Guiromélans is wakened long before sunrise.  Balen’s shaking and frantic voice serve only to irritate him, and he drowsily shoves the boy away.  The peace is only momentary before a sharp kick bruises his ribs.

He looks up to see Caidryn’s face.  In the weak light of the camp’s fires, he remarks on how beautiful she can be.  He can almost forget about the scar on her throat and the evil mind behind her eyes.  She grins down at him.  “Yä goin’ tä get up?  Please say na, ‘cause I gots tä piss!”

Guiromélans raises his hands in surrender and rolls weakly onto his side.  “No, no,” he groans as he fumbles for his sword and pistol, “I’ll get up.  What is it?  What’s wrong?”

She laughs bitterly.  “Yä thinks it can’t get any worse?  Thinks again, boduus!”

Guiromélans takes his time rising to his feet, pausing to shake out the sand in his clothes.  Caidryn’s attitude indicates the situation is serious but hardly life-threatening.  Last night was hard.  It wasn’t until he fell into the embrace of his whiskey that he fell into the embrace of slumber, and now, a hangover is raging.  He needs either a couple more hours to sleep it off or another drink.

A gentle but steady rain falls on the island.  In the dark, starless air, every sound seems muffled:  the falling rain, the stirring of the waking crew, the whisper of the surf.  It is all much quieter it seems than it should be.

Guiromélans steps away from the camp and joins Caidryn on the muddy beach.  She shivers in the cool morning rain.  Cries of dismay echo among the Bracks as they wake and witness the situation before them.

Just last night, the surf lapped at the aft portion of the Knight's Torment.  Now, the ship lays marooned among the mud and sand, the waves having retreated by nearly 20 yards.  A low reef stands between them and the water—exposed by the retreating surf—and there is no way to get the sloop afloat now.

“What is this?” Guiromélans asks with mild astonishment.

“Uh,” she grunts, “I was hopin’ yä could tells me!”

“The sea’s retreated!” Radla moans as he and others join him.

“Or the island’s risin’!” the Master Carpenter adds.

“Could it be the tide?” Guiromélans wonders.

“Ne,” Radla says, “Ne tide moves this fast... or this far.”

Guiromélans stares at the terrible miracle before them.  Even as he watches, the water continues to pull away from the shore, piling high against some unseen barrier.

“It’s the häxa,” he sighs with certainty, “He want to make sure we stay.”

“Why?” Caidryn asks.

“Because he doesn’t want us to leave until he’s through with us.”

“Nage, nage,” weeps a sailor nearby, one of Rigging Master Lug’s men.

“Our stone-summoner woulda known what tä do,” Mogens says suddenly.  Guiromélans didn’t hear the Quartermaster’s approach.  “But our stone-summoner’s long gone tä Johlpa’s Hall,” he grins nastily at the Raven, “and we have yä tä thanks fer that, uh?  Now we has tä face this witch and escape his island without him, uh?”  His eyes are wide and wet, his cheeks and lips are inexplicably quivering.

Guiromélans hisses inwardly.  By God, the big Brack is terrified!  Why is he so frightened?

“You have Forré to thank for that, Mogens,” he corrects, “for sending your stone-summoner out on a foolish mission.  I merely killed him... as I would any fool who chooses to cross me.”

“Is any man who crosses yä a fool?” Mogens asks quietly, his dark eyes flashing.  “Or does yä call him such only after yä kills him, uh?”

“Cross me and find out, Quartermaster.”

“Excellent!” Adalgis shouts with exasperation, “The two of yä stays at peace all this time, only tä kill each other now?  Hold yer tongues and yer spathas until we’re at least clear of this island!”

“Don’t yä be tellin’ me what tä say and tä whom,” snaps the Quartermaster, visibly near his breaking point.

“Now is not the time tä be makin’ enemies, Quartermaster!” Adalgis warns.

“Makin’ enemies?” Mogens says dangerously, “What with yä and—”

“No,” Guiromélans interrupts, desperately trying anything to calm the frantic Quartermaster.  “He’s right.  There’s been enough of this bickering.  Whatever complaints we have with each other, for the good of this ship and her crew, we should set them aside and look towards getting away from this island safely.”

Mogens shakes his head violently, gasping for breath and eyeing Guiromélans and Adalgis suspiciously.

“Vhat are ve going to do?” Radla pleads.

Guiromélans toes a piece of slimy seaweed with his boot and then spits.  Managing these Bracks is proving more difficult than warring with them.  Perhaps the Superbus Tyrannus has the right idea after all.

“We do nothing,” he says at last.

“Nothin’?” Mogens shouts with surprise, already prepared to revive the old argument.

“Nothing,” Guiromélans confirms, calmly, absolutely.  “Nothing other than wait, keep ourselves safe, and collect the food and supplies as we planned.”

“Do nothin’?” Mogens repeats.  “Wait fer the häxa, uh?  We’d be helpless—”

“Helpless?” Guiromélans interrupts with disgust.  “I fear no witch while in Medianist lands!  I can’t speak for you or your so-called warriors, but so long as I have my will, and my strength, and weapons in my hand, I am never helpless.”

Mogens’s face turns red with rage, but Guiromélans is through with him and his terror.  He turns his back on the Brack and addresses the others.  “We can’t set sail even if we weren’t landlocked!  The ship is too damaged.  This häxa has done nothing that we haven’t planned to do anyway.  He wants us to stay?  Well, we were going to say anyway!  We do what we came here to do.  We collect supplies, we make repairs, we keep ourselves safe.”

“And what about the gwrach?” someone shouts.

