by Tim Moon
“Get out, you fool. Feed the animals and split more firewood,” Myra shouted.
Lurch growled back.
“Go,” she snapped. Then her tone relaxed, sounding almost joyful in anticipation. “We need more for tomorrow.”
Jaron noticed a large stack of wood beside the fireplace. What the fuck was happening tomorrow that she needed more? Jaron swallowed hard. He took a deep breath. If all went well, they might not have to worry about it. If not… Jaron shook his head a little, he couldn’t waste energy worrying about it. He was committed to the course of action and would find a way to make it work.
Jaron’s palms began to sweat. Lurch stormed out of the house. That meant that his chance to kill Myra was coming. Jaron could feel it and the anticipation was killing him. Mostly because he still didn’t have a great plan. To be more precise, he had no real plan at all.
Nothing that Cyprus shared gave him much of an edge. Jaron didn’t even know how magic worked here. Would she have a long cast time? Did she need to have a wand to cast spells? It was entirely possible he would die from the first spell she used on him. His only hope was that she wanted him alive more than she wanted him dead, even if he got squirrelly.
Myra walked around the table. Jaron thought she was going to sit next to him, but she merely watched Lurch leave and pulled the door shut behind the minotaur who had carelessly left it open. Jaron took the chance to look for the key. From where he sat, he couldn’t see it among the rafters though. One thing that immediately stood out was that retrieving the key and getting it to Cyprus seemed highly unlikely to succeed.
Jaron risked drinking the water that Lurch brought him and then stood from the bench.
“What are you doing?” Myra asked sharply as she returned to the opposite side of the table.
He froze with the cup in his hands. “Just getting more water, ma’am. It’s the first fresh water I’ve had in days.”
“Do not call me ma’am.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Sit and eat,” Myra said, extending a gray, bony hand to take the cup. “You need your strength.”
“What for? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Myra cackled as she walked towards a counter by the sink where a pitcher sat. “Work. Lots of work.”
“Hmm.” Jaron’s eyes began roving the room for any weapons. His attention was drawn to the only features that were unchanged from the illusion he’d seen when he first entered; the fireplace and the creepy baby painting.
The red flowers made a lot more sense now that he knew who Myra was and what she had done. The painting had to be a depiction of Myra and one of her children. Cyprus said she had many, perhaps the one in the picture was her youngest? In any case, the work was depressing. What kind of artist would paint it?
The hovel was sparsely furnished and decorated, a far cry from the cozy illusion when he first entered the house. He saw the broom Cyprus mentioned. Unfortunately, Myra stood too close to it for him to have any hope of reaching it first. He searched for a fire poker. Stabbing her with a sharp piece of wrought iron would be very satisfying, especially if it was hot.
Myra finished pouring the water. When she turned to bring him the cup, Jaron feigned another bite of stew. He leaned low and sipped the broth. The fake sip accidentally caught some of the liquid and he swallowed a little. It had smelled good, so the rush of delicious flavor made his eyes widen pleasantly. Nothing bad happened. Quite the contrary, in fact.
Rejoice! Your bout of Severe Dysentery has been cured and the status effect has been removed.
A genuine smile lit his face. He leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. Myra caught his expression and revealed a frightening smile of her own that took some of the joy out of the moment.
Myra had not just fallen out of the ugly tree. She hit every branch on the way down, climbed back up, jumped from the top for fun, burned the ugly tree down, pissed on the ashes and rolled around in the resulting mess like a hog in mud. He couldn’t imagine a more gruesome sight than her face.
“Good stew, eh?” she asked, pride evident in her tone.
Her visage made him clench the handle of his spoon and force himself not to show his true feelings. She handed him the cup of water.
“Thank you,” Jaron said, accepting the crude wood cup. He took a sip. “Yes, it’s good. It cured my illness too.”
“You think I forgot the condition I found you in, eh?”
She had found him? More like she stood around picking leaves while he nearly drowned, but whatever. It wasn’t like he would hold a grudge for that compared to all the other things she had apparently done.
