Chapter 377: Painting with the Colours of Horror

Images of the carnage he’d just seen filled Alex’s mind as he and Claygon flew back to the boat. He’d seen violent deaths before, he’d even helped cause some; Hive queens, Mana vampires, monsters in the Barrens, even demons, but this was different. Mortals and monsters dying with such violence by their own blades, and at their own claws…it was unsettling, even for someone who’d seen more than his share of violence.

‘That took…a terrifying amount of fanaticism,’ he thought. ‘It took a lot of will to do something like that.’

He glanced back at the ruins of the cultists’ bodies.

‘No way they would ever have talked,’ he thought. ‘Holy shit.’

Baelin’s boat was gliding toward him and he flew down to meet it.

“Everyone alright?” he asked.

“Yeah!” Theresa called back. “But what about your shoulder?”

He glanced at a red stain spreading across his shirt.

“I’m okay,” he assured her, floating into the boat. “After what just happened, a wound to my shoulder isn’t top of mind right now.”

“Aye, c’mon then, let’s get ya patched up,” Cedric said.

The Chosen reached out, his power touching Alex’s wound. Theresa casually caught his eye, her eyes flicked to his Marked shoulder as relief passed through them. Thankfully, the beam hadn’t hit his right side. Trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for why he didn’t need to be healed when blood was staining his shirt, would have brought Cedric’s attention and questions. The Fool never thought he’d be thanking the Traveller for a wound, but here he was, thanking her for being shot on the left side.

“Did any live?” Drestra asked.

Alex shook his head while Cedric’s divinity numbed the pain and healed him. “No…they either killed themselves, or each other. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Well, that’s some scary shit,” Hart said. “You see warriors do that sometimes, they’re the ones you either have to worry about the least…or the most.”

“What do you mean?” Theresa asked.

“I mean they don’t care about preserving their own lives if their mission fails. They take a lot more risks than someone who wants to come out of a battle breathing. They also won’t stop fighting, even when it’s obvious you got them beat.”

“Shite, s’like fightin’ Ravener-spawn, they ain’t got sense enough to stop fightin,’ Cedric peered at Alex’s wound and clapped him on the shoulder. “There we go, all mended as easy as ma’s knitted cloak.”

“Thanks,” Alex said, looking toward the demons’ boats. Brutus’ necks were stretched in that direction, his snouts sniffing and growling at the dead.

“Wonder what the hell they were doing. Maybe following this lot.” He nodded to the two prisoners shivering in the bottom of the boat.

“We won’t know until we get some proper answers,” Drestra said, dragging a corpse toward the vessel. “And…no matter what they were up to, their bodies have to be taken to mother.”

###

The teleportation circle in Crymlyn Village shimmered, drawing the eyes of witches passing by as Alex Roth appeared in the circle. Heartbeats later, his companions materialised around him.

Claygon carried three bodies—wrapped in the tarp—tucked beneath his arms, while Hart and Cedric had hold of the prisoners. The pair looked bone-tired, and dejected, like their lives had ended back in the swampwater. The familiar was the only one still resisting, pecking at Alex and anyone else with the gall to come near it. Its eyes glowed blood-red. “You're staying tied up for now, duck.” Alex said, keeping out of ‘pecking range.’

“Welcome back home…kindred,” Drestra’s tone was dangerous.

The prisoners couldn’t say a word, but Alex didn’t think they had any interest in conversation, even if their mouths weren’t bound. The Heroes, Alex, Theresa, Brutus and Claygon made their way toward Elder Blodeuwedd’s hall, deep in the village. Witches dropped what they were doing and followed as they headed toward the standing circle and dead aeld tree; they were attracting a growing crowd.

Along the way, a bewildered young man pushed through the gathering and came up to Drestra. A frown creasing his brow.

“What’s all this?” he cried. “Llyworn? Is that you? You’re alive?”

Every pair of witches’ eyes were on the bound prisoners, their faces awash with confusion.

Llyworn glanced up, then quickly looked back down.

“What in the spirits’ true names?” Angharad looked at Drestra in alarm. “Why do you have our kin tied up like common bandits?”

“Because, something is very wrong,” was all she said, her voice cold enough to chill Alex’s blood.

“Oh…” Angharad didn’t push further. “You’re taking them to the elder I take it?”

