Winter Knocks By Alexander James

Russia, Purovsky District

Winter came for them like a hunter--slow, patient. Inevitable. 

“Shut the door, Prishka!”  The howling wind swallowed Father’s voice. Prishka closed her eyes and threw her weight against the barn door, ignoring the splinters digging into her palms from the ancient planks. The storm snapped and snarled around the unfinished boards, pulling them, mocking her pitiful strength. Zimitov and Vlad bleated from the other side. Two goats left, rail-thin and turning sickly. 

“Come on! We have to--we have to close it. Come on dorogoy, we have to hurry.” 

Prishka tried to ignore the glance he threw over his shoulder. He wasn’t frightened, she lied to herself. Father wasn’t scared of anything. She grunted and slammed a shoulder against the door, sealing the barn closed. 

With a gasp of effort, she slapped the rusted metal bar through the latch. 

“Come, come, we must go.”

“Just a--just a moment, Father, give me--” Prishka sagged, hands on her knees. Every breath she took stung her lungs and stole heat from her limbs. White snakes of frost writhed across the crystalline dirt of the courtyard, driven by the wind. The air tasted of snow. It tasted angry. 

“There’s no time. Come.” Father snatched her hand, pulling her forward. She seized the bucket beside her and followed him into the yard, bent against the wind howling from the river. The split-log fence of the yard hemmed in an expanse of desolation--empty gardens, withered tomato vines, puddles long since frosted-over. A few arthritic trees not yet sacrificed to feed their paltry fire. The house, sitting opposite the barn. In the half-light of sunset, everything looked grey. The color, being frozen out of the world. 

“But what about…” She, too, had to raise her voice over the wind. “We cannot just leave her, Father! We have to bury her.” 

She couldn’t look behind her, couldn’t look at the skeletal form lying against the wooden pen. It was only a goat, she tried to tell herself. She should be more like Father when he found the body; shocked, yes, but not sad. Only children became sad when they encountered death. She wasn't a child anymore.

“There's no time, girl. Winter hunts. Leave her.” He squeezed her wrist, hard. She wanted to scream, wanted to tell him she wasn’t a child anymore, but she knew the wind would steal her words...and he dragged her regardless. She cried out, trying to get away, but he held her tight as a vice. 

“Come, now. Come!” 

They fled across the courtyard. Mist pressed tight against the fields, black and glaring in their desolation--she knew there was nothing to see, storm or not. Last year had been a poor harvest. This year was worse. The churned mud and dirt beneath her bare feet had frozen into glass, sharp enough to cut her down.

The front door closed behind her, Father grunting as he slipped the bolts through. The wind rattled its frame, furious at being cheated out of two more bodies. She set the bucket down. At least it was warm inside. Well...warmer. 

“How is she?” Her mother looked up from the rocking crib. In the glare from the soot-choked fire, her features were pinched, stark. Like a goblin wearing her mother’s face. 

“Dead.” Father ran a hand through his hair. He stared through the floor, unable to bring himself to look her in the eyes. “A mouse chewed a hole in the pen, in the corner. She froze.” 

"Couldn't you patch it?" Mother wiped the back of a wrist against her face, smearing wood-ash across a cheek. Father shook his head. 

"Not in this cold. The ice finds a way."

“And the garden?”

Father picked up the bucket, his mouth pulled tight. “Not much. We found a few carrots still in the patch. Like I thought, the potatoes are mostly gone to rot. This is all that’s left.” He raised the bucket for her to see. 

Mother stood, swirling away to glare into the corner. She didn’t like the baby to see her angry. 

“I told you. I told you we should have kept her in the barn, with the others,” Father said. 

“Zatknis!” A dozen more lines carved into Mother's face, when she turned around. “Yes, and risk the other two falling ill? Then we would have three dead goats instead of one! Is that what you want, Alexei? Eh?” 

“For all the good the two living ones do us now. You know as well as I she was our last chance for a kid. And now, what?” 

Prishka expected her to shout, take another cut, another jab in their never-ending fights. Just like last night, and the night before. Since the morning they woke and found the first gleaming touches of hoarfrost covering the yard and fields, ruining the desperate planting of late-September cabbage. 

But her mother covered her mouth, and her barbed words turned to sobs. She turned to the corner and cried into the crooked bookshelf. She didn’t like the baby to see her cry, either. 

With a sigh, Father crossed to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t say anything--he just stood there, connected to her. 

“We still have Zimi and Vlad,” Prishka said. She didn’t want to be useless. Little children were useless. She would be thirteen next month. She wasn’t a little child anymore. 

Her mother turned, wiping her tears. She struggled for a smile, and almost found one. 

“Quite so. Quite so, darling girl. Now,” She cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her frayed apron, “Who’s hungry?”  

She turned to the cooking pot in the hearth, busying herself. Her hands trembled only a little. “I found that last onion, dear, it rolled behind the shelf. I’ve got a stew with a little cabbage and carrot. You two, wash up before dinner. You know the rules.” 

The rainwater bucket sat in the corner, beside the empty cupboard. A hammer hung on a ring nearby. They used it to break the thin layer of ice already spider-webbing the top. 