Jaron hunched over the bowl again. He looked closely at the wooden spoon. The neck of the handle was quite narrow. The end of the handle was broad, flat, and roughly twice the thickness of a metal spoon. He nodded to himself. It could work.
“Can I have some more stew, please?” Jaron asked.
Myra looked at the bowl. “You are not even finished.”
“Lurch was slow to bring me here and it’s grown cold.” Jaron indicated the lack of steam. “One ladle full should warm it back up.”
She eyed him closely before taking the bowl.
Jaron expected her to go to the pot on the masonry cooking stove next to the fireplace so she could watch him. Instead, she turned to the cauldron hanging over the fire, leaving her back exposed to him. He licked his lips nervously.
Holding the spoon in both hands, Jaron prepared to snap the handle free, jump up and stab her in the neck. Myra suddenly spun back around to face him He flinched at the sudden movement, surprise plain on his face.
Jaron whimpered to play it off like an abused prisoner afraid of getting hit again. She watched him closely and then relaxed when he didn’t do anything.
“What were you doing in the forest?” she asked as she ladled hot stew and placed the bowl on the table.
“I told you, I was looking for civilization. I was starving and dehydrated,” Jaron said. “Not to mention sick from those horrible berries.”
“The thorns,” Myra said through a cackling laugh. “It was the thorns, not the berries that made you ill. They have poison that deters foragers from eating the berries.”
Jaron frowned at her amusement. Such a strange adaptation for a fruit bearing plant, he thought.
“You were in those woods all alone?” Myra asked, skepticism clear in her tone and expression.
“Yeah.” He nodded and sipped more broth.
“How did you end up there? This is an unusual place for someone of your kind.”
“Oh?” Jaron ducked his head again to feign eating, and his hair fell free. Some of the strands swept into the stew. Cursing, Jaron sat up and felt the cord he made fall down his back. It landed on the grimy floor and he could see the cord was broken.
“Do you have anything I can tie this mess back with?” Jaron asked. He pulled a long blue strand from the stew and dropped it on the floor.
Myra grew serious and her eyes focused in the distance. “I remember…” her voice faded. She touched absently at her nearly bald pate and sneered. To his surprise she stood. Looking down at him, she reached over and touched his arm. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.” With that, she walked to the hallway that must have led to a bedroom. He hadn’t really expected her to do anything.
When she was out of sight, he waited another moment to be sure she didn’t pop back in to surprise him again. This was his chance. Without hesitating, Jaron strained to break the spoon. For a small piece of wood, it was crazy strong. Or he was crazy weak. He chose to believe the former rather than the latter.
Finally, the spoon snapped leaving him a handle with a jagged tip. Jaron tried to stand but felt rooted to the spot. Panic fluttered in his heart. She had touched his arm. That must be one way her magic works, just like it had on the boat.
Scowling, he tried to force his way up. That didn’t work and only made his legs tired. It had to be an illusion of some sort, right? Maybe it was a trick
in his mind that she used to keep him in place. Nothing physically held him down.
She had said to “stay put” but that could mean many things, like stay in the house. Or stay on the bench. Jaron chose to interpret it as stay in the house. Focusing his mind, he clenched his eyes shut and told himself that he should stay in the house. He repeated it in his mind that he was following her direction by staying inside.
Suddenly, Jaron felt a shift in the air and opened his eyes. He was still alone but when he tried to stand, he no longer felt restrained.
Letting out a sigh of relief, he dashed to the fireplace and grabbed a piece of wood. The long piece jutted out and he grasped the unburnt end and lifted it up. One side burned like a torch, glowing orange with embers. Even the unburned side was hot to the touch, but not so much that he couldn’t hold it like a club.
“He’s a pretty one,” Myra muttered cheerfully to herself as she tottered back into the room from around the corner.
As soon as she came into view, Jaron leaped towards her and swung the large stick. The flames glistened in her wide, yellow eyes before swiping across her wrinkled chest, searing the skin. She screeched and dodged to the side. Slamming into the wall, Myra lashed out lightning quick and knocked the stick away.