Guiromélans makes a sweeping gesture towards the ocean.  “What kind of power do you suspect it takes to drive the ocean back like this?  Or raise this island above it?  How long do you suppose he can keep this up?  Not long, I’d wager.”  Guiromélans smiles darkly at the assembled crew.  “We do nothing.  We wait this häxa out.  Let him exhaust himself on these petty games, and when he finally tires and takes to his bed, he’ll find us standing over him.”

Many of the crew nod and murmur assent, and Guiromélans is satisfied.  Assuming Mogens doesn’t sabotage the mood, these men will serve as the anchor for the others and boost their morale.  Guiromélans looks at Bo’s’n Abandinus.  “Get the crew together,” he tells him, “Count each man personally.  No one is to go out alone.  No one is to leave without permission.  Understand?”

The Bo’s’n nods and then hurries off.  Guiromélans looks to Mogens, Adalgis, and his other officers.  “Come sunrise, we divide into three groups.  Two go foraging for supplies while the rest stays behind and guards the ship.  Every man is armed, every man ready for a fight.  Agreed?”

The Bracks grunt with agreement, some sparing the dark island nervous glances.

Adalgis takes Guiromélans by the arm.  “Captain Guiromélans.  This water, this ocean…”

“Yes?”

The Master Carpenter gestures out towards the wall of water in the bay.  “Should this häxa’s power ever fail, all that water will come spillin’ back in, uh?”

Guiromélans frowns with confusion.  “Yes, so?”

“Have yä any idea what that much water will do tä our ship?”

Guiromélans freezes.  “No.”

“Crush it like a cheap basket, it will.  At the very best, it’ll wash us intä the trees, where we’ll never get it out.”

“Oh, shit,” Guiromélans sighs.

Mogens begins to chuckle nastily.  “And what now, oh wise Captain?”

“There is nothing to change, nothing more we can do,” he answers simply.  “Except…”

“What?”

“When we meet this häxa, we ask him very nicely to let the water back in slowly.”

“And if he does?”

“Then we kill him.”

Several of the officers are still chuckling when Bo’s’n Abandinus returns from his headcount, but their good humor fades when they see the look on his face.

“What is it?” Guiromélans asks.

They find the missing man well after sunrise.  The remains lay sprawled across a small stream, deep within one of the island’s countless wooded valleys.  What could have driven this man so far from their camp?

Guiromélans slowly works his way through the lush underbrush, following his frightened guide.  The Bracks that found the body refused to move it until he checked it first.  Guiromélans’s mind races.  First they were tricked into eating one of their own, and now this.  He’s almost afraid to see what’s next.

Birds of some kind rustle and squawk at each other in the branches over his head.  Guiromélans even thinks he catches the occasional word or curse, though they are not spoken in any tongue he is familiar with.  This forest is evil.  This island is evil.  It is no coincidence that the storms blew them to this place, no coincidence that the storms failed just long enough for them to find the beach and come ashore.  There is no longer any doubt in Guiromélans’s mind about that.

The scent of torches tells Guiromélans they are getting close.  Soon, he sees the circle of men standing around the body.  At his approach, they part, and Guiromélans gasps inwardly.

While still intact for the most part, the body has been chewed and savaged brutally.  Hardly a scrap of skin remains anywhere except for the groin, where an enormous erection still stands proudly.  Guiromélans slowly circles the corpse.  The hair is gone, as are the eyes, lips, and some of the fingers.  He crouches by the head and pries open the mouth with his knife.  It is filled with some kind of foul-smelling black slime, but the tongue is still intact.  While the belly is split open, and intestines and innards are spread everywhere, the arteries in the throat, wrists, arms, and legs are untouched.  With shock, Guiromélans realizes none of the injuries on this man were immediately life threatening.  His attackers, whoever or whatever they were, made sure he took a long time dying.

His eyes are drawn to the inexplicable erection.  Clots of semen and yellowed mucus remain tangled in his pubic hair.

He presses his lips together tightly as he rises.  He’s heard of things like this.  Without a word, he stalks back towards the beach.

“Captain Guiromélans!” one of the Bracks desperately calls after him, “Cathubodua!”

“There is no curse upon the body,” Guiromélans says without slowing or turning around.  “Do what you wish for your comrade.”

* * *

“I will cuts down every fuckin’ tree on this trougo island!” Mogens rages, “Do yä hears?”  The Bracks shy away from his fury, just as they shy away from the body at his feet.  If it wasn’t for the fact that they knew him to be missing, they wouldn’t have been able to recognize the corpse of Rigging Master Lug.  Just like the others, his body lays scourged of skin and clothes, heavy chunks of flesh torn from the muscle.

He is the third to die in such wise.  The fourth to die since their arrival here.

Four men in 4 days.  Nearly a quarter of the Knight’s Torment’s remaining crew.

Chief Mechanic Gofannon lost one of his men on their first day, mistaken for a wild ewe and slain.  Of Sail Master Bellatumarus’s crew of five, only Caidryn and two others survive.

“I have a solution fer yä!” Mogens suddenly bellows at Guiromélans.  “We start choppin’ down the trees here!  And we don’t stop ‘till we gets tä the other end of the island, yäh?”

Guiromélans slowly circles the corpse of his former officer.  The man was experienced, cautious.  How could he have been lured away from their camp?  How could he have been killed in such a way and yet so silently?

“What says yä, brave Raven?” Mogens roars.  “Has the time fer sittin’ on our hands yet passed?”

Guiromélans looks at Abandinus and Adalgis and Bellatumarus.  In the past few days, they have scouted most of the island—especially its shores—and have found much in the way of food and supplies.  Pine trees for making pitch.  Oak for lumber.  Fresh water and aurauchs for food and drink.  All they need now is the time to collect it all.

