and grabbed it in its talons, but later turned his gaze back at the strix.

I threw all the wolfsbane I had into the mortar and poured some water and honey. I then added a powdered head of grilled newt, just in case. I stirred the solution for a good two minutes when I heard a cat-like roar, a raven’s scream, and the sound of large chunks of wood being devastated. I picked up a silver knife and started pouring the solution into a vial, when Nevermore landed on my shoulder and the beast appeared right I front of me, his mouth gaping, his nostrils growing and shrinking rhythmically, his limbs shaking, as if he was fighting with himself over whether he should enter the stinking hellhole of sulfur, or stay where it was moderately safe.

“Ye whoreson!” I shouted. “That was mahogany!” I ought not have taunted the creature. That  utterance was enough to provoke him to leap at me. I made a quick dive to the floor, barely escaping the creatures enormous claws sliding my reagent table in half. Glass vials fell to the floors, breaking into thousands of shimmering shards. I’d had enough. I clenched the crystal eye in my pouch, praying to the goddess Tylia for protection against curses and absolution to those suffering from them. The orb began to glow and flew out of the pouch, hovering straight above the monster. I wasted no time and hurled the vial with the antidote at him. As the bursting vial made contact with the monster’s fur, the creature let out a growl and exploded into a million pieces. I covered my face, so as to avoid direct contact with beast flesh. Sadly, a large chunk of a tongue landed right on my forehead. I could see Nevermore grabbing and consuming sizeable pieces of meat in one gulp. When the storm subsided I took a look at the middle of all the filthy flesh. The lumberjack lay there, naked, his bare chest visibly raising and lowering at a steady pace. He was alive and well. In an act of uncanny decency, I took out one of my blankets from an old drawer and covered him with it. Before that, though, I took a peek at some parts I could not see when I only made him take of his tunic. I wasn’t disappointed.

I then took a long look around the mangled pieces of the strix. There was one more important detail I needed to seek out. And there it was, right beneath the fireplace. A long strand of yellow hair – Isolde’s hair. The instant I received her package I knew she went and got herself killed. Which meant the regular procedure was to be carried out. I picked up one of the empty jars that had not yet been shattered, placed it over a small flame and poured in the liquids she sent me, placing the hair I found in the bubbling mixture. I picked up the crystal eye that now lay on the floor and offered another prayer, causing it to float above the jar. A little fetus soon formed within the liquid, quickly developing a backbone, limbs and a clearly distinguishable face. I could see a little smirk on the homunculus’ petite face.

“Don’t ye be smilin’ so, my little sister,” I whispered to Isolde. “This time, I’ll be keepin’ the eye by my side, since you clearly lack the responsibility. And for not willing to share with me, ye’ll receive no sweets till the ripe age of eighteen.”

The Fabulous Misadventures of Matoya, the Witch I (1/2)

A knock on the wooden door awoke me from my afternoon nap. And what a nap it was! The Grand Hierophant himself was about to propose to me after a romantic dinner of stewed lamb and leek. And leek is so hard to buy this season! He was dressed up, so fancy like, and his powdered face gleamed white as the moon on a midsummer night’s eve. That bloody knocker better have a good reason to be disrupting my fantasies in such a cheeky way. The stench of grilled newt filled my nose as I took my breath. It was none too pleasant, but the ointments that I can make with it sell for a fortune. I put on my shoes and made my way through the dimly lit, tight room cluttered with pots and flasks galore. To the ignorant eye it all looked like a normal kitchen. Probably for the best. Not all of my ingredients are exactly legal, mind. As I pushed the door, it creaked open, revealing a tattered young man, his skin as pale as a water lily in full bloom (they sell quite nicely, and the love potions they can help make – even better; pity they give nectar only once a year). He had large shadows under his eyes and he was shaking despite the warmth of the spring evening.

“What?” I demanded.

“Ar- Are you the h-holder of the eye?” he asked in a meek voice, stuttering as he did. “I seem to have been c-cursed.”

“Really? Well, my sister Isolde’s the one with the eye, but I can take a look at yer curse for ye.”

“I-I’m afraid that won’t s-suffice,” he stuttered. “It’s ly-ly-lyca-ca-“

“Lycanthropy,” I finished his sentence. “Fine, I’ll give ye a geas that will take ye around the lake to the forest yonder where my sister lives, but let me take examine ye first, why don’t ye.”

He nodded in silence and entered. The lad seemed much larger in the house than outside. He was as tall as a house and built like an ox, if a bit dried up due to the illness. His face, though worn-out, was quite handsome, I must say. Even the bushy auburn beard could not obscure his good looks and those electric blue eyes. Once he took a whiff of the house’s current stench he made a grimace.

“What is that?”

“Newt. The sulfur’s what’s disagreeing with your nose. Now take off yer tunic.”

I examined his body. The sculpted stranger had scratches all around. All of him was as pale as his face. A full moon must have been imminent, then. Another thing I noticed was a curiously shaped burn wound by his neck. He did seem like he did plenty of physical work, small wonder such injury was sustained.

“Aye. Ye’re a werewolf if I’ve ever seen one,” I told him. I placed a hand on one of his shoulders once he finished dressing, a soft glow shimmered for a quick moment. “There, I placed a geas on ye. Ye should make it to Isolde’s by midnight.”

I kicked him out and saw him walk away by the lake, towards the woods. I quickly went up to the table and picked up parchment and quill.

My Dear Isolde,

a young lumberjack of sorts is heading your way. He’s a werewolf, so be prepared, as it’s a full moon tonight. Once you cure him, remember to send a third of the gold to me. I did do the initial examinations, after all.

XOXO

Matoya

“Nevermore!” I shouted as I opened the kitchen window. A raven black as tar and large as a boar landed on the windowsill. “Get this to Isolde, why don’t ye.”

The raven flew away with a flap of his wings, leaving some feathers on the grass. I quickly ran outside to scoop up some of them. The solutions I could brew out of those would fetch me 30 tusks! I tucked them into a dusty jar that I forgot to put back in the pantry. I then went to the back of the cabin to turn my grilling newts a little. A tapping on the window nearly made me spill the lot on the ground.

“Ye bloody birdbrain!” I said to the bird angrily. He was having none of it, though, the expression on his beaked face defiant. “Knock gentle next time, why don’t ye.” I unrolled the pinkish piece of parchment the raven delivered.

Dearest Matoya,

I do not recall us having an agreement on sharing the gold we receive for the treatments we give. Though I suppose there is no harm in giving you a piece or two once I’m done with the young man, considering how stale business has been for you lately. I also think you should pay more attention to the moon calendar, as today the moon is clearly absent from our skies. I should be safe from the lycanthrope’s transformed form for at least two weeks.

Love,

Isolde

Smug little witch. We’ll see how she likes it rough.

Dear Isolde,

ten gold pieces is the least I’m expecting, lest you be expecting a basilisk at your doorstep.

Matoya

Enraged, once Nevermore flew off (no feathers this time around), I returned to my newts. I did find it peculiar, though, that it turned out I was mistaken about the moon phase. It seemed obvious to me that the human forms of lycanthropes grew weaker the closer the full moon was, and that lad looked as feeble and sickly, despite his stature, as they come. And yet my sister’s words rang true – no moon shone its pale light on the lake that night.