“You missed a spot,” Father whispered to Priskha. He winked, swallowing the hiss of pain as he dipped his hands in the frigid water. His rawboned knuckles turned rose-red. 

“Where?” Prishka inspected her hands, concerned. Mother spent her childhood in the city, and enforced strict manners in the house; no dirty hands or smudged faces at her table. 

“Right there.” He flicked droplets onto her neck and she giggled, flinching away from the cold touch. They stung her skin, this far from the fire. 

“Come on you two, stop lingering. Supper is ready.” 

“I’ll hold Anatoly!” Prishka danced to the rocking crib. “Hello malen’kiy. Hello.”

Baby Anatoly wriggled, kicking and punching in his excitement to see his big sister. A blue knit cap covered the wisps of hair on his head--russet-red, just like Father’s. Prishka slid a careful hand behind his neck and bottom, just like mother taught. “Oh my goodness you’re getting so big already! Yes you are! Yes you. Mother, what’s this?”

Beneath the edge of Anatoly’s makeshift shirt--a sack of burlap, washed and repurposed--a small grouping of red stipples spread across his skin. 

“Oh that? Ah, nothing. He slept oddly during his nap, the silly boy. One arm and leg tucked beneath him. Just a bed rash--don't look at it too closely, darling.” Mother waved behind her. She didn't look up from the pot. Her voice sounded high, unsteady. Like a kettle whistling steam from her lungs, eating her words.  

They ate at the table, pulled close to the fire. Prishka balanced Anatoly on her lap, pretending to feed him bits of carrot or spoonfuls of broth. 

“We can leave,” Mother muttered, hunting in her bowl for a piece of cabbage. “Hook the two goats up to the cart. It’s only a day to Urengoy, maybe two.” 

Father shook his head, holding a hand to feel the heat of the fire. It faltered already, the pale logs collapsing in on themselves. The single window rattled as the storm rushed by. Darkness surrounded them, hungry as the frost. Prishka held Anatoly and tried not to shiver. She scooted closer to the fire. 

“There’s no place to stay, between here and Urengoy. Sleeping outside this time of year…” He didn’t need to finish. The frail goat flashed in Prishka's eyes, lying in the pen outside. 

“What about the Ibragimov’s? We could beg a night’s shelter from them. If we left first thing in the morning, we maybe could get to Urengoy by nightfall.” 

He set his spoon down in the empty bowl, grinding the palms of his hands against his eyes. “They left. A week ago, fled to Elena’s cousin in Korotchayevo. Their harvest was worse than ours, they had no other choice. If they made it, they beat the frosts by a day, maybe less.”

“Well there must be...there must be something we can do, Alexei.” Mother hissed, trying not to look at Prishka. Like the girl wasn't even there. “If we stay here we’ll--”

“You know what I think we need? A story.” His chair scraped against the worn-down pine boards, cutting her off. He reached for the bookshelf. “Prishka, what do you think Anatoly wants to hear? The Pretty Little Mouse? How about Babushka?”

“No, not Babushka. He’s heard that one too many times, he’s sick of it.” 

Mother stood abruptly, piling bowls and spoons in the crook of an elbow and stomping to the wash-sink beneath the window. 

“Oh sick of it, is he? Very discerning taste for an infant. Very well, what do you think he’d like to hear?” Father carried on, ignoring Mother. Against the fire light, his hair looked roan, the color of springtime deer. 

“What do you think, malen’kiy?” Prishka whispered, holding her ear close to Anatoly's mouth. He smelled of cradle, and milk. Easier to ignore her parents fighting, holding little Anatoly. “Tell your big sister, go on.”

Baby Anatoly looked up at her and babbled a toothless exclamation, swinging for her face with an arm, nearly smacking her in the eye. 

“Is that right? Interesting. Curious choice.” She smiled. 

“Well? What’s the verdict?” 

“Anatoly wants to hear about the Count.” 

Father raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” 

Prishka struggled to keep a straight face. “That’s right. He’s a very intelligent baby, you see.” 

“Just like his sister and mother. Very well, the Count it is.” He reached for the red-bound book, loved to the point of falling apart. 

“Alexei.” Mother whispered from the door to the bedroom. 

“Just a second, Nina.”

“Alexei.” 

Father got up, crossing to the door. "What is it, lyubimyy?" 

He trailed off. They stood together, staring into the bedroom. A second crawled past, then two. 

"What should..." Emotion choked the rest of Mother's words, stealing them from her. She held the towel to her mouth. Father went inside, and Prishka heard the sound of scraping and grunting. They whispered, too low for Prishka to hear. 

“What is it?” Prishka hefted Anatoly on her shoulder, rising to look for herself. She wasn't a little child; she wasn't useless. 

“Nothing!” Mother spun. She clutched a still-dripping bowl with white knuckles. “It’s...it’s nothing. I think...I think we could all use a story tonight, Alexei, what do you say?” 

Father emerged from the bedroom and nodded. Something hid in his eyes. 

“Yes. Tonight of all nights, I think. Very well. Gather around, you three. Prishka, why don’t you hand little Anatoly to your mother and put another few logs on the fire.” 