“Yes, mother will be able to figure this out.”

“Right,” the puzzled sentry agreed. “That’s the best thing to do.” His eyes drifted to the bodies under Claygon’s arms. “And…them?”

The Sage’s eyes hardened. “Those are more of our people, Angharad. We were attacked and things turned against them.”

The sentry was silently eyeing the bodies.

The crowd whispered to each other all the way to the centre of the village and the elder’s hall. To Alex’s surprise, Elder Blodeuwedd was waiting outside, her face grim.

“Mother, I’m glad you’re here.” Drestra called as they dragged the prisoners toward the hall.

“The trees told me you were back, daughter,” she said. “And that you were holding…captives?”

“Things…have grown complicated,” Drestra said.

The Sage told of what they had seen, and the elder’s face turned grimmer, watching the shapes wrapped in the tarp. “What about them?”

“Complicated,” Drestra said again.

“Bring them within,” the old woman said, her voice terrible. Her attention turned to the crowd. “Back to your chores! All of this gawking won’t keep winter’s bite away, and if our stores aren’t fattened, we’ll be burying some of you soon enough!”

The villagers seemed reluctant to leave, but slowly began dispersing throughout the village.

Alex and Theresa’s eyes met, then flicked to Cedric and Hart.

Their faces were blank, except for a slight smile playing at the edge of Hart’s lips.

‘She kinda reminds me of a storybook witch right now,’ Alex thought.

Of course, he kept that thought to himself.

“Bring them,” the Elder said, her eyes fixed on the prisoners. As soon as Claygon—who was last to enter the hall—stepped through the doorway, Elder Blodeuwedd waved a hand.

The door slammed, the noise echoing in the soaring space.

“Follow me,” the old woman led them to the rear of the hall and a staircase that ran deep below ground. She clapped her hands twice, and a host of paper lanterns filled with green glowing fireflies—sprang to life, filling the dark stairwell with an eerie light.

As the group descended—Claygon floated, his feet too massive for the steep, earthen staircase. Alex turned his mind back to the problem of getting the two prisoners to talk. He remembered Gustavo and Ferrero questioning him in Generasi: the pair of investigators had isolated him, trying to play on discomfort and anxieties to get to him.

The tactics hadn’t worked on him, but they might work on prisoners who were involved in some way with demon worshippers. Alex was deep in thought when they reached the doorway of a large chamber beneath the hall. Alex let out a low whistle.

A ceiling at least twenty feet high and perhaps twice that in length and width, rose above them.

The walls were lined with potion bottles, scrolls, jars with strange, withered things floating in them, and stone tablets covered in ancient sigils that were stacked high. In a corner of the chamber a firepit crackled, and above the flame, a black cauldron with dragons, and monsters of all shapes and sizes forged into its sides and lip, was hanging from a braided handle. The pot was large enough to fit Grimloch with room to spare. And in the centre of the room, a summoning circle carved upon a slab of dark stone, waited, emanating an eerie quality that filled the space.

More green fireflies flitted about in hazy glass orbs, making the room feel even more… sinister, especially when Theresa whispered...

“Is…is that blood?” she held onto Brutus.

Alex followed her gaze, finding dark, rust coloured patches staining the stone.

“This uh…y’got a nice place here, probably gets lots’a lips flapping.”

Cedric said awkwardly.

“This is not a nice place, child,” Elder Blodeuwedd stared at him, then muttered a flight spell and rose high above the floor. She drifted past scores of over-packed shelves, pausing only when she reached one with bottles of potions stored in casket-shaped boxes.

The elder floated toward the prisoners, uncorking two bottles.

As an acrid scent wafted into the air, Brutus whined, backing away from the potions.

“Hold them steady, big man.” The elder witch floated to Hart, who was eyeing the bottles like they were coiled vipers.

“Uhm, what’s in those?” He asked.

“Ancient recipes, known to few, using ingredients found only here in the swamp.” She conjured glowing green Wizard’s Hands to hold the potions, then took a tiny brush from the pouch at her waist.

The prisoners had been subdued, but they now found strength to struggle the moment the brush appeared, but Hart’s grip doubled.

‘I bet Professor Jules and Generasi law would have a lot to say about whatever’s about to happen,’ Alex thought, looking at Drestra.