Now is the time to deal with this witch.

“Break out the side arms, Quartermaster,” he answers.

Guiromélans leads his troupe of Bracks along the narrow beach.  The sailors cluster together nervously, casting frightened glances towards the nearby dark trees.  Guiromélans understands their fear.  With Lug’s death, the strange noises in the foliage are that much more threatening.  Something evil walks in the darkness on this island.  The sooner he kills it, the better.

“Yä knows where yä takin’ us?” Caidryn asks, needling him mercilessly.

Guiromélans refuses to rise to the provocation.  He only silently curses the Quartermaster for somehow arranging him to be left with this nagging virago yet again.  Perhaps the trade-off is fair.  Of the nine rifles on board, he carries one, Master Adalgis another, three were left behind for the protection of the beached ship, and the remaining four he’s given over to Mogens’s group.  The Quartermaster was at first suspicious of his magnanimity but accepted the weapons nevertheless.  However, Guiromélans knows it was no great sacrifice.  These Bracks have proven to be eager students in the ways of handling firearms, but while they possess the necessary enthusiasm, they more than make up for it in abject incompetence.  These Bracks cannot quite grasp that these matchlock rifles require a more delicate touch than their worn spatha broadswords.

It is of no matter.  Right now, Guiromélans would much rather be in the company of Bracks armed with their familiar spathas than with the powerful rifles.  Should they find themselves in a fight, at least there wouldn’t be confusion about what end to point towards the enemy.

Brushing past the grinning Caidryn, Guiromélans stops before a trail that leads deeper into the island’s shadows.  The sailors accompanying him murmur in surprise when they espy it for the first time.  Yes, Guiromélans agrees silently, someone really does live in this place, and they use this trail regularly.  The tiny dock was placed on the beach for a reason:  It is the only safe approach on the entire island.  And whoever made that dock—whoever is making this island his home—has made a path from his door to the shore.  Guiromélans knew such a path must exist, especially considering the cramped nature of these forested gullies.  It didn’t take him long to find it.

Let the Quartermaster stumble around on his own, raging against the witch and the island and the trees.  Guiromélans will simply cut to the heart of the matter.

“Come, Master Carpenter,” Guiromélans says, “Shall we introduce ourselves to this witch?”

Adalgis glares suspiciously at the darkened path and nods slowly.  “Yäh.”  He gestures to Caidryn and the other two sailors, grunting at length in Brackish.

Guiromélans raises a warning hand before they can proceed.  “Remember,” he warns, “I and Master Carpenter Adalgis have rifles.  Should we encounter anything, drop to your knees, and give us a clear shot.  Then, you can engage with your blades, understood?”

“Yä don’t needs tä be teachin’ us about fightin’, boduus,” Caidryn growls.  “Our pektus suck first on the edge of a gully afore they suck on their mothers’ tits.”

Guiromélans bites back his retort, despite the mirth of the other Bracks at his expense.  Instead, he gestures them forward.  “Very well then,” he grumbles, “Stay close.  Don’t get distracted, don’t wander from the trail.  Remember, we’re dealing with a witch with the power to cloud men’s minds.”

Caidryn snorts again but holds her tongue.  With a final nod from Adalgis, Guiromélans leads the warriors inland.

Guiromélans moves quickly through the sodden bowels of this valley, his matchlock rifle cradled easily in his arms.  His keeps his shoulders hunched to protect the smoldering fuse from the rain dripping through the canopy overhead.  His eyes watch for movement as he ponders his current situation.

When he first joined this crew, his plans had been simple.  Use the Bracks and their ship to ferry him out of Seven Kingdoms waters.  As they traveled, he would land in villages known for harboring heresies, where they would be purged and punished and the Brackish pirates satiated by the meager plunder they collect.  He would interrogate the villagers for news of other boils of heresy—for it is the nature of these Thunderer cults to enjoy close ties—and then move on to the next one.  So long as he could keep producing new villages to attack, he could keep them moving in the direction he desired.

Never did he foresee becoming captain.  Never did he foresee his struggles with the scheming Mogens or the bitter Caidryn.  He did not expect these storms or these magical plagues.  He did not expect to find himself struggling to guide a crippled privateer through the Weaning Shores.

God certainly has a strange sense of humor, but can all this truly be for His amusement alone?  Guiromélans is tempted to check his stolen artifact, but there is no use, he already knows it shows no change.  Nor will it ever until he redeems himself.  Somehow.

Where did things go so horribly wrong?

He shakes his head in disgust to dispel these thoughts.  This is no time to ponder such things.  As his attention returns to the task at hand, he stops abruptly—eliciting irritated murmurs from the Bracks behind him—and surveys their progress.  How far have they gone?  200 yards?  300?  It is hard for him to tell.  The sounds of the Sea are nearly gone, and all he can really hear are the strange noises in the misty air around him.

The path is gone, or nearly so, disappearing among the trunks and reaching vines growing up from the dank valley floor.  Branches and fleshy shrubs and ferns mesh all around the warriors to slow their movement.  His boots are filled with muddy water standing nearly 6 inches deep.  Tiny rivulets of clear water stream down from either side of the slender crevasse and bubble up from rocky springs.  Overhead, the rain continues, sending huge drops and the occasional deluge down upon their heads.

Guiromélans looks back the way they came and sees more of the same.  How could this have happened?  Where did the path go?  He draws his saber and cuts at an interfering branch.  Did he somehow lose the main path?

“What is it?” Adalgis calls from the back.