“Really?” Prishka gasped with delight. “You mean it?”

“Of course. We deserve it--it’s been a tough harvest.  Why not shed a little light in here?” There were only three logs left in the stack, beside the door. The cold sent goosebumps darting across her shoulders as it slipped through the tiny cracks in the doorframe. The wind howled outside.

“We’re going to have to cut more wood tomorrow, Father.” She grunted on her way back to the fireplace. 

“Yes, of course. Tomorrow. Yes.” Father spoke to the floorboards. He caught himself, turning back to the world, to her. “Now then, everyone ready?” 

Mother sat at the table, pulling Prishka and Anatoly close. The fire flickered and grew brighter, pushing the cold away. Prishka hadn’t realized how cold it was, until the warmth caressed her skin. Hadn’t realized she, too, was shivering. 

“On February 24, 1815, the lookout at Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde signalled the arrival of the three-master Phareon, coming from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples…”

His voice washed over them, every bit as warm as the fire. Prishka loved hearing about the Count--she'd only been pretending the baby wanted to hear about it. Father read in a fine mood tonight, a sort of energy running through his fingers. He even did the voices--he only did the voices on special occasions. Soon, however, Prishka’s eyes grew heavy as the orange glow pushed the shadows and cold from the room. Anatoly held one of her fingers in a chubby fist, already fast asleep. Father's voices seemed to blur and blend together, until they were one single drone, humming with the crackling fire in her ear.

She slept. 

She woke to someone knocking on the door. 

Baby Anatoly fussed beside her. Prishka frowned--he normally slept with Mother, on the far side of the bed. The cold found her, even stuffed beneath her blankets. The piles of hay-stuffed burlap didn’t help at all--she felt the stinging touch of winter press against her face, her feet, her fingers. 

 She turned, sure she imagined the sound. After all, there wasn’t another farm for four verstas in any direction, no one could--

Knock knock. 

“Father. Someone’s at the door,” she muttered, hunting for sleep. Father didn’t answer; she craned her neck, peering at the other bed. The bed had been shoved against the wall. He slept still and silent, pressed against the mud-packed planks. Mother curled in front of him, one of his arms draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed. Strange--she always rose with the dawn, stoking the fire, preparing nettle tea. Baby Anatoly huffed tiny protestations from half-sleep. 

The knocking. It would wake the baby. 

Almost as if it knew, the knocking continued, insistent. Prishka kicked out from under the burlap, wiping the dregs of sleep from her eyes. The longer the baby slept, the longer the rest of them could sleep. There was plenty of time to sleep, in the winter. 

A pile of heavy fabric slid from atop of the scratchy blanket. She didn't need to squint, as she normally did; a strange light steeped into the bedroom. She picked at the pile, shivering. A shirt, frayed and patched. A dress, the only dress Mother kept from her time in the City. Father's spare trousers. It looked like every piece of clothing they owned, piled on top of Prishka and the baby. 

Her belly grew cold. Something felt wrong. Why would Mother and Father bury them in clothes? Why would they put Baby Anatoly with her? She took a hesitant step toward the other side of the bed. 

Knock knock. 

Baby Anatoly fussed, louder this time. She wanted Mother and Father to sleep more; they never got the chance to sleep late. 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”  She covered him with the clothes again, making sure he had room to breathe. 

Outside the window, blue-black clouds choked the sky. Prishka shivered. The air inside the house froze, hungry for whatever touches of heat it could steal. Her breath curled in front of her, thick plumes. The wood coal-bed sat dark and cold, long since died out. She crossed her arms and hunched, stumbling to the door. They used the final chopped wood for the fire last night. The goats could wait--she’d deal with whoever knocked at the door, and cut wood for a fire first. Perhaps she could do it fast enough to have a cheery blaze for when Mother and Father woke up. 

She touched the door handle, then leapt back with a cry. The wood was icy to the touch, so cold it burned her.  

Knock knock. 

The fist against the door became soft now, gentle. Prishka slipped her hand through her tattered dress and opened the door. 

“Zdravstvuyte, little one.” A man stood at the door. His fur-lined coat was patched and frayed. The ragged ends of his hair danced in the wind, black as a raven's wing. His beard was long, unkempt. Even covered by the beard, Prishka could see the lines in his face; carved deep, like the bark of a tree. Like he'd seen a thousand winters, and buried the bodies himself. There were always bodies in the winter. 

 He held a black case in his hand, like the travelling minstrel who sometimes came to their farm. It looked as old as he, scuffed and battered. 

“Hello.” She inhaled. The air stung like bees through her nose, down her throat. 

“Can I come in?” 

“I don’t--I’m not supposed to allow strangers in the house.”  The door burned her hand, through the too-thin fabric of her dress. Her legs shook. She’d never felt this cold before; a cold that made her want to cry. 

The man knelt down, drawing eye level with her.  

“You and I aren’t strangers, malen’kiy. I’ve come to help you.” 

The world outside sat still, silent. Normally Zimi and Vlad were already bleating to be fed. She couldn't hear them. Couldn't hear anything. Fog and frost choked the farm, isolating them from the road. She didn't see a horse, or carriage. Surely he didn't walk? 

