Huldra the troll sat in the centre of the wailing Bloodwood trees in the shadow of the great rock marking the coven’s entrance. His instructions were to allow none to pass without invitation. At the immediate access lay two enormous Rust-Serpents. The goblins had hammered wide iron collars around their thick necks which were in turn attached to massive rusty chains by six enormous rivets. The short chains were anchored to a tremendous iron spike driven deep into an immovable stone near the coven entrance. Their thick, squat heads lay alongside their scaled armoured bodies. The pair completely blocked the access, with their wings folded up above their bodies and tails waving about slightly. They frequently looked about with bloodthirsty eyes and issued orders to let none other than those of witch blood pass. Huldra’s tree trunk club lay on the ground next to him while he chewed heartily on the hindquarters of a pony and watched the Rust-Serpents suspiciously out of the corner of his eyes. He paused and spat out a section of leg bone. Several hungry and noisy Ravens flew down quickly and pecked at loose bits stuck to the bone. Most Ravens were content with stealing scraps off the slow old giant because the success rate of scavenging a meal from the hounds was meagre. The odd group of feathers lying randomly around the encampment was a testament to this.
The cairn sitting on the outside of the Bloodwood trees and ringed with sodden earth hummed to life. Several witches’ from the Night Grove Coven, yellow-skinned witches of the Mirror Lake Coven and the infamous red-eyed witches’ of the Wyrm Wood Coven stepped out onto the wet grass from within the flickering flame oval. Thin black vertical pupils set within those blood-red eyes stared suspiciously around them as the witches drifted through the Bloodwood trees. Chatting excitedly, they made their way to the stone slab, ignoring the Rust-Serpent guards to disappear into the coven entrance. Huldra reached out curiously to touch the last witch walking into the coven. She waved her sweep slightly and muttered something under her breath with a giggle. A bright blue spark flew from her sweep to strike Huldra on his outstretched finger. He grunted in surprise and cowed back away from the coven entrance. Watching Ravens screeched with laughter.
In the ladies Chamber, Strala and Grell spoke quietly. There was an urgent tone in Strala’s voice. ‘Grell have any of your spies from the west indicated anything to help?’ ‘Not as yet my lady.’ He replied. ‘All I can sense is that the power of the NaZuth draws nearer to the south.’ ‘I could flee?’ Lady Strala thought to herself. ‘But that would indicate a great weakness on my part, and the covens would unite and destroy me anyway for that.’ She spoke aloud again, ‘The hounds and the swamp troll camp atop. They would do nothing other than slow the NaZuth down if he attacked the coven directly. However, if it is the filthy elves that steer the shadow against me, I imagine the wolves will also attack simultaneously. The other hides?’ Grell replied, ‘Yes my lady, my brother mages are with the hounds maintaining the mist, and I have word from one of Skraaw’s Ravens that the closest goblin hides send reavers as you commanded to join us here. ‘Good’ said Strala, her eyes seemingly focusing on the distance. ‘Do this thing, and that pathetic Boorag shall be a carpet for you to clean your feet on. Slugheart hide will be yours to do with as you wish.’ ‘Thank you, my Lady,’ Grinned Grell. He had much grander ambitions than the overthrow of Boorag, if Strala only knew what he was up to, she would undoubtedly fry him on the spot. By Grell’s calculations and some final summoning, the void shadow will be here to destroy the first of the covens within two days. Oh, the power Mazamaag will then bestow upon him! Just the thought made his head swim.
By the end of the day, several hundred goblin reavers caparisoned for war had arrived from the Slugheart, Badwind and Slimestep hides. Most carried short wooden clubs with tight wood and leather woven shields slung over their hunched backs. The more significant goblins proudly donned short swords and knives. They all wore the leather and fur leggings and simple black cloaks of the reaver warrior. They marched in an unruly fashion having little discipline, their primary goal, and orders being just to get there as fast as possible. They rested in between the curious Bloodwood trees circling the grove. With a creak and a groan, a random long Bloodwood branch would bend down and caress the head of an unsuspecting goblin, causing him to yell in fright. Between the hounds, goblins, swamp troll and ever watching Ravens, nothing was going to come and go from the coven unseen. Lady Strala felt somewhat better at viewing her growing legion, she was now in a better position to discuss with her fellow witches’ a method to which she could destroy the NaZuth or send it back against the one who summoned it in the first place.