Guiromélans just shakes his head.  “The trail has narrowed.”  He looks back to the others, “It is as we expected.  The witch is casting his spells upon us to confuse us.  Keep close to each other.  Keep your eyes on the man in front of you.  Let’s not get separated, OK?”

The Bracks grunt in acknowledgement, and Guiromélans presses on, cutting his way through whenever passage gets too tight.

Can he have strayed from the main trail?  It seems difficult to imagine, but it is possible.  Or could this witch be already playing trick with his mind?  Could he be manipulating the forest itself?  Such power is not unheard of, but it is usually held only by the alfs.

Oh, the Prophets preserve them if this is the work of the alfs!

No, Guiromélans decides as he takes another look around.  This is not the work of alfs.  He’d smell them, sense their presence, and if his reputation was known to them, they would have already fallen upon him and the Bracks in hordes.  Things would have been settled by now, one way or another.

Then what kind of witch is waiting for him?  What kind of fight is he leading these men into?  Guiromélans has faced many kinds of witch and their many kinds of magic.  Which will this be?  Circle magic?  Such practitioners are powerful because they truck with demons and even hold some in their power.  This would explain some of the strange happenings of late.  It may be a serious matter, but Guiromélans isn’t concerned.  Separate those men from their spirit slaves, and they are nothing but soulless cowards.  Elemental magic?  Guiromélans has heard tales of Polar shamans whose power could shake the earth and split the sky, but these were only folktales, and even if they existed, such beings could only live close to the Hells.  Indirect magic?  Guiromélans feels it unlikely.  This deep into Medianist lands, this close to the Median, such unholy priests are too far from their devil gods to wield any true power.  Not unless they also possess embers—like that cursed Thunderer godi in Praggan—then, such sorcerers can be dangerously powerful.  Guiromélans has learned that lesson all too well.

And, of course, the witch could be a true sorcerer—one who bears a stone of power—and Guiromélans knows that type of witch best of all.

Guiromélans stops short, his reverie shattered.  Before him, the path is back to its original size.  “What kind of trickery is this?” he mutters.  How can the path grow and shrink at will?

Readying his weapons and scanning the trees for movement, he hisses back to Caidryn, “Tell the others to stay close.”

It is only after the briefest of pauses that he hears her answer, “What others?”

Slowly, Guiromélans turns to see only the girl standing behind him.  Beyond, the path winds its way back towards the shore, much wider now than he remembered.  Caidryn shrugs with false indifference, though her grip on her spatha whitens her knuckles.  “Didn’t know they were gone ‘till yä just spoke, uh?” she says, in answer to his unasked question.

“How could the witch have done that?” he wonders as he scans the trees around them with all his senses.  Only faint, frightening noises drift through their branches.  Is it the wind?  Spirits?  Distant cries for help?

“How is it only we two weren’t bespelled by yer gwrach?” Caidryn asks, a hint of accusatory anger entering her voice.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “No.  I don’t think anything happens on this island that this witch doesn’t know about.”  Distant movement down the path catches his eye.  Casually, he freshens his rifle’s fuse.  “We were charmed just like the others, but we’re together because the witch wished it.”

“What is it?” Caidryn asks with alarm as he raises the rifle to his shoulder.

“Something’s coming up the path.”

She looks back the way they came.  “From the shore?  Maybe it’s one of the others!”

“Perhaps,” Guiromélans murmurs as he takes aim.

Balen’s slight frame is the last thing he expected to see in his sights.

“By God!” he exhales loudly as he drops the muzzle again.  “It’s the boy!”

“Yä cuall pektus!” Caidryn shrieks as she rushes towards her ward.  The boy alternately smiles and winces as she embraces him and boxes his ears, cursing him roundly in Brackish.

Guiromélans cradles his firearm and studies the boy.  “What is this, boy?” he asks sadly.  “You were told to stay on the ship where it was safe.  What were you thinking coming here alone?”

Eyes lowered to the green mud at his feet, Balen is silent.  His face and clothes are smeared with it from numerous falls.

“Answer him!” Caidryn shouts, shaking him violently.  “What were yä doin’, uh?”

“I’m sorry, Cathubodua,” he whines pathetically, “but I only feel safes with yä!  The others at the ship, they were actin’ strange!”

“What?” Caidryn shouts, threatening to strike him again.

“No, wait,” Guiromélans says quickly, “He might be right.  They might be under the power of the witch was well.”

“Yäh?” Caidryn spits back at him, “Then why wasn’t the mosac, uh?  How could he have found us when the others became lost?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “I don’t know,” he says honestly, “but it is an interesting question.  Maybe that witch wants him here too?  Perhaps we can ask the witch when we meet him?”

Caidryn just sneers and looks back at the boy.  “What do we do now?  Now that we gots this mosac, what does we do with him?”

Familiar black slime drizzles down the trunk of a nearby tree.  Something heavy rattles the branches overhead, sending a brief downpour of rain down upon them.  Guiromélans crouches to protect his rifle’s fuse and shakes his head.  “We can’t send him back alone.  Either you take him back, or we all go back.”

“Nage!” Caidryn answers angrily.  “Yä can takes him back if yä wants tä!  But I goes on!”

“Charming,” Guiromélans answers.  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’re not ready to face a witch of this power alone.”

“Nage?” she shouts, “And what abouts yä?  Yä is?  Whats yä goin’ tä do?  Drink him tä death?”

Shocked by the insult, he feels the heat of shame rise in his face.  “I propose,” he says, struggling to master his emotions, “that we take the boy back together, perhaps try to find the others, and re-think this plan.”

“Nage!” she answers immediately.  “I says we moves on!”

The two glare at each other silently as the boy shuffles about nervously.  “I can takes care of meself,” he murmurs almost silently.

