Chapter 28: The Witch

Glen immediately scanned their surroundings. Not far off, he spotted a settlement. Smaller than Dud or Byek, it was closer to a village than a proper town.

The Old Man folded the map in his hands and stuffed it into an inner pocket of his coat. "We proceed," he stated to Glen. "We lodge here tonight. Depart again tomorrow. I'll acquire a more comfortable wagon."

"Excellent news."

As they spoke, both men jumped down from the crude wagon and strode toward the settlement ahead.

It was a noticeably poorer place. The dirt road was deeply rutted and uneven; the air hung heavy with the reek of livestock dung. Would there even be an inn here? Glen wondered skeptically.

Reality swiftly answered Glen. Not only was there an inn, it was surprisingly large. It dominated the settlement's center, surrounded by tightly packed buildings. The skull of some long-horned beast hung proudly above the main entrance, lending it a wild, frontier feel. Strange, guttural shouts emanated from within, piquing Glen's curiosity.

"Try not to cause trouble inside." The Old Man glanced back over his shoulder as they approached.

"What if trouble finds me?" Glen countered.

"Hmph..." The Old Man gave a cold, humorless chuckle. "Then deal with it yourself."

"Fine."

The Old Man pushed open the heavy inn door with a forearm thick with muscle. A wave of potent alcohol fumes immediately assaulted Glen's senses. Pungent, but he merely waved a hand briefly before his face.

The inn was crowded. Its patrons wore varied, distinctive garb, but all shared an air of danger. Their eyes were sharp, most only glancing at Glen and the Old Man out of the corners. Besides humans, there were several Dwarves and Beastkin – the source of the earlier strange noises.

"The woman sitting furthest back is a Witch. Knows many fearsome, unsettling dark magics. Best avoid her. The large fellow guzzling ale is a formidable wandering swordsman. Also not one to cross. And those others over there..." The Old Man began murmuring almost as soon as they entered. Only Glen's preternatural hearing kept it from sounding like muttering to himself. Glen flicked his gaze toward the mentioned individuals, his expression showing only detached curiosity. The Old Man fell silent. They made straight for the bar.

Three Beastkin, nearly matching the Old Man in height and bulk, suddenly stepped into their path. The leader, a bear-headed creature, boomed a greeting: "Old Bor! Long time! How fares it? Life treating you well?"

"Well enough. Your concern is unnecessary." The Old Man's tone remained frosty, as it seemed to be with everyone except perhaps his dog.

"Same old Bor," the Bearkin rumbled, utterly unfazed. His eyes then landed on Glen trailing behind. A loud, mocking laugh erupted. "Hah! Look here! The old fossil brought a barely unweaned whelp! This ain't yer get, is it? Hahahaha!" The other Beastkin joined in the laughter. The other patrons didn't even turn their heads.

THUD!

A colossal crash forced everyone's attention. The laughing Bearkin lay sprawled against the far wall amidst splintered wood, clutching its side. It bared its teeth in a pained grimace.

"Roar so loud, yet crumple like cheap cloth," Glen sneered, lowering his foot. "What exactly was there to boast about?"

The remaining Beastkin stared, first at their leader flung several meters, then back at Glen. Low, threatening growls rumbled in their throats, savage gleams lighting their eyes. Seeing this, Glen rolled his shoulders, settling into an unmistakably ready stance.

"Enjoy yourself." The Old Man showed no surprise at Glen's display. He uttered the words dismissively and continued toward the bar to secure lodgings. Confronted by Glen's clear intent to advance, the Beastkin hesitated. Then, as one, they turned, hauled their groaning leader upright, and scrambled out of the inn. Not a single parting curse was uttered. Glen shrugged, letting them go. The eyes of the other drinkers held varied expressions: some calculating, some amused, others simply watching.

The Old Man tossed a key toward Glen. "Your room. I require rest. Do as you wish." Glen memorized the key number and pocketed it. As the Old Man ascended the stairs to the second floor, Glen immediately turned and took the seat opposite the Witch's table. "Do you truly command magic?" he asked directly.

The Witch had been staring vacantly into space since they entered. At Glen's question, she didn't move. Only her lips parted, her voice flat and chilling: "Distance yourself. Unless you seek death."

"I merely wish to understand. Perhaps even learn. Rest assured, I can pay. Coin, or items you might need – I may procure them." Glen remained unfazed by the threat, stating his purpose plainly. The Witch slowly turned her face toward him. Her features were striking, almost elegant. But her eyes... they were pure, unsettling white orbs.

"Child, ignorance is the path to damnation."

"Are you damned?" Glen countered.

"Hmm..." A flicker of interest seemed to cross her blank features. She propped her chin on a hand, adopting a curiously alluring pose as she regarded him. "All Witches are damned."

"Let me try. I might be different." Glen pressed. "Enough," the Witch's voice turned abruptly icy, catching Glen off guard. "The dark arts, the forbidden paths... they are not for you. Abandon this notion." Before Glen could speak again, the Witch dissolved into a swirling cloud of black mist, vanishing from her seat. Gone just like that... Glen stared at the empty space, sighing in frustration.

He proceeded to order one of every beverage the inn offered, charging it all to the Old Man's room. Sampling them one by one, Glen felt he'd paid good coin for punishment. Only the fruit juice was remotely palatable; the rest tasted vile. He couldn't fathom how others drank them with such gusto. Finding nothing else of interest downstairs, Glen finally headed up to his room.

Morning

Glen was roused by a server delivering a hard roll that vaguely resembled breakfast. Gnawing on the tough bread, he descended to the common room. The Old Man was already there, sitting calmly and sipping from a small glass of clear liquor.

"Depart." The Old Man set his glass down firmly and rose.

"Uh... right." Glen didn't understand the urgency, but he was hired muscle. Finishing sooner suited him fine. The new wagon had a canvas cover and proper seats, significantly more comfortable. On the road, Glen asked, "Old Man, will we reach it today?"

"Barring mishaps... yes." The Old Man replied tersely, eyes closed as if meditating. Wonder if Night Howler bothered to feed the pigs... Glen closed his own eyes, letting his mind wander idly.

Somewhere Else, A Small Cottage

Three figures stood unnervingly still within the cramped dwelling. They wore long, dark robes and pointed, soft-brimmed hats. Each held one hand clamped tightly onto the neck of an unnaturally pale, lifeless body lying on the floor. Thick, dark energy pulsed visibly from their hands, swirling around the corpses like viscous smoke.

Cowering in a shadowed corner, two young boys, perhaps six or seven years old, huddled together. Their eyes were wide with absolute terror, fixed on the figures performing their grim rite.