“You’ve...you came to help?”

“In my own way. Winter hunts. It is too late for some, and what little time you have is slipping with the wind. Let me in, little one.” 

She didn’t feel her legs move--they were already numb.  She stepped aside. The man brushed past her, silent as the wind. 

“I don’t...I can’t…” She stumbled, trying to think. Something was wrong, hiding just beneath the surface. She missed it. Right in front of her face. She couldn't think.

“Listen to me, malen’kiy, and listen well. The little one is sick.”  He stood by the dead fire, hands crossed over the handle of his case. “He is sick, and he needs medicine.” 

“The...baby Anatoly? No...no.” Prishka shook her head. It felt heavy on her shoulders. She remembered the red stippling across his skin. “No, Mother said he slept strangely."

“She was wrong. Or she lied; either is the same.” He wasn’t unkind, or cruel--he spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, empty of emotion. “Get the child, and as much food as you can carry. Go south. Go quickly.”

A fist of iron froze in the center of her stomach. "What?" 

"You must leave, while you still have time. Winter hunts, little one. Isn't that what your Father says?" 

She wanted to protest; she wanted to whine and cry and say she didn’t understand. But she wasn’t a baby anymore. 

“Okay. I’ll wake Mother and Father. We’ll go.” 

“No.” Prishka flinched at the iron in his voice. He saw, and his gaze softened. “No. I’m sorry, little one. They stay with me. You take the baby, and the two of you go. Your parents stay with me.”

“But...No, but I…” She swallowed. “I need them.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He stood by the fire like a statue, grim and cold.  His fingers didn't drum against his case. He didn't stammer. Prishka swallowed traitorous tears. Babies cried. She wasn't a baby anymore. “They stay with me. And if you linger, you and the little one will too.”

She clenched her fists to keep from crying, and nodded again. She remembered Father, when he found the goat yesterday. Shocked, yes, but not sad. She could be sad later. 

There was a quarter loaf of black bread, a rind of moldy cheese and the potatoes and carrots from yesterday left, all the food in the house. She stuffed them into a burlap sack, and slung it over her shoulders. 

"Why..." The tears came again, to betray her. "What is happening?  I don't understand. I don't--" The floor swelled and warped in her eyes. She felt cut adrift from reality, floating just outside of her body. 

Useless.

"It is an accident." The dark man murmured. The iron faded from his face. He walked to the bedroom--his boots clipped over the raw floorboards, the rough nails in the soles catching on the wood burrs. Mother didn't allow work boots in the house. Prishka almost said so, but something held her tongue. Some secret, clutched in the frost and fog lurking outside the window. 

He went to their sleeping forms. She didn't like the way he stood over them, dark and immaterial in the half-light, like the ravens who squawk from the pine trees in spring. 

"It happens often. It is an old house. Holes in the walls, in the corners, in the windowsills. Frost comes in. Winter hunts. Come." 

Her feet shuffled again, numb and cold. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, turned her with a hand on her shoulder. His voice in her ear lowered until it sounded like the wind whistling over the pines. "See, there?" 

In the freezing bedroom, Prishka finally saw it. What stole her mother's words, caused Father to put more logs on the fire; a jagged hole in the walls, hiding behind Father's back. The planks crumbled from the frost, falling away. He always talked about bolstering the walls. He never had time. The extra clothes for her and Baby Anatoly. The bedclothes so they would have each other, if only for a short time. Winter came for them like a hunter; slow, patient...and inevitable.

Mother and Father knew what waited for them, so long after sunset and so far from dawn. Looking at them, it seemed impossible she didn't notice before. The room clung silent and still around them, anemic without the rising and falling of their breathing. Truth settled beneath the cold. She'd never see Father smile again, never hear him do the voices when he read by the fire. She'd never eat another of Mother's meals. 

She waited. One second, another. Waited for Mother's chest to move, for her eyes to open. She'd cry about how late it was, leap out of bed and start a fire for tea. Or Father, wagging a finger about how long Prishka let the goats go without milking. Any moment now, they'd wake. Any moment, and her heart would start again. Her lungs burned--she held her breath, waiting for them to take theirs. 

Please. 

The seconds ticked past. Mother and Father stayed where they were. 

They're dead. They're not coming back. 

Hot tears, streaming from her eyes. She wasn't a baby, she wasn't useless. The frost still came for her and Anatoly, even now. She had to do something. 

Anatoly cried when she picked him up, one hand behind his neck and one beneath his bottom. He cried for Mother; Mother stayed in bed. 

“Where…” She was crying in earnest now, and hated it. “Where are we going to go?” She tucked Anatoly into a burlap sling, wrapped him as best she could. She wasn’t a baby. She wasn’t useless.

“That, I do not know. But you cannot stay here. Winter has this place--if you stay, it will have you too. Now go. Run.” 

Prishka ran.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alexander James on Twitter @DrunkScribe.

Where Witches Wander By Alexa Rose

Melandra rolled the soldier’s corpse with her boot. She scrunched her brow as she stared at the body’s unmarked back and shook her head.

“Nothing,” Mela said.

