The Codex of the Witch: Fantasy Novel

by Federico Negri

  “Can you escort me?”

  The man scrutinizes her with his dark gaze and he brings two fingers to his bristled chin. “How much money do you have?”

  “Enough to buy you a new coat. Now, do you accept or must I turn,” Silla motions behind her with her head, toward a crowd of men with a tense air, a short distance away, “to the competition?”

  ***

  A telling splatter of mud sullies the witch’s boots. They’ve left the safe zone and picked their way in between the wooden and sheet metal houses, watched by dozens of gaping eyes in skeletal faces. Upon their arrival, the street urchins give up their rat catching, but they quickly stop pestering them. Ahsto pulled out a black whip, which he keeps coiled in his right hand and cracks nonchalantly as soon as the eyes become too curious.

  “What do you want from that old madwoman?” the man speaks, barely turning his head while they continue to walk. “Up until a few years ago people brought her food in exchange for a blessing or a cure, but I think she must be dead by now. I haven’t heard of anyone going to visit her anymore.”

  “I need to speak with her, and I’m not sure my business concerns you; you’ve agreed to walk with me, not take my hand at the altar,” Silla teases him. “How far is the house?”

  “An hour’s walk from the gates. It’s the middle of the day, but still a risky trip. It’s not so much the hybrids, but Igor the Mad and his gang.”

  The shacks are more infrequent now and the foliage of birch trees and shrubs grows denser amid the garbage. The fresh scent of the forest begins to filter in through the odors of humanity teeming in the city’s bilge. Further ahead, a rusty gate appears between the branches.

  “Wait here. See?” He moves aside an oak bough with the handle of his whip revealing a big wolf trap. “There are others around here. Put your feet down exactly where I put mine. They have well-loaded springs, and if you slip a paw inside—zap! They’ll slice it clean off.”

  The rogue breaks off a long branch and tests the ground in front of him before putting down his boot.

  “The fun part,” he continues, “is the kids around here keep themselves entertained by moving them every so often so someone unprepared falls into one. They arrive attracted by the screams, like flies to blood, and rob the unfortunate of his few belonging.”

  Silla and Ahsto reach the outer fence, dented and unstable in various places. A half-open gate held together with an iron wire interrupts the row of bars.

  Ahsto loosens the wire and opens the gateway enough for them to squirm through.

  “Tell me about Igor the Mad,” Silla asks as they slide through the bars browned with rust.

  Know your enemies, the saboteur camp instructor would repeat ad nauseam and his voice still echoes in Silla’s head, separated by so many years. Even though the war is over.

  “Old Igor,” Ahsto starts, keeping his voice notably lower than before, “lived on the second terrace over forty years ago. He was a young man with a modest cannery. The legends say that he even put human meat in those tins, but that’s nonsense. He was a bit eccentric, but on the whole a good person. To keep it short, he fell in love with a noblewoman of the upper levels who always walked by his shop. Her betrothed however felt slightly uneasy about this and, one night, set fire to his factory, burning it to the ground. Sadly, Igor’s little sister perished in the blaze, a baby. They found her inside a barrel of anchovies, where she had tried to find her final refuge.”

  Ahsto rests a second to catch his breath and then resumes, with a bitter smile. “This thing about the barrel of anchovies made him lose his head. Igor decided all the nobles of Warsaw should die consumed by salt like the little fish in question. For a number of years he ravaged the city, kidnapping smooth-cheeked local scions with the help of a pack of criminals to whom he turned over all the gold of his prey. The victims were usually found at dawn’s first light skinned, gagged, and immersed in barrels filled with salt. The lucky ones were already dead; the less fortunate, still dying.”

  “A demanding sport,” Silla remarks, starting to walk again. “Especially to practice for forty years.”