Lady Strala closed her eyes briefly to open them and stare at Grell. ‘The others come, you must leave us.’ Grell bowed, turned and disappeared through a small enclave concealed behind one the sweeping tapestries. A short while later, the visiting witches’ entered the chamber from the central passage. No two looked alike, however, what they had in common was that they all wore dark-coloured enchantment cloaks and carried a sweep each. They looked at Strala and saw that her face resembled a plump middle-aged woman with red cheeks. The green mist - ‘Stench of Death’ completely engulfed her from the neck down. Strala relayed to them the many burdens she had regarding the future of the Bloodwood Coven and in particular her survival concerns after Salum’s incident with the NaZuth and its consumption of the goblins sent to meet her. ‘Rest assured,’ she told them, ‘if it destroys me, it will destroy the other covens.’
The witches’ however, had already heard about the NaZuth, but none could solve the mystery of who commanded it. ‘I have another pressing matter at hand,’ continued Strala. ‘There is mankind cub that lives in their closest mankind tribe, eight days northwest of here. They call it Saltwood on the cliffs’. ‘And?’ Laughed one of the witches’. Strala continued, ‘And, my divinations have indicated an arcane trait in his blood. I would almost think of a Druid quality.’ Many of the witches’ snorted in amusement. They knew that the Druids had all but vanished from this realm centuries ago. For one to surface now would mean either a new ruler to unite the covens or a powerful enemy to destroy them. Strala must be going mad they thought.
The witches’ all spoke at once firing numerous questions at Strala. Several murmured that they must return to their covens at once and warn their Ladies. Lady Strala raised her hand for silence and said, ‘He is but a mancub, and with certain persuasions, I am confident we can mould him to our way of life. Strala’s green eyes shone brighter than normal. She had desired more power to rule these lands, the creatures that dwell within and destroy all that opposed her. In the right hands, the power of the Druids could make that dream a reality. But first, the NaZuth must be taken care of. This is where her assembled army and the combined magic skills of these witches’ would play an integral part in this. They were all expendable assets, Strala thought to herself in amusement. The witch Salum entered the chamber and spoke, ‘My lady, the hound Crovar arrives with news.’ Lady Strala snapped to her senses. Salum knew it was bad news, so she hastily left the chamber as the hound slinked in with his head submissively low. He was limping badly and glanced left and right out of the corners of his eyes at the various snickering witches’ assembled in front of Strala’s stone chair.
Silence came to the chamber as all eyes were on Crovar. Strala sat calmly in her throne with an arm on each rest. Her sweep lay across her knees. She looked down towards Crovar as he stopped at the bottom step below the throne and debased himself. He held his head low and stared at the floor, waiting for Lady Strala to speak. With her plump face expressionless, she simply said ‘Where is the mancub?’ Crovar swallowed and avoiding direct eye contact replied, ‘He had received help my Lady.’ ‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Where is my Draugen?’ The green mist surrounding her dissipated and completely disappeared, the witches’ standing closet to her backed away a little. They had all heard of Lady Strala’s ferocious and unpredictable temper. Crovar lowered himself completely to the floor and continued. ‘Wolves and magic, the mancub destroyed your messenger. Th
en he wielded some sort of gemstone that cast a light as bright as day.’ Strala stood up out of her throne.
A magic stone, she thought to herself contemplating the gravity of this information. She then realised something. ‘What!’ She screeched. ‘How did he destroy the Draugen? With this stone?’ Crovar answered with fear in his voice. ‘My lady, before he had the stone and with magic from bare hands’. The entire gathering in the chamber gasped loudly. Strala knew the hound described the mancub’s hands when he referred to them as paws. Upon her order, Crovar explained in detail how the mancub incinerated the Draugen with a strange blue flame. Inwardly, Lady Strala was pleased. The mancub must be of Druid stock to be powerful enough to command the arcane flame and destroy a Draugen. This could be the hidden power she had sensed from afar. It would give her the ability to rule all the lands and covens unchallenged and even achieve individual immortality.