“Then we are at an impasse,” Guiromélans states at last.

“I gots na more time fer this!” Caidryn sighs with exasperation, making a cutting motion with her hand.  After briefly fishing in her braca, she reveals two k’Lida lispund.  She tosses one to Guiromélans.  “We draws lots then.  If yers gets picked, we takes the mosac back tä the ship.  If mine gets picked, I goes on tä hunt down the witch.  Yä and Balen can do whatever yä wants, come with me or goes back.  Kirze?”

Guiromélans turns the nearly worthless iron coin over in his hand.  Leave the decision up to God?  He nods, “Very well then.”

She draws her gully and nods at Guiromélans.  “Scratch yer mark on the lot then, and tells me whats yä carves sä tä makes sure we don’t carves the same thing, uh?”

Guiromélans grunts as he draws his dagger and makes his mark.  “There’s little chance of that,” he assures as he shows it to her, “I picked the sign of the Median, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmurs as she purses her lips and makes her own mark.

Handing the coins to the Balen, the boy cups them in his hands and gives them a shake.  Caidryn nods, “Well, take one out then!”

Holding one in each hand, the boy opens the fingers of his right.  Before Guiromélans can react, Caidryn immediately grabs it and throws it far into the forest.  “Ha!”

“What was that?” Guiromélans shouts with confusion.

“T’was my coin he picked!”

“And how are we to know that?”

She nods at the other hand.  “Easy, cuall, check the other one, and yä’ll find yer coin.”

Guiromélans looks at Balen, and they both watch as his fingers slowly reveal the second coin.  Caidryn turns and matches down the path.  “I’ve wasted enough time with yä,” she shouts back at them.  “Are yä comin’ along or goin’ back?”

Guiromélans stares down at the Median carved into the coin held in Balen’s hand.  He smiles, knowing he was just bested.  “It seems your lady can be clever, boy, let’s hope she is also as lucky.”

The great stone table comes as a surprise to them.  The generous feast spread out upon it, an even greater one.  Guiromélans has to restrain both of his companions before they dive in.  Starved as they are, he knows they must always consider the source.  “Do not touch the food, Balen,” he warns, “Not yet.”

The top of this hill is barren of living trees.  Its pate is covered instead with brittle and lifeless skeletons of dead wood, allowing the cold, gentle rain to fall upon them unimpeded.  This is where the path led?  Or is this where the witch chose to lead them?  The hill is perhaps the tallest on the island, offering fair views in all directions.  All around him, he sees the tops of barren hills and tree-choked gullies, the broad backs of the aurauchs grazing upon the grasses.  The base of the clouds seems very close here, and dark, misty tendrils strain to reach down for them along with the rain.  In all directions, the ocean is black with the storm, and there is a hint of lightning to the extreme north.  Guiromélans can even see where their ship is beached, glimpsing the ship’s spars and crew’s fires through the trees, see the bay where the Sea’s water is chocked back by the witch’s power.

“So you turn away from such a feast as mine?”

The words are Söderkarl.

Guiromélans whirls around to see a filthy man huddled at the other end of the table.  His hand immediately darts out to catch Caidryn before she can hurl herself at him.  “Wait, Caidryn,” he hisses, “Not yet!  We must wait.  We can still win this game of maru-catu, but only if we play our trump last.”

“Jâ!” the witch cackles in broken EroBernac.  “And a good game it is!  What card shall du play?  Jeg am not good with this game.  Is it the Martyr?  Poor little Two of bri’ua?  Or perhaps The Duelers?  Either way, jeg fear du are simple trash cards.”

Guiromélans eyes this man as he slowly circles the table, with Caidryn close behind him.  The old hermit is filthy—wrapped in some kind of misshapen, black feather cloak—his teeth rotten away to blackened, pussy stumps, his scalp and what skin they can see covered with open, weeping sores.  What hair he has on his head and face hangs in filthy, oily strands.  Rain soaks him thoroughly, seeping into the creases and folds of his old skin, causing the grime wedged there to loosen and run like a weeping sellâria’s makeup.  Huge boils on his flesh, swollen nearly to bursting, gleam proudly in the weak light.  His bulky, misshapen cloak rustles strangely, and he as he stands, he moves slowly, carefully, as if a sudden step might send him tumbling.

He looks up at the clouds and then back the Guiromélans.  “Du bring the rain, the oväder, jâ?  Du bring the ovän?  Nej Thunderers here, ridder!  Maybe du bring them?”  He cackles madly at his own sense of humor.

Everything about this place makes Guiromélans feel uneasy, and as he gets closer to the hermit, he begins to smell the unbelievable stench rising from his body.  His eyes narrow.  That cloak moves as if somehow alive.

His hands grip the rifle loosely, the fingers of his right hand caressing hammer and trigger.  “You called us here, häxa,” he says in Söderkarl.  “You led us to this place.  Now tell us why.”

“You come?” the häxa laughs, apparently pleased that the Raven speaks his tongue.  “You come to kill me!  I lead you two to kill me!”  The old man is wracked with laughter.

“Three,” Guiromélans corrects, nodding towards Balen.

The häxa’s head shoots up with alarm and rage, all hilarity instantly lost.  “What?”

“You led all three of us here.”

The häxa croaks and points at the boy in surprise, nearly speechless in his outrage.  A bulge of feathers on his cloak suddenly turns, revealing a face of horrid countenance.  The head sneers at Guiromélans, blood running from its teeth and lips.

