A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

by Morgan Rice

Gareth walked quickly through the forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over his head despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found himself in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a trail. Who knew who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading back to Gareth.

  “I’m sorry,” Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.

  Gareth ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.

  “What you did was foolish, and weak,” Gareth said. “You never should have glanced my way.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do when he demanded more money.”

  Firth was right; it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig who changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over him. He only prayed no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed was a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father’s assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to follow.

  At least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the meandering trail, following the dead man’s directions. He hoped the man had told the truth and was not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie. Or it could be he led them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them of more money.

  Gareth chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this all himself. Like he always did.

  “You better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch,” Gareth quipped, “and that she has the poison.”

  They continued down trail after trail until they reached a fork, just as the man said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood Gareth had ever seen. The trees were impossibly thick and mangled.

  Gareth entered the wood and felt an immediate chill up his spine, could feel the evil hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.

  Just as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke through the trees. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s cottage.

  Gareth’s heart quickened. He entered the clearing looking around to make sure no one was watching, to make sure it was not a trap.

  “You see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.

  “That means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside and stand guard. Knock if anyone approaches. And keep your mouth shut.”

  Gareth didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he grabbed the iron handle, pushed open the two-inch-thick door, and ducked his head as he entered, closing it behind him.

  It was dark inside, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a single-room cottage, devoid of windows, enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.

  From the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.

  Hobbling toward him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, with a hunchback. She raised a candle, which lit up a face covered in warts and lines. She looked ancient, older than the gnarled trees that blanketed her cottage.

  “You wear a hood, even in blackness,” she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice sounding like crackling wood. “Your mission is not innocent.”

  “I’ve come for a vial,” Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but hearing the quivering in his voice. “Sheldrake Root. I’m told you have it.”

  There was a long silence, followed by a horrific cackle. It echoed in the small room.

  “Whether or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?”

  Gareth’s heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.

  “Why should you care?” he finally asked.

  “It amuses me to know who you are killing,” she said.

  “That’s no business of yours. I’ve brought money for you.”

  Gareth reached into his waistband, took out a bag of gold, in addition to the bag of gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden table. The sound of metallic coins rang in the room.

  He prayed it would pacify her, that she would give him what he wanted and he could leave this place.

  The witch reached out a single finger with a long, curved nail, picking up one of the bags and inspecting it. Gareth held his breath, hoping she would ask no more.

  “This might be just enough to buy my silence,” she said.

  She turned and hobbled into the darkness. There was a hiss, and beside a candle Gareth could see her mixing liquid into a small, glass vial. It bubbled over, and she put a cork on it. Time seemed to slow as Gareth waited, increasingly impatient. A million worries raced through his mind: what if he was discovered? Right here, right now? What if she gave him the wrong vial? What if she told someone about him? Had she recognized him? He couldn’t tell.

  Gareth was having increasing reservations about this whole thing. He never knew how hard it could be to assassinate someone.

  After what felt like an interminable silence, the witch returned. She handed him the vial, so small it nearly disappeared into his palm, and backed away from him.

  “Such a small vial?” he asked. “Can this do the trick?”

  She smiled.

  “You’d be amazed at how little it takes to kill a man.”

  Gareth turned and headed for the door, when suddenly he felt a cold finger on his shoulder. He had no idea how she had managed to cross the room so quickly, and it terrified him. He stood there, frozen, afraid to turn and look at her.

  She spun him around, leaned in close—an awful smell emanating from her—then suddenly reached up with both hands, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him, pressing her shriveled lips hard against his.

  Gareth was revolted. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him. Her lips were like the lips of a lizard, her tongue, which she pressed onto his, like that of a reptile. He tried to pull away, but she held his face tight, pulling him harder.

  Finally, he managed to yank himself away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as she leaned back and chuckled.

  “The first time you kill a man is the hardest,” she said. “You will find it much easier the next time around.”