  “Igor was completely insane but still sharp. He insinuated himself in the middle of a feud between two noble families who fell out over a commercial dispute and became the grim assassin of those who came out the winners, the Kordys, who today own half of Warsaw. A few peaceful years went by, but then the good Igor returned to his vice of salting live flesh. The Kordys could no longer hide him, so they drove him out like a rabid dog, together with three of four other criminals of his ilk. In this struggle, however, he was struck by a new grief because they killed the woman he loved.”

  “Not very fortunate, this man.” Silla observes the forest around her, silent and motionless.

  “This last blow destroyed everything left of his reason, and he swore he would eat every Warsavian alive who stepped foot outside the city.”

  “Let us try to be indigestible.”

  “Quiet now, beautiful stranger. Only morons announce themselves on this path.”

  The wood turns a darker color and alongside the birches pines rise, perfumed with resin. The fallen snow mixes in with mud, making their advance even more laborious. Ahsto seems to wander almost at random; nevertheless, little by little, the traces of an old path emerge between the green needles.

  After many paces, they stop in front of a rusty brook a few yards wide.

  “It seems we’ll need to get our feet wet,” Ahsto says. “Normally it's frozen this time of year, but the weather has been mild this week.”

  “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. We should at least take off our boots,” Silla proposes, while the idea of submerging her bare feet in that ice-cold water makes a shiver run down her spine.

  “It’s at least two feet deep here. Otherwise, further up the mountain—”

  “Shh!”

  A rustling higher up. An animal perhaps, but it would have to be a great big beast.

  Silla sharpens her trained senses and extends her magical perception to the limits of her sphere of intuition.

  A river is the ideal spot for an ambush; the paths of escape are limited. With infinite delicacy, she unties her cape.

  “We’re not alone,” she whispers.

  The man opens his eyes wide and quickly goes for the handle of his knife.

  “Stop. Act as though we’re unaware of anything. Let’s tilt the element of surprise in our favor.”

  More noises, closer. The movement of a leaf in the forest, seen out of the corner of the eye, twenty yards away. At least three foes; Silla grabs the handle of her pistol.

  “Keep ready,” she whispers, pretending to watch the running water.

  An unexpected swerve behind her. Silla crouches down and pulls out her weapon. An arrow whistles over her head, striking Ahsto in the shoulder. A savage shout escapes her companion, drowned out by the war cries of their assailants emerging from hiding all around them.

  Like the other hundred times Silla found herself fighting hand to hand for her life, time seems to slow down around her, scanned by the destroyer comet around her heart.

  She observes the archer, blasting away his collarbone on the first shot. She lowers her knee and rolls onto her back as another dart buries itself in the ground where she’d been a second earlier. She grips the gun with both hands and stares at the body of the man running toward her in a whirl of rags, brandishing an ax. The first shot misses, but a second bullet is quickly fired and hits him square in the groin.

  “Two and three,” she counts mentally, and the comet completes its orbit. Spreading her arms, she frees herself from the cape. She pushes off her legs and leaps into an opening in the woods. Another arrow flies past her, but ricochets harmlessly off a nearby trunk. She spins her head around and makes out a swath of cloth between the branches. Again she shoots, and a scream of pain confirms her intuition. “Four.”

  She rolls onto the ground, until her back is resting against a tree. There are at lea
st two more enemies.

  Attack, attack! You’re weak, Silla! The gruff voice of her instructor echoes in her ears.

  She pops her head out of safe cover and an arrow lodges into the bark a few inches from her face, filling her eyes with dust and splinters. Half-blinded, she jumps to her feet and runs in the opposite direction, followed by the cries of pursuers. She can see almost nothing, but she turns and empties chambers in the direction of the noise. “Five and six.” One of the aggressors shouts, perhaps she wounded him.

  She holsters the spent revolver and trusts in her magic perception.

  Earth beneath her feet, air flowing through her hair, the comet’s black fire in her heart and water…

  She follows her precognition until she can see the stream. She plunges into the frigid water, which bites at her flesh without pity.

  With her movements halted by the cold, she submerges her head rubbing furiously at her eyelids. She comes up again right as one of the assailants is about to launch a crudely made spear from the dry edge of the riverbed.

