Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  Witigor paused and shifted his weight, eyeing the four guards standing around him. “You would raise a hand against those seeking justice?”

  “Your justice?” Brenn raised an eyebrow. “Any day.”

  “We will go willingly,” Alden said, taking a step. “This does not need to end in blood, Wit.”

  Wit tilted his chin to Alden, the few hairs hanging from his scalp clinging to his cheek. “I know. You are each guilty and will receive your proper punishment.”

  “What?” Sulanna stepped up next to Alden, blocking Adela. “Guilty of what?”

  “We are not playing games,” Wit scoffed. “You and your husband were seen last at the scene of your father’s death. Your daughter is a thief, stealing my wine just this morning. And he,” Wit pointed at Brenn, “is clearly a co-conspirator to your misconduct.” He waved his hand, taking a step back. “Arrest them all.”

  “You will not touch my daughter!” Sulanna cried.

  Brenn moved quicker than the rest, reaching for the nearest guard, who stood toe to toe with him. Snaking his hand under the right shoulder to grip the guard’s back, he swiftly grabbed the right wrist with his other hand and threw the guard behind him into the open-hearth fire. The movement was so quick, the guard did not scream until his face began to melt.

  Adela covered her mouth, watching the guard struggle to pull himself from the heat, severely burning his hands in the process. His frantic cries echoed off the enclosed walls.

  Unable to pull her eyes away, she hardly followed the next moments. Wit shouted in fear, placing his back against the door. Alden lunged out of her vision at another male in a colored cloak, punching the man across his jaw, while Sulanna dipped to the floor to grab Alden’s knife. By the time her mother stood, Brenn had already disarmed the female guard and was jabbing her knife into the soft flesh under her chin.

  “No,” Witigor whimpered, whipping his head to the side as though he could not see the escape route at his rear.

  The female guard fell to the floor, drawing Adela’s attention, gurgling and gasping until she stopped heaving altogether. Brenn turned to kick the first guard he had attacked, crushing in the side of his smoldering face under his boot.

  They were all fighting for their freedom, except her.

  You are stronger than them, Adela. All of them.

  Her father knew best.

  She would save her parents from this Vornic.

  Adela meandered past her mother, who pushed a guard into a table, and then past her father, who smashed one of their chairs over another guard. She kneeled down and pulled the knife out of the dying woman. Cherry-red liquid spilled out like a river of blood.

  She dipped her finger in it. Warm.

  We all are evil. See the evil bleed out.

  Time may have moved slower for Adela than for any other in the room. She rose to her full height, staring across at Witigor Sirska. His blue eyes quivered behind the wrinkles of his old face.

  “No,” he whispered, glancing down at the sharpened blade in her hand.

  “I was born for this,” she said. “I am strong enough.”

  In two steps, she stood at arm’s length and swiftly stabbed the bloodied knife into the Vornic’s eye socket, between the folded pink skin of his disfigured face. His body went rigid, the opposing eye blinked once before the weight of his frame pulled him to the ground. He had not even raised his hands to stop her.

  He must have known what power she held. He knew what her father knew; she was a hero.

  “Adela!” Sulanna shouted, stepping over the body of her enemy.

  Brenn shadowed her mother. “What have you done?”

  “No!” Alden yelled loudest of all, falling to his knees. “I did not want this life for you. Never for you!”

  “It is okay, Father,” Adela said evenly, pulling the knife free from Witigor’s eye and sliding it over her wrist. “I know what to do. We repent. We bleed out the evil.”

  The End

  * * *

  Continued in The Deathless Series, coming 2018

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  About the Author

  Joshua Robertson is an award-winning author in epic, dark fantasy. You may recognize him as the dude whose dragons were said to destroy George R.R. Martin's and Christopher Paolini's dragons in a very biased Twitter poll. His first novel, Melkorka, was released in 2015, and he has been writing fantasy fiction like clockwork ever since. Known most for his Thrice Nine Legends Saga, Robertson enjoys an ever-expanding and extremely loyal following of readers. He currently lives in North Carolina with his better half and his horde of goblins.