Jaron managed to maintain his grip and dashed forward to press the attack. He had committed and wanted to take full advantage of Myra’s surprise. He stabbed at her with the spoon handle but missed. The swamp hag dashed past him into the larger room. Jaron swung the club around as he spun to follow and scored a glancing blow on her shoulder. Her skin sizzled as sparks erupted from the impact.
Myra screeched in pain and dashed to the kitchen with Jaron hot on her heels. She flung the water pitcher at Jaron. He barely ducked out of the way and it crashed behind him as he lunged forward to jab at her with the burning wood. The flames proved stubborn even with his wild swings and continued to burn. The orange light reflected in Myra’s terrified eyes much to Jaron’s delight. Her back pressed against the sink and when he swung again, he felt the stick pierce her bulbous stomach. Myra’s skin blackened around the puncture wound and blood oozed out and dripped onto the floor. She howled and slashed him with her claws.
He ducked and the swipe passed overhead. Standing and stepping in closer, Jaron thrust the burning wood at Myra. She slapped it away and just as he was about to ram the spoon handle into her side, she unleashed a blast of energy that knocked him backwards.
Jaron staggered and slammed into the warm masonry heater cook stove. The rough stone scratched his skin and it jarred but did not daze him.
Oddly, Jaron felt the stirring of a reservoir of power deep within, like something within had been awakened by her magical energy. The sensation thrilled him, but this was hardly the time to contemplate what it meant. He had a fight to win.
Jaron kicked out at Myra, but she slashed his leg with her claw-like nails. As his injured leg came down, he used the moment to bring the club down in an overhead chop. She threw up one hand and an invisible force blocked the strike. Her other hand swiped at him and nasty fingernails lacerated his chest and bicep as he pulled back from the attack. Sweat trickled into the furrows in his skin as blood dribbled out. All the scratches were minor wounds that only took a couple of hit points each but damn if they didn’t burn like a motherfucker.
Jaron bumped into the corner of the table, sending pain radiating out from his hip. The spoon nearly slipped from his grasp as he hissed in pain and frustration. Jaron twisted away and swung the large stick in another savage blow. Myra dodged again and scored yet another a slash across his shoulder. This strike numbed his arm and the club slid from his senseless hand. Jaron cursed as it thudded on the floor and rolled away.
“Come here my pretty,” she said, beckoning him with one finger.
“Never!”
Myra cackled at his expression of disgust as they circled each other like predators.
An icon shaped like a drop of blood appeared in the corner of his vision. His health was still above 80% but just barely. Now it ticked down steadily.
Must be a bleeding effect, Jaron thought. He eyed Myra carefully, but couldn’t risk checking her stats.
Despite the stab wound, he doubted her injuries were as bad. She had to be several levels higher than he was. That just meant he had to work harder. There was no reason to retreat and Jaron wouldn’t abandon his fellow prisoners. So, with gritted teeth, he charged.
Myra met him in a clash of fists, knees and fingernails. Through the flurry of blows, he jabbed at Myra with the spoon handle. The jagged end barely nicked her shoulder as she twisted out of the way, but he when he drew back, he managed to slash the jagged end across the top of her chest.
Myra looked down at the wound, apparently surprised she had been cut. Skin curled back from the slit and a trickle of blood ran down between her sagging breasts. She jumped back and her hands began moving in strange ways, her voice low as she chanted.
“Oh shit,” Jaron said. That could only mean she was casting a spell. Like Cyprus said, “Everyone knows the best way to kill a mage is up close with good steel.”
He didn’t have steel, but he could maul Myra so bad that she had no choice but to die. Hopefully.
Marshaling his strength, Jaron dashed forward and threw a jab. It connected, but she was fully engaged in casting the spell and didn’t budge. He jabbed again and the strike landed on her nose. He was rewarded with a crunch and steady trickle of blood. He immediately followed up with a cross, the old one-two punch combination that was as instinctive as breathing. This time though, his punch was modified by the jagged spoon handle. The sharp wood pierced Myra’s neck like a tiny dagger. The wound abruptly ended her chanting, which turned into a gurgling sound which in turn caused an explosive flash of purple-black light. They both staggered backwards.