“Fine. Check that one,” said Aszana as she shielded her kohl-lined eyes from the midday sun and pointed to another corpse.

Following the sorceress’s tattooed finger, Mela found clean footing between dead soldiers and emphatically pointed at a young man’s corpse with half a head. 

“This one?” Mela asked. She slapped at her neck and flicked away a burst insect. “These flies bite. You know that, right?”

Batting away more fat, black flies that buzzed from body to body, Mela turned away and drew in a breath of slightly less putrid air.

“No, no, the Saffasian officer beneath him.”

Holding her breath, Mela knelt to the bloody grass and pushed the young levy aside. The officer looked the sort with his high-born jaw, his widow’s peak and black hair, the sturdy armor with the flame insignia of Saffa. Despite every fortune, the very dead man had been run through from the front.

“He was not betrayed,” Mela said.

“How can you be sure?”

The sorceress’s voice hissed across the distance. It came as a grating thing chaffing at raw nerves. The search would go faster if she would sully her pretty hands and white blouse. But Mela said nothing. She did not need another fight today.

“The manner of cut tells me so. As does the blood on his uniform.”

“You are the killer. You would know.”

“Yes, I would.”

Mela left the officer to his death and kept moving. Floring Hill loomed to her left, and avian scavengers picked at the dead. Hours earlier, the army from Saffa and the warriors from Mors Caden had been alive. The hill might have been pretty with summer blooms. But no longer.

The wind came up. It carried the smell of rain from the south where clouds gathered over the pines of Mors Caden. Mela guessed she would be soaked and miserable by day’s end.

“I had assumed soldiers betrayed one another in battle,” the sorceress said. She flicked her hand, and corpses tumbled aside as invisible hands cleared a path toward the hill. “Was I wrong?”

Leaving the thought of rain for later, Mela followed. Ahead, she only saw death. So many bodies. Judging by the colors, the Saffasian army had held the hill, the warriors from Mors Caden had tried to take it, and both sides paid dearly. Soldiering is such a waste, Mela thought. Better to be a mercenary. At least she would make a fortune risking her life.

“Soldiers wouldn’t betray their own ranks,” Mela said. She ran her hand along the shaven side of her head. An idea came to mind, and she thought aloud. “But levies might. They would be commanded by an officer. And when they were ordered into a suicidal charge, they woul-”

“There.”

Aszana pointed at the base of Floring Hill. Four levies and one officer laid in the trampled grass. 

“I’ll look,” Mela said. “You watch for scavengers. And this time, say something if they’re coming.”

The sorceress waved her hand and turned toward the southern storms. 

“Yes, yes. Hurry, Mela. Rain’s coming.”

Grumbling, Mela picked her way across the battlefield. Every time, she promised herself she would not accept another contract from Aszana. Every. Time. And then those doe eyes dampened. She’d drag a tattooed finger along Mela’s jaw. Whisper an invitation. Better if the sorceress had cast a spell. Instead, Mela had to blame herself and her needy loins for walking through viscera and searching corpses for spell components.

The Saffasian levies had been peppered with arrows. One had a sword jutting from his belly. And they had died going up their own hill. Using the war hammer at her hip, Mela moved a levy and rolled the officer onto his back. He had a knife between the fourth and fifth ribs, left side. Killing thrust. Saffasian knife, too. It sure looked like betrayal.

Drawing her knife from its thigh sheath, Mela cut off the officer’s shirt. It had silver thread and cobalt dye. Gold buttons. The buffoon had spent his money on the shirt rather than functional armor. No wonder Saffa has lost its standing on the continent. Its noble sons were idiots.

“Here,” Mela said, holding the shirt aloft. “Clothing of someone murdered by betrayal.”

“Good,” Aszana said as she flashed a dazzling smile. “I think we will find the last component on the hilltop.”

Mela put her hammer away and waited for Aszana to take the bloody shirt. The sorceress didn’t pay any heed to the blood. Rather, she stuffed the shirt into a tiny pouch where it disappeared into darkness. Afterward, she wrinkled her nose at the blood on her fingers. Speaking in the sibilant language of magic, Aszana brushed her hands together and the blood flaked off like so much caked mud. 

“You know there will be scavengers up there, right?” Mela asked, her gaze dropping to her blood-soaked hands and the bits of stubborn ichor.

Aszana set her clean hand on Mela’s arm. Squeezed. Opened wide those damned doe eyes.

“That’s why you’re here, love.”

Mela loosened the bastard sword across her back. Yeah, she knew why she was here. Stupid loins. By the five gods, she needed a bath. Her chain shirt smelled of steel and sweat. She could only imagine how she looked with half her head shaven and the other half feeling like she’d had a night’s roll in a brothel. And now her clothes reeked of blood. 

“That’s why I’m here,” Mela said. 

#

The wind bit harder at the rise. Banners snapped and waved from their bent and broken hafts. The gold-and-blue Saffasian flag held on by one eyelet. Ravens and crows hopped from corpse to corpse, perching on bloodied steel as they pecked and cawed.

“All this for a hill,” Mela said. She counted several dozens of bodies. Maybe a hundred. Where the fighting at the base of the hill had left people stabbed or trampled, these bodies were in pieces. 