Guiromélans’s had enough of this.  Without preamble, he raises his rifle to his shoulder and pulls back on the hammer, intent on ending this encounter now.  Suddenly, his ears fill with a piercing shriek.  Wind and dirt fly into his face as something black and heavy tears the weapon from his grasp.  The hermit seems to explode as large black bodies launch themselves into the air.  Powerful wings buffet and batter Guiromélans like hammers as he tries to draw his pistol, but that too is knocked away.  He hears Caidryn screaming nearby, and suddenly his attackers are gone.  Drawing his sword, he turns and cuts in two the large bird the girl clutches with horror.

“Balen!” he shouts, “Get under the table!”

But the warning seems unnecessary.  Just as quickly as the assault began, it is over.  Guiromélans slowly turns and looks at the creatures that now surround them.  Crouching in the trees, defecating on the table, clinging to the häxa’s body, they are what Guiromélans first thought to be big black birds.  Multiple breasts hang pendulously from their chests, and the huge, fleshy lips of their vaginas gasp and suck hungrily at the air.  Their twisted features are mere mockeries of the most deformed human face, and they leer and cackle at their captives.

“What are these things?” Caidryn asks in a terrified gasp.

“Storm-queans,” he murmurs with disgust.  The corpse of the one he cut in two twitches at his feet, its anus still spasmodically expelling blood and feces.  “Kveld-ritha.  Plague-maidens.  Ride-by-nights.  Many names in many lands.  Take your pick.”

“You not like my kveld-ritha?” the häxa laughs.  His hand seeks the swollen breast of one clutching his shoulder and massages the nipple.  He brings the slimy product to his mouth and eagerly sucks it from his fingers.  “But they like you so very much!” he adds in Söderkarl.  “So much better than those dirty Bracks from before!  You are clean, knight, and my maidens wish to deflower you!”

Guiromélans freezes.  There is something in the air.  Something…

“Can you smell it?” the hermit murmurs, “Can you smell their love?  This, you cannot resist.  You shall see, like the Bracks before, what it is to lay with my maidens!”

Guiromélans sways slightly.  He presses his hand against his temple, already struggling against the creatures’ influence.  Their scent—of infection and decay—pervades his senses, clouding oh so sweetly his mind and warming his loins.  Caidryn is affected too, and she falls to her knees, struggling to keep her heavy spatha raised.

The storm-queans are frightened, he realizes.  Already he has killed one of their flock, and they want to bring him down as quickly as possible.  They are throwing everything they have at him just to subdue him.  Perhaps it would be best if he wasn’t so threatening?  Perhaps then they would become more at ease?

He realizes he is losing control quickly.  He must do something, anything to buy some time while he still can.

Straightening suddenly, Guiromélans throws his saber back into its sheathe.  “Fine,” he admits, his speech slurred with desire.  All he can think of are those breasts and waiting gashes.  “I am unprepared to face you… you have proven that, and I surrender to the embrace of your maidens.”  The häxa laughs with sudden surprise.  “But this is why you brought us here?  Just to prove that?”  Guiromélans smiles, already feeling his head clear.  “I think not.  There must be more to it than that?”

The kveld-ritha squawk and chatter with excitement at their suddenly accommodating prey.  The häxa seems more wary, but he nods nevertheless.  “Jâ!” he agrees.  “Your Bracks are nothing.  Alone, they are harmless.  One boat, ignorant of the Weaning Shores.”  He spits a phlegmy gob with disgust, “They are nothing.  But you are Korp!  Banesman of häxa!  Banesman of godar and the Thunderer!  You come to the Weaning Shores, and you bring death!  The death from the Medianist God!  In His name have you slain my brothers and sisters!  Many more will you slay if I do not stop you!  In His name you worship the sword-storm!  Great honor and power will come with your death!”

Guiromélans nods.  So, Bo’s’n Abandinus was right after all.  All this was brought down upon them on account of his actions.  Bad news travels faster than any ship or railroad, it seems.

“So you seek my death,” he agrees, “then why Caidryn?  Why bring her too?”

“My maidens, they are fair,” the häxa sighs, “but I desire new caresses as well.”

Caidryn may not understand their Söderkarl words, but she certainly understands the häxa’s suggestive looks and gestures.  She struggles up to her feet.  “I WILL BE NA MAN’S WHORE!” she shrieks.

“Quiet, Caidryn!” Guiromélans snaps, but he is too late.  The kveld-ritha hiss and spit all around her, and their seductive powers again threaten to overwhelm them both.  Guiromélans struggles to keep his feet, while the girl falls to the ground moaning once again.  Guiromélans does his best to ignore them.

“My comrade’s complaints are perhaps extreme but still well taken,” he says, struggling to get each word out.  “Why should we offer ourselves up without resistance?  I killed one of your flock, I can surely kill others before I am taken.”

The häxa titters and gestures towards the coast and the Knight’s Torment.  “I have taken steps, knight.  All paths taken by them led them back to their karve.  Look now.  Slowly I return the waters to the bay.  You stay with me and my maidens, I let them go.  You not, and I crush them with my waters!”

“And the boy?” Guiromélans asks, switching back to Palpin.  It is time to include Caidryn on this conversation.  He sees Balen try to creep out from under the table, only to be dissuaded by the gnashing of a nearby storm-quean’s teeth.  “Why did you bring him?”

The häxa sneers at the child with naked hatred.  “Jeg not bring hän.  Jeg not want hän.  Du can send hän back to the karve.”

“Nage!” Caidryn gasps weakly as she struggles to recover from the kveld-rithas’ influence.  “We can’t leaves him tä Mogens and the others!  They would hurts him there!”

The häxa shrugs.  “Hän can stay.  There is food here.  But when hän comes of age, min kveld-ritha will smell hän and come for hän!”