  Silla makes herself motionless, like a snake before it attacks. The shaft finishes its deadly arc, hurled from the bandit’s hand, and the comet seems to accompany it toward the center of Silla’s heart.

  In one fluid motion, the witch bends and twists her shoulders, evading the spear.

  A sadistic smirk spreads across her face as she observes the expression of disbelief that contorts the tramp’s visage, soiled with ash and dirt.

  She unsheathes her six-inch military knife. “This is the dance of death, brother,” she says. “Are you ready for a spin?”

  She leaps onto the stones that jut out of the embankment. Another man pounces on her, brandishing a sickle. The first blow is fast and is about to catch her off balance, but she dodges it with a feint.

  The killer comet completes its fifth revolution and her blade is stained up to its hilt, burying itself in the bandit’s chest. The man collapses silently with his eyes already agape.

  The last foe turns around and flees into the woods.

  Silla ponders whether to throw her knife, but then she’d be left unarmed— she lets him escape.

  She walks cautiously toward the site of the ambush. The stillness of the forest broken by the anguished cries of one of the wounded assailants. Silla doesn’t bother to look for him and grants him mercy.

  The wounded are your allies, fools! They’ll slow down your pursuers.

  The icy wind bites at her legs and chest, blowing her wet clothes against her. Her teeth chatter wildly and her limbs grow stiff.

  She needs to find her cape, otherwise she’ll be forced to reawaken her fire.

  There’s no longer anyone near the ford, but she quickly spots the loyal black cloak. While she wraps herself in the dry fabric, a voice calls out to her.

  Ahsto hides at the base of a willow tree. He stares at her with possessed eyes and a drawn dagger. The arrow still sticks out of his shoulder, intact, and the sleeve of his coat is soaked with fresh blood.

  “Help me,” he pleads.

  Silla examines her surroundings. The area isn’t secure, the fugitive has gone to call for reinforcements and next time the ambush will be deadlier since the enemy now knows her strength.

  The wisest move would be to go back to the city, but the Captain begged her to find Alina. Silla would cross through fire to keep her promise, never mind a measly brook.

  “Away from here,” Silla approaches the man. “Quickly, let’s go.”

  “Let’s retreat to the city. They’ll be back!”

  “If you wish to run, you’ll be on your own. If you want me to help you, you will have to guide me to the witch’s.”

  “And my money?”

  “When we make it to Baba Paulka’s, as agreed,” Silla clarifies.

  The rogue licks his lips, torn between the various choices.

  “Let’s keep going,” he concludes. “If I go back by myself, they’ll attack me for sure. But what are you? A spy? An assassin?”

  “I am an instrument that’s been taught just one lesson: to kill. Come on.” Silla threads her arm under his armpit and helps him get up.

  She drapes the cape over her shoulders and ventures toward the stream, supporting her companion. The freezing water stings her calves, but the ford is a short one and the exertion drives away the cold.

  “Come on now, man.” Silla speeds up, pulling the adventurer behind her. The brook is at their backs and now the traces of the path are lost in the thick woods. They need to clear through branches and underbrush to advance, making the trail easy for their hunters.

  “It hurts like the devil,” he wheezes, dragging his feet. Silla allows him a moment’s rest while she reloads her pistol, but then they quickly resume their frenzied pace, putting more and more distance between themselves and the running water.

  They cross a small clearing and are about to cut through some stark pines when an invisible uneasiness crawls into Silla’s thoughts. It’s as if thin fingers slid under the skin of her cranium, digging their slimy nails into the bare bone.

  “H…Help!” Ahsto utters, and he makes to turn and run.

  “Wait!” Silla holds him back, grabbing him by his coat.

  She pulls off her gloves with her teeth, trying to keep in check the crazed terror hindering her every movement. She pushes her pale hand into the soil, cold and damp. She closes her eyes and focuses on the earth’s energy pervading even this accursed place.

  The force of an earthquake spreads invisibly through her fingers, arms, and shoulders until it reaches her heart.