“Vela would have been up here,” Aszana said. She waved her hand at the scorch marks and ragged furrows on the bodies and ground. “This is her handiwork.”

Velanya of Briscroft. The witch of Cadiff Reach. Mela sighed. If the gods were fair, Vela’s corpse would be here. Alas . . .

“What’s the last thing we need for Xandra’s cure?” Mela asked.

Aszana took out her leather-bound journal and began to read.

“Tonic to lift a curse. In a cauldron of boiled water, add twelve rose petals. A vial of morning dew. One fly fat with a belly full of death. Green moss from a sapling. One garment from a betrayed man. The marrow of a magic-slain body. Stir and boil until black. Drain. Serve at room temperature.” At that, the sorceress returned the journal to her bag and pushed her long, red hair to the side. “Look for a corpse with a black mark and a web of bruises around it.”

Casting her gaze upon the hundreds of bodies, Mela asked, “What do I do when I find it?”

“Tell me so I can pry out a bone. We need the marrow.”

Shrugging, Mela knelt and tore at the nearest corpse’s clothes. 

“By the Five! You mercenaries are thick-headed,” Aszana said as she pulled a glass orb with glowing prismatic runes from her bag. “The spell had to target exposed flesh, so stop undressing that dead man and start looking at hands and faces.”

“Will you be joining me?” Mela asked as she moved among the bodies.

“I’ll focus on the magic,” Aszana said without looking up from the orb. She tapped a series of runes and the orb filled with flame, which the sorceress gathered into her hand and kept there as a fiery tattoo. “You focus on the dead.”

Working in a grid, Mela kicked dirt onto each body she inspected so she didn’t waste time on the same corpses. There were so many marks to decipher. Green splotches. Burns. Yellow smears. Rainbow bruises. But no black marks. No web of bruises.

There were opened bellies and exposed bones. Steel pinned the dead in place. Birds had eaten eyes and noses. Still no black marks.

“Melandra?”

Glancing at Aszana, Mela realized she had crossed the rise and started down the far side.

“Mind coming over here?” Worry edged into the sorceress’s voice. 

Mela broke into a jog. She saw flames gather in Aszana’s palms, and she drew her arming sword, slowed to a guarded sidestep, and eyed the horizon.

“There’s something in the ground,” Aszana whispered.

Mela watched the grass. Her eyes unfocused to better see movement. A heartbeat later, she saw a corpse jostle as though a dog chewed on it. The ground bulged around the body. Black spines poked through the battle-churned soil.

“Burrowers,” Mela hissed.

“Ghouls? Already?” Aszana asked as flames wreathed her fingers and a hot wind gathered around her.

Mela shook her head and said, “Vela would have summoned them.”

“Your sister has a way of bringing ruin,” Aszana said. She gestured at the corpse being eaten from below and asked, “Fire will work on her conjurations, yes?”

“Eh,” Mela said. She carefully stepped forward. “Probably not. Vela isn’t one for common fare. Best to beware their poisoned spines, don’t let them bite you, and by the gods, don’t run away. Steel and lightning should do just fine.”

Mela eased her war hammer from her hip and dropped both it and her satchel to the ground. She pushed her hair behind her ear and stared at the jostled corpse.

“I’ll draw it out. You stun it, and I’ll kill it,” Mela said as she hefted her sword and started forward, stomping with her front foot.

“To your left,” Aszana shouted.

More spines poked through. Black claws followed. That badger-like head erupted from the soil and sniffed. Damn things couldn’t see well, but they smelled everything. It made a sound between a whine and a growl, and then it came all the way out. Fully exposed, it had the size of a mastiff. 

Mela knew she could do this. She’d fought burrowers before. She had the scars to prove it.

The creature stalked forward on its claws. Its spines stood upright, and its head snapped toward Mela.

“Lightning. Now.”

A heartbeat later, thunder shook the hilltop as a bolt of lightning arced over Mela’s shoulder and struck the burrower. Sprinting forward, Mela brought her sword up, took it in both hands, and slashed across the dazed ghoul’s neck. Black blood spattered onto the grass, and the stench of a charnel pit filled the air.

More burrowers came to the surface. They gathered into a pack of three and began to chitter and bark. Not good. Ghouls weren’t smart, but they were dangerous.

“Keep casting!”

Thunder clapped, and one of the ghouls collapsed under a torrent of lightning. The other two split up and circled the mercenary. Too late, Mela realized they were avoiding her and going toward Aszana. 

Dashing to the stunned ghoul, Mela lifted a broken spear from the ground and jabbed it through the creature and into the soil. She shook the haft until that beast shrieked and gave a wavering call. The stalking ghouls stopped. Turned.

“That’s it. Come to me,” Mela said. 

Come they did. Loping, the monsters closed the gap in seconds.

Mela plunged her sword through the pinned ghoul’s head. She jerked the blade free and spun away as black claws raked the air. She hopped backward as the other ghoul tried to bite her thigh. Aiming a kick at the beast’s jaw, her toes broke against that dense bone. But she followed up with a cross-slash to the shoulder all the same, and the ghoul yelped and withdrew.