Guiromélans looks down through the trees.  Even from here, he can see the tiny waves as the water rushes back to fill the bay.  He can just barely hear the cries of the men as they realize escape is suddenly within their grasp.  He has little doubt that any of them, Mogens especially, would wait for their return.  They will set sail as soon as they can.  Time for Guiromélans and Caidryn is becoming short.

Guiromélans nods at the häxa.  “Very well, witch.  We agree.”  He raises his hand to quell Caidryn’s retort before she can express it and adds, “On the condition that you allow the ship and our comrades to leave in peace.”

“What?” Caidryn shouts in outrage.

“As soon as we see they are safely at sea, we will give ourselves over to you and your… maidens.”  He looks meaningfully at Caidryn.  “Perhaps then we can go… rraakk with them?”

Caidryn hesitates before breaking out into a broad grin, looking all the more feral with her missing tooth and livid scar.  “But for now,” Guiromélans agrees, “We must wait.  Calmly.”

“What is this rraakk?” the häxa asks suspiciously.

Guiromélans sighs inwardly with relief.  Just as he thought, tales of the rraakks have not yet reached these southern lands, and this filthy hermit did not comprehend his forgivable Palpin street slang.  But Caidryn did.

“A word from this girl’s homeland,” Guiromélans answers in Söderkarl.  “It’s meaning is to surrender in the manner in which you should expect.”

“Jâ!  Jâ!” the häxa exclaims as he dances around the table, launching outraged storm-queans into the air with great clouds of greasy feathers and dander.  “When your karve is at sea, you go rraakk with us!”

“Yes,” Guiromélans agrees good-naturedly, “and if you’re good, perhaps a little earlier.”

“Then, sit!” he orders.  “This may be your last meal?  Eat well!  Enjoy!  Enjoy!”  His eyes narrow as he watches the subtle sway in Guiromélans’s stance.  “Or perhaps drink?  One last drink before you meet God?”

Guiromélans eyes the magnificent meal spread across the old stone table, heretofore ignored.  Just as Caidryn makes a move towards it, Guiromélans draws and cuts downwards.  As he sheathes his blade, the hen Caidryn was reaching for—roasted to a near perfect golden brown—tips and splits into two pieces.  Raw brains, eyes, teeth, and black feces fall from the carcass.  Caidryn gasps and gags as she reels away.  No longer a hen, they see it to be the ragged and rotting head of one of their fallen shipmates.  All across the table, what used to be shanks of pork, sides of beef, or whole roasted wild turkey, now have their true natures revealed.  Great swarms of black flies rise up as Guiromélans waves his hand over the gory feast.  No longer gleeful—his joke spoiled—the old häxa sits and sulks.  The kveld-ritha gibber and laugh, not realizing their trick didn’t work quite as planned.

Guiromélans smiles inwardly.  So they’re not too bright.  That is good to know.  “Sorry,” he sighs, “We’re just not hungry right now.”

He turns away from the scene, now content to wait.  Looking down at the bay, he watches the sea gradually slide back towards his ship.  Time passes slowly on this hilltop.  From his vantage point, he can see the crew scrambling to make the ship ready.  From the corner of his eye, he can feel the häxa watching him.  The storm-queans shriek and cackle around him, eager for their first taste of his flesh.

“Lay down your sword, Raven,” the häxa finally says, “Your fight is over.”

“The bay is not yet filled.  I’ll lay down my weapon,” Guiromélans assures, “once my friends are free of this place.”

“Nej,” the häxa corrects, “You think you may yet survive this?”  He looks from Guiromélans to Caidryn happily.  “You think the threat of your blade is why I set them free?  I set them free because I choose to!”

Guiromélans faces the filthy hermit.  “If you feel such, why not set upon us now?  Why wait?  Come claim your prize.”

“So eager to die?” the madman laughs with surprise.  “Or do you seek the ecstasy my maidens offer?”

He glances back at the waters and his ship.  The bay is nearly half full already.  Full enough?  Perhaps it is time to find out.  Slowly, Guiromélans draws his saber.  “Very well.  Whatever it is your mad mind wishes to believe.  I seek to embrace your hags, though perhaps not in the way you meant.”

“Ha, ha!  Jâ, traitor!” the häxa screams as the Raven closes on him.  All around them, the kveld-ritha shriek and take flight.  “You are liar!  You not surrender!  You not go rraakk!  Now, my friends, you die!”

“Oh, yes,” Guiromélans agrees,  “We do go rraakk!”

He swings for a simple killing cut, only to be surprised with the häxa parries it with a sword of his own.  It is a Söderkarl long sword—not as heavy as a Brackish spatha—but easily 12 inches longer than his own cavalry saber.  Guiromélans staggers back in surprise.

Where did he get such a blade?  Off-guard, Guiromélans parries desperately as the hermit presses the attack.  It must have been hidden behind his chair.  He shouldn’t have been surprised.  This is no prissy Medianist wizard.  This is a Söderkarl häxa, and he faces Guiromélans blade against blade.

Storm-queans are all around him, bludgeoning him with stones and wings, clawing at him from above and behind, trying to distract or blind him from their master’s attacks.  Guiromélans measures such distractions carefully, sparing the occasional cut or stab to kill or maim a careless kveld-ritha.  Still, he is forced back by the ferocity of the hermit’s assault.

A quiet, tiny voice wonders how much easier this would be if he wasn’t drunk.  But then, if he wasn’t, he would have to face the crushing weight of his shame as well.  Which would be worse?

His brief lapse in concentration costs him a nick across the chest.  Guiromélans parries quickly and lurches clumsily backwards.