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  The Thorn Witch

  L.F. Oake

  Pythia Loom’s heart twinged with fear at the sight of the monstrous minotaur lumbering toward the water on the opposite side of the brook. With the swelling in her left eye from farmer Naugn’s fist, she could not tell how far away the creature really was, yet she remained calm as she scrubbed Naugn’s blood from her fingernails. She wanted to speak but did not know what to say or how to begin. Pythia hoped the minotaur would notice the blood on her face and hands, crusted from the cold autumn air, and speak first.

  The minotaur looked up at her through bulbous black eyes before settling in his place. His massive hooves, four times the size of any bull’s, sank deep into the black mud. The horns of the creature added at least four inches to his eight or nine feet of height. One brawny arm alone looked as if it was thicker than her torso. The sight of him was terrifying, and Pythia knew how mad she would be considered if found conferring with such a monster, but the minotaur knew what brought her to the brook. He knew why her village of Shargrove was haunted by fever and shapes in the dark. He was the only witness to her crime.

  The minotaur huffed a cloud of dust from his bull-like nostrils. “Da nightmare you are living,” the creature started in a thick baritone, “will only get worse. Da spirits must be returned to da Blacker Shadows.”

  Pythia ground her teeth and looked past the creature at the wall of thorny shadows behind him. The thick tangle of black, leafless branches obscured any view of the forest beyond, and envy pried at Pythia’s heart. How she longed to cross the brook into the darkness of the Everdark woods, where she would be lost and forgotten in her world. But she did not have black in her blood and would not be accepted among the creatures of the dark.

  “I’ve done all you’ve told me to do,” she replied, her eyes hot and stinging with tears. “I have salted the paths into the village. I have blessed the waters with prayer. Yet I am still dragged from my bed and beaten, accused of witchcraft. Every sighting of these spirits brings more hate to my heels.” Pythia wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am bereft of kindness among my people.”

  “Do you deserve any less for what you have done?” the minotaur asked.

  Pythia’s face scrunched in her frustration. “It wasn’t my fault!” she cried, immediately putting her hands to her mouth. The last thing she needed was to draw the attention of anyone nearby. “I didn’t know what that tablet in the ground was. How could I? That sort of thing is meant for your world, not mine. A doorway to the Blacker Shadows? By the Highest—whose mad idea was it?”

  “Da creators of dis world,” the minotaur replied. “Your kind not so heartless as da monsters of da Everdark.”

  Pythia scooped up sand from the bottom of the brook and scrubbed the grains under her nails. The farmer’s blood was a stubborn stain not only on her hands but in her memory. She could not push away the events of the past night when she was woken by the rough hands of Naugn, the owner of the neighboring farm. His daughter woke with terrible visions in the night and claimed Pythia’s name was whispered by the tormenting spirit. It had been four days, and the truth was beginning to spill from the mou
ths of the ghosts.

  “You know what dere is left to do,” the minotaur replied with an added gruffness in his tone. “I told you da spell. I can tell you again.”

  “You know why I cannot do that.” There was a bite to Pythia’s own reply, but she could not help it. The minotaur could not possibly understand her struggle. Since womanhood, she was alone and unwanted. With her black hair and light eyes among a village of women blonde and red of hair, she was deemed “unnatural.” What would a minotaur know or care about unwantedness? For even with his thick, matted fur and enormous horns, he was accepted in his world. That was more than Pythia could ever hope for.

  The minotaur huffed again. Pythia could have sworn it was a scoff. “Pride is a problem of faeries, and still, dey get squashed most.”

  Footsteps came from behind, and Pythia turned in surprise. If she were seen conferring with a creature of the Everdark, the village would only have more to charge her with. She would be burned alive the first chance they had!

  With a quick glance to the minotaur—who did not seem at all perturbed—Pythia rose to her feet and hurried away from the brook. Just as she pushed past the low-hanging branches leading to the path, she ran into the source of the noise. A man with a brown cloak stood inches from her battered face.