Aszana shouted something, and the ground beneath the remaining ghoul churned like boiling water. The creature barely whined before it sank beneath the surface. Mela heard the grinding of bones, and she turned her attention toward the ghoul she’d cut.

It growled and clawed at the ground, but it did not charge. Mela roared and waved her sword, and the beast fled the hilltop.

“Are there more?” the sorceress asked.

Mela studied the ground. Listened. Watched the bodies. 

“No.”

“Good. Now hurry. We need to find the last component before something worse shows up.”

“Ghouls probably ate the marked flesh,” Mela said. “They go for rotted meat first.”

Aszana cursed and took out her journal again.

Mela retrieved her items. She poured oil onto her foul-smelling blade and held it out for Aszana’s fire. As the blade ignited and burned away the tainted blood, she studied the nearby corpses. Thunder roared to the south where a sheet of rain fell over the pines of Mors Caden. 

Something silver caught Mela’s eye. She swished her flaming sword to fan the fire as she knelt beside a soldier’s corpse and pried its fingers loose. A silver locket with a broken chain nestled in his filthy palm.

Mela stuck her sword in the ground and took hold of the locket. She examined it. Turned it over. Opened it. Stared at tiny portraits of her and her twin. Velanya looked so innocent. So much unlike the witch she had become.

“What did you find?”

Closing her hand over the locket, Mela said, “A witch’s trinket.”

“Vela’s?”

Mela didn’t say anything.

“Leave it.”

Mela slid the locket inside her shirt. She felt Aszana’s hand on her shoulder.

“You know her best.”

“I did,” Mela said.

“Let’s keep looking. Maybe the back slope has a body for us.”

#

Fat drops of rain stung Mela’s head. Cursing the storm, she wiped water from her face and glanced at Aszana. The sorceress smiled and spread her arms, showing off her soaked shirt and leggings. She laughed at the storm and combed her fingers through her fire-red hair.

“It’s rain, Mela. A natural risk of being outdoors. Stand in it long enough, you might smell better.”

Lightning forked beneath black clouds. A breath later, thunder rolled down the hill’s slope. Look as she might, Mela could not see the hilltop through the downpour. She couldn’t hear the little sounds or smell anything other than rain.

“You want to find a body in this?” Mela called out as water filled her boots and thoroughly soaked her clothes.

“A spell component, yes,” Aszana said through her smile and laughter as she twirled and danced among the dead.

Mela threw her arms wide.

“Where? That one has a spear in its back. That one is headless. Magic didn’t kill anyone here.”

Aszana came close. She reached up and set her tattooed fingers against Mela’s jaw. She opened wide those blue, doe eyes. Leaning in, breathing on Mela’s ear, she whispered, “Want to go back? Tell Xandra goodbye? Or will you stay with me? I promise I’ll make this worth your while.”

Mela felt heat build within her despite the cold rain. Stupid loins. And she couldn’t abandon Xandra. Not now. Not ever.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“That’s a dear,” Aszana said as she patted Mela’s cheek. 

The sorceress looked over Mela’s shoulder and stumbled backward. Her eyes widened and her mouth went slack. 

Mela followed the sorceress’s fright. Two people approached on horseback. Squinting through the curtain of rain, she recognized the symbol of the Three-Faced God. Cultists. Graverobbers and necromancers. They’ve come to read the dead and portend omens.

“They’re witch hunters,” Aszana said.

Waving the sorceress away, Mela walked toward the riders. She raised her hand in greeting, and they greeted her in turn. 

And then she saw it.

The shimmer.

Rain struck a magicked barrier around their armor. 

One of the cultists spurred his mount and charged, lowering a spear as his horse’s hooves threw clods of mud. The other stood in the saddle and hefted a crossbow.

“Run!” Mela shouted. She drew her hammer and leaned forward, open hand ready to grab the spear, hoping like hell the rain fouled the archer’s shot.

Aszana stood her ground, too. Lightning crackled from finger to finger. 

The crossbow bolt twanged past Mela, missing her by a whisper. Lightning erupted behind her. The bolt had pierced Aszana’s palm and detonated the spell, knocking the sorceress prone and setting fire to her clothes.

Mela focused on the approaching rider. She waited for the spear to dip toward her heart. 

Never blinking, holding her breath, she watched that wet steel speed toward her. At the last second, she sidestepped. Grabbed the haft. Pulled.

The rider didn’t let go, and Mela dragged him from the saddle. He bounced on the ground and barely settled when she put the hammer’s spike into his temple. She stove in his cuirass for good measure, crushing the steel against his sternum. 

She saw Aszana’s chest rise and fall. The sorceress lives, she thought.

Shoulders hunched against the rain, bloody hammer in hand, Mela turned to the other witch hunter. She started forward, glowering beneath her wet brow, knuckles white on the hammer’s steel handle.

The cultist tossed aside the crossbow and drew a sword. Dismounted and kept his footing.

“You travel with a witch,” the cultist shouted. “Stand aside or be purified.”

Mela meant to make this hurt. She stared at that breastplate. At the hinges and joints. At that shaven head and its snarling mouth with entirely too many teeth. Oh, she would fix all these things with her hammer.