Suddenly, he feels the weight of the stone table behind him, and he uses that for support.  The häxa’s bare feet slip in the mud, and Guiromélans notes the steadily increasing redness in his face.  He may be Söderkarl, but he seems to lack the stamina of a seasoned warrior.

He times it carefully, and quickly turns the tables on the hermit, pressing his attack and his advantage.  Suddenly, there is clarity and terror in the old man’s eyes as he struggles to meet each of Guiromélans’s attacks.  He is weakening.  Each parry, each check, sends his sword snapping further and further away, and he has to expend more and more energy to wrest the blade back up to where he can defend himself against Guiromélans’s next cut.

Sensing the nearing death of their master, the storm-queans relent in their assaults.  They perch around the table, watching and shrieking with excitement.  Balen the boy screams in horror.

With a quick step and twist, Guiromélans snatches the hermit’s sword away and sends him sprawling to the mud.  Just before he drives his sword into his breast, he hesitates.  The weight of the häxa’s blade in his left hand feels wrong.  Guiromélans spares a glance and realizes with horror that he holds a Brackish spatha and not the Söderkarl long sword he expected.  Looking down, he sees Caidryn panting and terrified at his feet.  Balen scrambles out from under the table and interjects himself between the Raven and the girl.  Caidryn shoves the boy away with disgust.

Slowly, Guiromélans turns and sees the hermit across the table from them, leaning on his sword and catching his breath.  The clearing is littered with dead and dying kveld-ritha, but there remains just as many in the trees.  They cackle and squawk at the great joke.

“You are great swordsman, Raven!” the hermit admits laughing.  “Greater than I!  We have to even the odds somehow, jâ?”  The clearing roars with the storm-queans’ hilarity.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Guiromélans snaps as he helps Caidryn to her feet.

“I did!” she snaps back, “Yä just weren’t listenin’, uh?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “You stay on this side of the table!  Feel free to kill any of these Storm-queans that get in your way, but stay away from me!”  As an afterthought, he nods down towards the cowering boy.  “Their power doesn’t seem to affect him,” he whispers.  “Listen to the boy.”

Caidryn looks down at Balen and bites her lip as Guiromélans leaps onto the table.  Kicking aside the corpses of sailors, he cuts down another kveld-ritha and charges the grinning häxa.  Their blades clash again, though both are little less energetic than before.  Guiromélans fights cautiously, straining to never break eye contact with his foe, struggling to keep track of Caidryn and her fight with the storm-queans.

The hermit laughs, “Know you which is which?  Shall I change it now?  Shall I change it again?”

He snorts deeply and spits a foul glob of mucus into Guiromélans’s face.  Guiromélans reels backwards, wiping at his eyes.  When he faces the witch again, he hesitates.  Is this the häxa?  Or is it Caidryn?

Uncertain of anything anymore, Guiromélans now defends himself only, no longer daring to counter attack.  He feels each blow carefully, testing its weight and skill.  Could that be a spatha blade?  Could Caidryn deliver such a cut?

His arm begins to burn, and sweat breaks out across his forehead.  He cuts down a marauding storm-quean.  Does this power come from them or from their master?  Perhaps if he kills enough of them, his mind will clear at last?

Staying just ahead of his assailant’s blade, he defends himself only when necessary, and instead, focuses his energies against the horrid birds that fill the air around him.  Black blood and feathers soon cover him, and kveld-ritha fall everywhere.  The häxa screams with outrage, and suddenly, there are two häxas attacking him.

Guiromélans gasps, as it is now all he can do to hold his own.  He parries and dodges, kicks and pushes, now just barely staying ahead of the attacks.  One these must certainly be Caidryn, but which?

“Balen!” he screams as he dives for the table.  “Balen, which one is he?  Balen, I need your help!”

The sneering häxas approach him from either side as Guiromélans crouches and struggles for breath.  Dare he risk simply injuring both and hope that in doing so, the spell would be broken?  Such an option would have to be his last resort; however, Guiromélans is forced to admit, he is running out of time and strength.

Suddenly, he hears his matchlock discharge.  One häxa screams as his side bursts in a spray of blood and flesh.  Guiromélans spins and cuts the injured witch from shoulder to hip.  The parts fall as the life leaves them instantly.

Guiromélans’s hand trembles as he turns towards the other häxa.  Caidryn stares back at him, her frightened face smeared with blood and mud.  She is covered with gashes and scratches, much like he imagines he is, and her heavy spatha is wet with the storm-queans’ black blood.  It falls from her hands and clatters loudly against the stone table.  “It— it’s yä?” she whispers.

Guiromélans looks around them.  Strangely, the clearing and surrounding trees are free of living kveld-ritha.  Only the corpses of their sisters remain.  In the bay below, the remaining waters surge forward, no longer under the witch’s control.  Even at this distance, he can hear the snapping of wood and cries of men as the tiny tidal wave lifts the ship and carries it into the trees.  “It would seem,” he sighs.

Guiromélans looks for Balen.  The boy stands some yards away, Guiromélans’s matchlock pistol still clutched in his hands.  Guiromélans makes his way to him and gently pries the weapon from his powder-burned fingers.  Slipping it back into his belt, he crouches and takes the boy by the shoulder.  “You did well, Balen,” he says, looking him in the eyes.  “Caidryn and I owe you our lives, and I thank you.”

The boy looks stunned, but he manages a nod.

Guiromélans looks back at the girl.  “You fight well, Caidryn.  For a tongueless bna.”

She swallows and nods, wiping at a gash on her cheek.  “As do yä.  Fer a boduus.”

Guiromélans smiles.  “Then let us, boy, boduus, and bna, get back to the bay and help the others get the ship back in the water before they leave us here.”