If she had a problem with what was happening, she didn’t say…hopefully, that meant the potions wouldn’t melt flesh, or start turning anyone to stone, or anything gruesome like that. He remembered how Drestra had insisted her dead kin be returned to the village, so it was likely a safe bet she wouldn’t approve of her living kin being melted.

The elder witch dipped the brush into the first potion bottle, and spoke an incantation while swirling the liquid around. As words of power poured from her lips, the potion in the tiny bottle turned a sickly green, and glowed like fireflies.

Every word she spoke repeated, filling the air, sounding like scores of voices echoing in the vast chamber. Blodeuwedd took the brush from the liquid and slowly painted the potion across the captives’ foreheads. The witches' eyes rolled back, their bodies stiffened, and Alex startled when the angry duck tensed in his hands. She dipped the brush into the potion again and again, painting different sigils on their foreheads.

The prisoners alternated between stiffening like statues, and shaking violently as Blodeuwedd went about her work. When their foreheads were covered, their throats were next. Llyworn began to gag.

“Oi!” Cedric cried. “Get the gag off ‘er mouth or she’ll choke!”

“It is alright,” the elder said, painting symbols on the other witch's cheeks. “She will not choke, nor will she vomit.

Alex was puzzled.

He could feel mana pouring from the familiar and the prisoners in Hart’s grip. It ran out in torrents. Cedric was noticing it too, he looked horrified.

“What’s happening to them?” Alex asked.

“The purgative is taking effect.” The witch dipped her brush in the other bottle. “It’s like any tonic you would give someone to induce vomiting, only this makes a spellcaster ‘vomit’ up their mana, so to speak.”

Alex shuddered, exchanging a horrified look with Cedric. Drestra, however, looked as calm as if she was having a soothing cup of tea.

“They will recover their mana in a weeks’ time, with no lasting damage,” she said. “But in the meanwhile, there will be no spellcasting for them. And things will be easier for us.”

Alex’s stomach churned at the thought of that happening to him.

He told himself to remember not to make an enemy of the Witches of Crymlyn Swamp…but if that ever happened, to never, ever, let them capture him alive. Maybe those cultists had taken the smart way out…

“W-what’s that one now?” Alex asked, looking at the other potion.

The liquid glowed with a deep amber light.

“This relaxes the will,” the elder said, painting golden-brown symbols on the wild-eyed witches. “It makes one tractable, unable to lie, or deceive, so they become completely cooperative.”

‘Holy hell,’ Alex swore internally. ‘This is like fifteen kinds of illegal in Generasi.’

Still, there was a part of him—a part that worried him a little—that would have given a lot of coin to learn the recipes for those two potions.

“Are there any lasting effects to this one?” Alex asked.

“It can damage one’s will permanently if the sigils are poorly applied, my curious child…like in situations such as this, where I’m being distracted,” she said pointedly.

Alex shut up: he didn’t need the Mark’s guidance to know when he was being politely told to be quiet.

“Keep a tight grip on them, young man,” the elder said, dipping her brush again. “The second potion has a tendency to weaken the legs, captives often collapse after it’s applied.”

“Oh uh…okay,” Hart said, his voice shaky.

Alex, Theresa, Cedric and Drestra looked at him sharply: the towering man had gone pale, and as hard as it was to believe, he actually looked scared. If Alex had eaten recently, he would be wondering if magical mushrooms had been in his food. The words Champion and afraid were as opposite, as the words Baelin and newborn. The four of them tried to catch his eye, but they were fixed on the ceiling, pointedly avoiding sigils, or potions used to paint them.

“Jus’ when ya thought ya’d seen everything,” Cedric muttered.

The Elder shot him a stern look and finished drawing her symbols. Llyworn and the other witch abruptly relaxed, but Hart kept them upright as light left their eyes. They stared blankly into empty space.

The elder rested her brush in a bucket on a nearby table, then floated to the potion wall and returned them to the storage boxes. She sealed them with a wave of her hand then faced her kindred, looking into their vacant eyes.

“Are you ready to talk?” she asked.

They nodded in unison, their movements sluggish, like they were moving through thick mud.

She looked at the five companions. “They’re ready.”

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Author's Note

Hello wise sages, mighty champions, eight cool fools and almighty chosen! Thank you for your support!