But the cultist moved fast. He stepped left, moved right, got behind Mela, and cut the back of her arm. She spun with the attack and aimed her hammer at his knee, but he backpedaled to safety. The hammer wouldn’t work. Too slow. Too predictable. She let it fall. Drew her sword and knife. 

“You oppose the Gray-Faced God,” the cultist said. “You betray your own kind to consort with witches and devils.”

Mela stepped and thrust. Expected the parry. Ducked beneath the riposte. She lunged with her knife, but the cultist dropped his shoulder, and she sliced through his ear rather than his neck.

He screamed. His sword fell. His huge hands closed around Mela’s shoulders, and he head-butted her. Twice.

She lost her footing. Fell to her backside. Her weapons slipped from her hands. She tried to stand, but he put his foot on her chest and pushed her into the ground. Her fingers brushed the sword’s hilt. The knife had tumbled elsewhere. 

A wild, terrible howl pierced the storm and rolled across the battlefield. 

The cultist looked around. He put more of his weight on Mela’s chest as he fingered a dagger at his belt and called out, “Who’s there?”

Mela pushed on the cultist’s boot to no avail. She tried to breathe. Couldn’t.

A jagged bolt of green magic struck the cultist’s forehead. He teetered. His foot lifted. He pitched sideways and collapsed, his lifeless face inches from hers.

Gasping for air, Mela stared at the black mark and web of bruises on his face.

Strong hands slid beneath her arm and pulled her upright. Slender fingers combed through her hair.

“Why have you come into my wilds, little sister?”

Mela closed her eyes at hearing Velanya’s voice. She waited for the brief shock of death or the crackle of magic. Seconds passed. Neither came. When she yet lived, Mela let out a long breath and glanced at her sister. The witch of Cadiff Reach looked as wild as the stories described with her matted brown hair and rust-colored tattoos that glowed with an inner light. She wore stained, leather leggings and muck-covered boots, but she bore nothing above the waist.

“We’re trying to save Xandra.”

Vela’s lips curled into an ugly grin.

“That traitor? Feed her to the crows.”

Mela frowned and looked away.

“She saved my life after you left me for dead,” Mela whispered.

“I warned you to stay away,” Vela hissed. “You came after me with steel and magic. Your death should and Xandra’s curse should have been permanent things. But here we are.”

Mela said nothing. Instead, she reached inside her shirt and pulled out the silver locket.

“Give it back, Melandra,” Vela said, her voice heavy with threat. 

Mela coughed and sputtered in the heavy rain as she opened her hand. 

Vela plucked the locket from Mela’s palm and smiled. For a moment, Mela saw the sister she had once known.

“Finally lost your pretty dresses?” Vela ran her fingers over the shaved half of Mela’s scalp and said, “Loving this tough look, little sister. You’re out here playing the part of the mercenary. You even found your own witch.”

When Mela didn’t respond, when she only watched with a stoic expression, Vela smirked and brushed Mela’s hair from her brow. “You’re not so tough. Not so tough at all.”

A breath later, Velanya roughly slapped Mela’s cheek. The witch’s green eyes hardened into a glare, and she whispered, “Don’t come looking for me. We aren’t enemies, but we aren’t friends.”

And then the witch was up and away. Seconds later, a massive, white wolf joined her. She leapt onto its back and buried herself in its fur. The rain swallowed them both. A wild, terrible howl echoed through the storm and faded into the patter of rain.

Mela pressed her fingers where Vela had slapped her. She stood on unsteady legs and gathered her weapons. Her wound still bled, but she could feel her fingers. She saw Aszana had sat up. The sorceress’s hair had burned away in the front, and her white shirt had charred and burned through in places. The skin on her belly blistered. But she stood with Mela’s help. They bound Aszana’s hand and Mela’s arm, and together, they worked in silence to remove a length of bone from the magic-slain cultist’s forearm.

By the time they finished, the afternoon threatened to become evening and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Mela rolled the bone in a damp cloth and shoved it inside her satchel. She retrieved the cultists’ horses and helped Aszana into the saddle. Wincing, she climbed onto the other horse.

“We have everything we need?” Mela asked. She scanned the horizon and let out her breath. No more fighting today, gods. Just give me a warm bed.

“Yes,” Aszana said as she blinked slowly and wiped the wet from her face.

“Ready to return to the Vale? To Xandra?”

Aszana nodded. Said, “Keep close. I feel better when you’re close.”

Mela kept one eye on the sorceress as they left Floring Hill and headed west. She stayed within arm’s reach of her lover at all times and set a steady pace. 

“Think Xandra will be okay?” Mela asked after some moments passed and they entered the flatlands.

“Yeah.”

As Mela swayed in the saddle, she looked over her shoulder. “Velanya saved us.”

“I saw.”

“It’s more than I expected.”

“I know.”

“It’s more than I deserve.”

A pause, then Aszana whispered, “Leave Vela to the wilds. We have us.”

Mela took a steadying breath and let it whistle between her lips. 

“Think we’ll be okay?”

Aszana reached over. Touched Mela’s jaw. Looked at her with those blue, doe eyes. Said, “I know we will be.”

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