  “Hello,” he said in a soft voice. Green eyes peered at her from under a wide and heavy hood that blended with his long brown hair. The shock of her injured face was clear on his own. “By the Highest—are you all right?”

  Pythia swallowed hard and her palms grew damp with sweat. She hoped the minotaur would stay silent until the man moved on. “Yes. Hello,” she replied in an equally soft tone. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  The man looked up, wide-eyed with concern, and surveyed the area. “Who did this to you?”

  “Don’t worry, please, sir,” Pythia replied. “He didn’t get away with it. I just came down to the water to wash up.” With a glance over her shoulder, Pythia cleared her throat.

  “It’s not safe out here. The Everdark is just beyond those trees,” the man said. “You must know this.”

  Pythia wiped her clammy palms on her blue ash-stained dress with a nod but did not speak. It did not take the man long to come to terms with her discomfort and put his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry. I must have surprised you, coming from nowhere. My name is Micah. I’m heading toward the nearby village, Shargrove. You do know it, don’t you?”

  Pythia was growing impatient with the man. Why was he not moving along? She needed to speak to the minotaur and he was keeping her. The longer she waited, the higher the chances someone would come looking for her in the woods. “Yes,” she snapped. “Of course I know Shargrove. It is my home, and it is the only civilization you will find in two days’ ride.”

  Micah stepped back with a slight laugh. “I meant no offense. My life is spent traveling, and I do not spend much time with people. You’re a lone woman in the middle of the woods, not five yards from the Everdark. Your face is swollen. There is blood on your hands. I’m simply reaching for conversation in the hopes of finding out you’re not a bandit or bait leading to an ambush.”

  Pythia finally looked up with added confidence. “Me? A bandit?”

  Micah nodded, his dark brows wrinkling. “You are dark of hair. Shargrove is a town known for their ginger roots. Can you blame a man for being cautious?”

  At that, Pythia laughed, though quickly covered her smile with her hands. “I am accustomed to others using caution around me. Shargrove thinks me a witch, for the exact reason you say.”

  “And are you?”

  Pythia shook her head and looked up to the treetops with a deep breath. “No. At most, I am a bastard child. I’ve never hurt anyone, but I don’t look like them. Living so close to the dark forest, their superstitions are high in mind. There is nothing to be done about that. But to make things worse,” she paused, hoping her next words would reach the man’s senses, “there is something happening in the town. It would not be wise to go there now.”

  Micah looked up the road, his eyes hinting concern. “What is happening?”

  Pythia followed his gaze. “There has been an awakening of some sort, and the villagers are being harassed in their beds when night falls.” She paused, flicking her attention to Micah to catch his reaction when she added, “Spirits.”

  Micah’s brows rose slightly at the claim. “Spirits? Like, wraiths? How would such a thing happen? There’s no history of spirits in Shargrove.”

  Pythia shook her head. “No one knows,” she lied, allowing her gaze to pass over the man’s shoulder.

  “Are you not heading back, then? I would walk with you, if you’d allow it.”

  Pythia’s brow slightly furrowed. “You still intend to pass through?”

  “For a day, at most. I need to restock for my travels. I won’t make it another day, and as you said yourself, there will be no other village for another two.”

  He gestured to the road and Pythia shook her head. “If you are seen with me, you will be scorned,” she finally said.

  “That is ridiculous.”

  “That is Shargrove. My whole adult life, they’ve treated me with contempt. I am not the company you want to be seen with—for your own good.”

  Micah’s lips turned to a smile suddenly. “Adult life? You were treated differently as a child?”

  “Of course,” Pythia replied. “What accusations could be made against a child?”

  “Did you ever stop to think their calling you a witch is just a ruse?”

  Pythia resisted the urge to look over her shoulder again. Fear of the minotaur making noise or drawing attention to itself was building and sweat beaded her hairline. “What?” she absentmindedly replied.