She addressed Crovar, ‘You had failed me at the most important time when I required success. My instructions were clear. You must be punished’. Several of the watching witches’ gave wicked grins and rubbed their hands together with glee. Strala closed her eyes as the jewel in her sweep began to glow a deeper crimson red. Through grinding teeth, Crovar pleaded desperately. ‘My Lady I shadowed them towards Blackmire, then I believe they are to make for Aledran, I know the paths they aim to take.’ Strala opened her eyes, and the jewel faded to its standard jade colour. She stared at the hound for a moment as if processing his words. Her green eyes flared quickly creating an eerie green glow in front of her. ‘Very Well,’ she replied. ‘I will grant you an escort. Fail me again, and your punishment will be in a manner most hideous. Leave us dog.’ Crovar clenched his teeth, swallowed and limped from the room between rows of disappointed witches’. Several witches hissed loudly and frequently licked their lips. Some smirked through rotten yellow teeth, while others kicked out at him as he slunk past. Lady Strala surveyed the witches’ before her in the chamber. They were talking amongst each other excitedly.
'I have requested the ladies of your covens send you to me as I require your varied talents.’ Strala’s piercing green eyes continued to sweep the chamber until they fell upon Ginerva Nightshade, one of the red-eyed witches’ of the Wyrm Wood Coven. ‘Ginerva, I have a chore for you.’ Said Strala. Ginerva's particular craft was in necromancy. As a necromancer, Ginerva could communicate with the dead who would more often than not do her bidding. She used a language called ‘The Torment’ that allowed the dead to reanimate and walk the mortal realm once again. Ginerva did wonder why Strala had chosen her; after all, it was well known that Strala herself also possessed this specific talent. However, she supposed it was an honour to have been selected for this task.
30.
WHALE COVE INN
The muddy road was pretty much overgrown with grass and small bushes as it had seen little use in the past few years with Saltwood and Brineburg becoming more reclusive. Puddles of water dotted the ground everywhere, continually topped up every night by the frequent rain. Few of the rocky pillars that marked the path every mile were still visible through the grass and shrubbery. Many had tumbled down to resemble an almost natural pile of rocks, while others appeared vandalized and scattered widely as if having been struck by a considerable blow. The ones that remained standing were covered in green salt moss, fed from the constant sea spray on the wind. By the end of the second day, the rain had subsided into an annoying drizzle. It was the kind that somehow managed to drip around the edges of your hood and find its way down your neck and back, creating a constant state of wetness and discomfort. The wind had now increased, causing the temperature to plummet to an almost unbearable biting cold. Barney ‘Speckles’ Critchem called the two watch guards in front to pause. The two volunteer men folk dawdling along behind caught up and stopped. They had regretted their decision to volunteer. Having not ridden a pony much, rear ends were sore, thighs chafed, their eyes stung from the salt sea spray and right about this time of the afternoon, they should have been at home stoking up a cozy warm fire with a jug of Gooseberry wine at the ready.
With salt spray lashing his face, Barney looked at the darkening sky and pulled his hood down tighter over his ears that no longer had feeling. ‘We need to find a suitable place for the night.’ He mumbled through numbed lips. One of the watch guards, spitting saltwater out of his mouth said, ‘Sir, it’s too windy and wet here, we will never light a fire or get warm.’ Barney trying to control his jittery mount, nodded in agreement as the other men also conceded. The ponies were also suffering the effects of the ill weather and would have liked nothing better than to tip these men of their backs and trot back home. The only other option for shelter would be to go against their instincts and enter the edge of the dark forest. The thick forest had been on their right with the cliffs and sea on their left for pretty much most of the journey so far.
The woods were lovely to look at from a distance, but nobody fancied actually going in there. Each one of the company had thought they had heard noises coming from the woods during the day, but none wanted to admit that to the others. They all imagined what kind of creatures lurked in there, waiting for them to enter and would rather opt for any other alternative. However, there was none. All five looked up at the tall wall of Oaks, Firs, and Dogwoods. They moved about in the strong gusts creaking and groaning loudly as boughs rubbed against boughs, almost if they were talking to each other. In the failing light they took on a ghostly appearance as the front line of trees were coated in white salt from years’ worth of windblown ocean water. They lacked leaves and were sickly looking compared to the trees further in and out of reach of the salt spray. Barney looked into the distance, the road stretched into the distance as far as his eyes could see. No chance of shelter for a while that way he decided. If they stayed out here after nightfall, they would undoubtedly freeze to death. As they contemplated what to do, a massive boom and reverberation were felt in the ground made by the angry sea below them. The ponies pinned their ears back and looked about in alarm. The company struggled to hold their mounts steady, and with little else to do, quickly trotted through the first line of trees. Huge waves continued to pound the base of the cliffs below them, shaking the ground perilously.