  The dark fog around her vital center disperses and the comet, destroyer of worlds, emerges powerfully from the depths of her consciousness. The celestial body blazes its way at stratospheric speed, leaving behind it a reddish wake, providing dark omens. The comet accelerates its revolution until it catches fire with a searing, deadly light.

  Silla opens her eyes wide, feeling her skin heat up to the point where her wet clothes give off steam. With her voice warped by the power saturating her, she shouts, “Clear the way or burn!”

  The laces tied around her temples dissolve like fine crystal under a hammer’s blow.

  Ahsto, who up until a second ago was trying to wrestle free and escape, freezes.

  “But… you too… you are…”

  Silla stares at him and he doesn’t dare finish the sentence, transfixed by her gaze dark as liquid pitch. “Let’s go.”

  A little farther, hidden amid the conifers, a house of graying wood appears before of them.

  The door is wide open and a fat woman, propped up by two gnarled sticks, is expecting them, her face almost covered by her long and filthy white hair. She has loose, splotchy skin but her bright eyes are sharp as nails.

  “A sister,” the creature cackles. “How long it’s been since I’ve seen one! Who brought you to me? A nice piece of dark meat, I see.”

  “Greetings, Sister Paulka. I am Silla of the Blue Mountains. And this is Ahsto, my guide. May we approach your home without fear of any harm?”

  The woman stares at them for a few interminable seconds. “You may. But leave your weapons outside the door. You have no need for them under my roof.” She turns and goes back into the hut, leaving the door open.

  ***

  The hovel’s interior is cluttered with all sorts of wares and a putrid smell of rotten meat corrupts the air. A man and woman with ashen skin and vacant stares sit on the floor, half-naked and emaciated.

  They do not even turn to look at them when they cross through the doorway.

  “Now,” the old witch carefully eases into a worn armchair, “to what do I owe this honor?”

  “This man is wounded,” Silla says. “He needs treatment or he won’t even be able to return home this evening. If you have some ointment or a bandage perhaps I can tend to him.”

  “Make yourself at home. But I don’t have such a surfeit. I live in poverty; I’m not a rich merchant like you.”

  With a sarcasti
c grin, Silla takes two filthy knives from the kitchen table and rinses them in a bucket of yellowish water. She then slides them into the hearth’s embers. “Sit, Ahsto.” She takes off her belt and hands it to him. “Between your teeth.”

  “Sister Paulka,” she continues, rolling a knife in the fire, “I come to you because I’m in desperate need of your gifts, which they say are very powerful. A young girl, a sister of my clan, has been kidnapped and I think she’s passed through this area.”

  “Certainly not by my house. Those who come here are never interesting and it doesn’t happen often. However, I’ve noticed the hybrids are agitated. There’s someone who’s gathering them together. Do you know anything about this?”

  “I don’t pay attention to the hybrids,” Silla lies.

  “Silly girl, come live outside the gates of the comfortable city and you’ll pay attention to them. Now tell me a little something, some news of that sort of prison which you persist in calling the homeland?”

  Silla tears the fabric off Ahsto’s back, baring the wound and making him grimace. The wood has penetrated fairly deeply. It’s going to hurt.

  “The homeland,” she declares, suppressing the cutting answer that was forming on her lips, “is what you believe in, not a plot of land. Anyway, same old thing. A big debate on whether to return to trading or stay shut up there behind our cauldrons. Now a few clans have got it in their head to withdraw further north to Scandinavia.”

  “Chilly in those parts. Mirek, stoke the fire.”

  The man collapsed on the floor rises with jerky movements like a marionette.

  “Who are these two, Paulka?” Silla asks as she rotates the blades again among the embers to heat them on both sides.

  “Two curious villagers. I’ve managed to strip them of their will, and they’ve become very sweet and obedient. They go into the woods and fetch me the rabbits and squirrels from traps. I hope they last till the end of winter—if not, with these legs of mine, I don’t know how I’ll find anything to eat.”