  “A ruse. To cover up their jealousy.”

  Pythia snapped to attention. “Jealousy? Of what?”

  “Of you!” Micah laughed. “Are you so severe with yourself? You’re like a raven in a flock of doves.”

  It took Pythia a moment to register what the man was saying. And how ridiculous he sounded! The very thought brought laughter to her lips. Pythia knew her form was nothing worth coveting, for she lacked the curves of breast and hips most women flaunted for adoration.

  “More like a thorn among dandelions!” Pythia said. Where did this man find the gall to speak in such a way to her?

  “Think what you like,” Micah replied. “What other reason would they have to accuse you? And only when you’re an adult?”

  Pythia fell silent, more from her own discomfort than not having an answer to his question.

  With a deep breath, Micah finally nodded in understanding. “I can sense your uneasiness at the mention, and I do not mean to cause you any more trouble. Find something cold to ease your swelling, but I suggest you avoid that brook.” Micah bowed his head. “I will be on my way.”

  With that, Micah left her on the path in the woods. When he was out of sight, Pythia did not follow. She was not done discussing the situation with the minotaur. Plus, if anyone of the town was watching, seeing Pythia follow a man out of the woods would only draw the exact attention she was avoiding. Micah was not a bad person, she could see. Bringing an innocent man into the village struggles was not right. She already felt guilty at the thought of him entering a village shrouded with the hauntings she caused.

  Pythia slowly stepped back and returned to the brook. The minotaur was still there. Only now, he was surrounded by creatures that truly made her skin crawl. Gray pixies. The gangly humanoids chirped and screeched at the sight of her. Their eyes were black as pitch, and their skin sickly pale as if in their every pore was a cloud of poison. They reeked of death.

  With added caution, Pythia stepped up to the water on the safe side of the brook. They must have recognized her from the day she moved the tablet, as their screeching sounded more like laughter—as if they taunted her.

  The minotaur hushed the pixies with a grunt, and they covered their mouths as if stifling their laughs. Pythia was
glad for it. She hated their thin, curved, needlepoint teeth in maws that stretched wide like a snake’s. And yet, she moved closer to them, her toes touching the water, so the minotaur could hear her over the trickling of the brook.

  “Tell me you have another plan,” Pythia urged.

  “Dere are no more plans,” the minotaur replied. “‘A hare of white, and bone of pale, cut in da neck of one born—’”

  “Stop it! Please. I know the spell. I can’t hear it any longer.”

  Pythia looked up to the beast standing four heads taller than her. Now standing closer to him than she ever had, she could see wrinkles in the hide above his eyes—eyes that were not quite animalistic, nor were they human. His face was long and wide, ending in two round nostrils.

  When she did not go on, the minotaur continued. “You must make da sacrifice. You must choose.”

  Pythia knelt down and lifted a pool of water to her swollen eye. It stung, but she let out no reaction. “You are asking me to commit blood-magic—to become the very thing I have been accused of all this time. All I ever wanted was to be accepted. If I do what you’re telling me to do, I could never show my face again.”

  The minotaur’s hooves shifted in Pythia’s blurred peripheral vision, and it took her a moment to realize he was kneeling down with her. One fur-covered knee sank into the mud, while the other was within reach. A hand touched her chin, lifting her face to look at him.

  “Why do you worry about showing your face when dis is what dey do to it?”

  Pythia swallowed hard at the words, and then it happened: days of a constant show of strength failed in that moment, and Pythia wept at the feet of the minotaur. She dropped to her bottom, soaking her dress in the brook. How could this monster be kinder to her than those she knew all her life? Was there no true justice for her? Would life truly come down to kill or be killed?

  Moments of relentless release passed, and Pythia knew what had to be done. Action would be taken that very same night. A light pressure touched her shoulder just as she came to accept her fate and Pythia looked up. A hideous pixie sat upon her shoulder, grinning at her with that repulsive, paralyzing bite. There was no sense of threat from the creature, though. Not this time.