Almost instantly, the howling wind died down. The ponies were still difficult to control; however, as the nervous animals had decided that they did not like it in the forest either. They had never entered the forest before and did not like the strange noises and smell that now became apparent to them. The company of five stopped in a small clearing not far into the trees. The canopy above was reined by giant Willow and Alder trees. Swooping limbs draped in thick thorny vines hung low from every tree as a bedlam of animal voices, predominantly from birds and insects, echoed through the air between the trees. They could still hear the muffled pounding of the high tide waves and felt the odd gust of wind that searched through the woods to find them. Even though they had sought shelter from the Moaning Sea, it was still comforting to know it was close by compared to the sinister dark mood that seemed to come with this wood. The clearing was small but had just enough room to tether up the ponies and for the men to find a spot on the leaf-strewn floor to lay out their gear.
The strong odour of rotting timber was apparent, mixed with the smell of rain and soil. Large orange fungus type growths were on the trunks of the trees closest to them while their cousins, big yellow and brown toadstools grew around the edge of the clearing. It was almost dark now, and one of the guards struck flint over and over again and soon gave up as there was no dry tinder to be found anywhere. They all sat gloomily in a tight circle, seeking the comfort and security of each other’s company. ‘How far is it to the inn?’ Inquired the watch guard Cedric. He was a slim man in his early 40’s with a shock of grey hair and a sweeping moustache to match.
The inn he referred to was the Whalecove Inn. It sat nestled on the clifftop where the woods came closest to the Moaning Sea. Here a large cove existed in the shoreline, cut into
the cliffs and giving small reprieve to that particular area of the coast. The Inn was owned and run by the Elwood family, as it had been done so for many generations. It had been at least six months since a traveller, merchant or anyone for that matter had come to Saltwood bearing news from Brineburg or Whalecove. ‘It’s still three days away,’ said Phylip, one of the volunteer men. ‘Well, I guess these woods can play host for a few more nights until we get there.’ Cedric replied, pulling out a fat red leech from his boot that had managed to wriggle in there a moment ago and feast. They shared some dry bread around in the dark and pulled their hoods tighter over their heads as it began to rain again.
The thick canopy of greenery above them didn’t seem to be stopping the rain all that much. It was even worse in fact, as the rain becoming trapped in the canopy above, built up before dropping in a sudden torrent and soaking everyone and everything. Barney and the others managed to get an hour of sleep in here and there. Just as they would doze off, an owl would glide by and let out a hoot and screech of astonishment at seeing mankind animals in this part of the woods. A loud wailing further into the woods or even the moors beyond kept up for a while and then stopped. The ponies stood around miserably, considering their predicament. They had not slept at all during the night, continually listening for noises and jumping at the slightest sound. If the situation hadn’t improved, they were going to escape and make their way home to Saltwood in the following days.
First light had everyone in better spirits. A quick pack and all their gear was strapped back onto the ponies. The ponies were led back out of the woods onto the road. The sky was relatively cloud-free, and even though the landscape around them was drenched, it was shaping up to be a warm day for once. They travelled north all day along the road, which dried out reasonably well in the sunlight and constant breeze. They only stopped to water the ponies, themselves, and to secure fresh meat. Ronald, the younger of the two volunteers’ was quite skilful with the bow and had managed to shoot a large hare or two. That evening the weather had undoubtedly cleared to display rows of red rippled patterns in the sky above the last of the sun as it sunk below the horizon. With little chance of rain in sight, they set up camp on a narrow grassy plain between the road and the woods. Timber burnt quickly now, and soon they had hot water and hard-boiled eggs, that had managed to keep unharmed on the journey so far. They slept far better that night, and the next few days also brought them good fortune with the pleasant change in weather. They even rolled up their coats tightly and put them away, as it was quite humid all of a sudden.
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