Jaron landed on the floor with a thud. The flesh on his chest and face felt crusty like old leather. Spell feedback was a bitch! A lesson he would keep in mind if he ever gained the ability to cast. He hauled his scorched body up and glared at the hag.
Myra howled with tears running down her cheeks as she carefully prodded her face with scorched hands to test the extent of her injuries. Blackened stumps where strands of hair had once been looked almost comical, as did the charred blast marks on her face. Her eyes were wide in shock and rage.
Jaron shook away the pain of his wounds and prepared to attack. Before he could move, she spat a word of power and a seven-foot-long snake appeared between them. It hissed and flicked its red tongue as it moved towards him.
Jaron back pedaled, hesitant to attack such a huge creature with only a spoon handle. The snake hissed again and reared its head until they were nearly eye level with each other. Jaron leaned to the right. The snake followed. He moved to the left and the snake followed again. Jaron spotted the stick he had used as a club on the floor not far away.
When Jaron looked at the club, the snake looked at the ground beside him. It looked back at the same time too. That struck Jaron as strange. He jumped and the snake bobbed its head. He jumped and then followed by moving to the right and the snake mirrored his movements.
Gritting his teeth and hoping he was correct, Jaron dashed forward and swiped at the snake. As soon as his hand shot forward, so did the snake’s head. He reached to grab it with his free hand but there was nothing to hold onto. His hand passed through the snake as easily as smoke.
Jaron stood with a triumphant grin, no longer concerned with her illusion, and glowered at the hag of Fang Marsh. She retreated around the table and had already begun casting another spell. The barrier between them presented a problem until Jaron noticed something.
Myra Bathory had made one grave mistake. The swamp hag failed to maintain situational awareness.
An idea and movie quote clashed and struck Jaron like a bolt of lightning. In the immortal words of Hansel and Gretel, “If you’re going to kill a witch, set her ass on fire.”
Myra’s back was to the firepla
ce and Jaron intended to capitalize on that. Tossing the bench aside, he grabbed the table with both hands and heaved with all 12 points of his strength. Rather than flying the two feet to hit her as he planned, the table just flipped over with a dull thud against the dirt floor.
“Sonofabitch!” he groaned.
Myra was totally focused, deep into her spell. Dark energy began forming in the palm of one hand that she held out as if showing off a treasured trinket. Not wanting to know what she planned to do with that energy, Jaron put his shoulder against the table and shoved, using it like a plow to force her backwards towards the hearth.
The table hit Myra and she staggered back one step. She planted her feet and furrowed her brow, fully committed to the spell. Jaron snapped his fist out and punched her right on her broken nose, again. Before Jaron could even ask himself if she was ever going to learn, he ducked. Myra’s focus shattered and the spell exploded.
The table rocked from the blast. Jaron tipped over and clutched his head.
“Ughhhhhhh…” Jaron groaned in a daze. His own voice sounded muffled and distant.
After a few seconds of disorientation, he blinked away dust and waved smoke away from his face, searching for any sign of Myra. He grasped the table for support and winced at the fresh burns on his shoulder where the skin was now red and raw. Some parts where he’d been scorched earlier cracked and oozed a sticky fluid. So many splinters protruded from his arm that a bystander might assume he was attacked by a porcupine. He plucked one long splinter out and yelped.
Thank goodness for the thick wood table, he thought. Despite the injuries it could have been worse. Jaron bit his lip as he pulled several more splinters out.
The table had absorbed or deflected much of the damage. The boards at the site of impact were cracked, exposing sharp, blackened splinters. Smoke curled up from a large scorch mark. Jaron shook his head; grateful he only took a small portion of the impact. He checked his health bar and frowned. It had fallen substantially, to less than 40%. This had to end.