High Spirits - Chapter Two from The Vile Realm

Marigold rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks as they unleashed echoing snaps over the quiet inn. “Your bear’s a big one, Bly,” he said, inspecting his torn and jagged fingernails. That middle finger on his right never had healed straight after the last break. He supposed it would need another smashing if he ever wanted to mould it into a comfortable fist again. “You might want to cut it up or drag it in before something else decides it wants it.”

“Yer not gonna bring it round back for me, then?” Bly Saltwood said, arms hanging dejectedly by his sides.

“No. Fuck me, I’ve brought it far enough. Do you even know how far I went for-”

“Fine, fine. Dirk, Gob!” Saltwood barked at the two younger men sat together and nodded at the door.

The pair plonked their cups down. Ale spilt over the sides, pooling quietly as they slipped past Marigold and to the door amidst a barrage of grumbles. Mean eyes on both of the pricks. Iced wind rushed in over Marigold’s back, an unwelcome chill after his brief respite. The door slammed closed and warmth from the hearth enveloped him again.

“When are you going to employ some real men?” Marigold asked Saltwood.

“Thought that were you,” Bly said with a shrug.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“That so? That’s my room you’re stayin’ in, Marigold. Don’t that count as employment?”

“I spend more time outside than I do in; I just happen to take care of your business while I’m out. What in the Pits are you doing with these bears, anyway? Barely a handful of these cunts eating them, yet you’re always out of meat, and Greldin knows there’s barely a shred of it in that soup you serve.” Marigold grimaced, tasting the memory of the last bowl he slurped down. “You do know that burying them won’t grow more of them, right?”

Saltwood let out a weary sigh: a common component of their conversations. “I’m a cook and a tanner, Marigold. You ought to know that by now with the amount of skins you’ve bloody worn out, or you think some leather fairy dumps off new clothes for you of an evenin’?”

Marigold stomped across the floorboards, shaking off the last of the snow that clung to furred boots as his vast footprints moistened the dry wood. He recognised the two older men sat alone but didn’t know their names, the crone by the window had been around at least as long as he had. The two younger fellows that had been ordered out to move the bear corpse were new, and so was this muscular character that was sat alone at the bar next to an array of cups.

Interesting looking specimen.

Solid arms, and a back that looked like it had seen more than one chair broken over it. Pitch black hair was wound neatly in a ponytail, and had the bastard showing off the two working ears he was in possession of. Still, there was enough ridiculous bone and metal jewellery in the flesh of them to douse any jealously Marigold was beginning to feel. A squared jaw hid a face that Marigold couldn’t yet see. The man was shy it seemed; he had turned away once Marigold had caught his eye from the doorway. Marigold decided upon the empty stool that stood by the man; he could at least get the fellow’s name if nothing else.

“You want to have a wash before you sit down, Marigold? I don’t want you stinkin’ up the place for my patrons with your sweat an’ that bear blood.”

“No, I don’t. Besides, I can’t smell worse than the fucking broth on that stove of yours.”

“Hmph, by the looks of ya I believe y’very likely share the same ingredients,” Saltwood muttered.

Marigold appreciated Bly’s sparring, his valiant attempts to tackle him verbally. Most men walked by, heads down, not wanting to get involved with the moth-eaten barbarian. Bly Saltwood was, at least, a man that acknowledged Marigold’s presence. There were too few of that sort around these days. “Anything new on the board, Bly?” Marigold asked. Saltwood tipped his head silently in the direction of the man at the bar. This stranger seemed to tense at the mere mention of the board. Interesting. Marigold pulled out a stool and sat next to the new arrival. As he sighed onto his arse – the biting cold of the forest had it aching far more than usual lately – he peered over the cups that the man was nursing. Both empty, save for mealy-looking dregs. “Couple of drinks then, my man.” Marigold rapped his knuckles on the bar. “One for me, one for him. Not that wolf piss you call beer though, I need something stronger after today. Bear was a tough one. A real solid cockboil to lance.”

The man by Marigold’s side let go of his cup and sat back a little, feigning a back stretch as he gave Marigold a sideways glance. “I am thanking you,” he said.

Sharp nose on this one. Sharp nose that had been broken more than once. A serious brow above spoke of a lifetime of brooding, but not so much that he didn’t have time to keep his silvered goatee neat. Pride in appearance. Long time since Marigold had any of that about himself. Odd accent on the fellow too. “Not a problem, friend. Just about all there is to do up here is drink and hunt, and, well, you might not be able to tell, but we’re about to drop what passes for summer up here and enter the real winter. Not as much to hunt now, and that which is still out and about is at least twice as mean as you want it to be.” Saltwood set two smaller cups on the bar before Marigold and his new friend. “Better to drink than hunt now.” He lifted the cup and downed it in one shot. His eyes almost popped from their sockets as he gasped for air. “Greldin’s shit, Bly, what the fuck is this?”

“Bit of Cerulean Spice,” the bartender replied simply as he tended his stove. “Had a couple o’bottles arrive while you were out, and that, as they say, is the good stuff. From Illis.”

“That so,” Marigold said quietly, analysing the empty cup. He’d never tried Spice before, but he’d been around when old friends had sampled it, back in the day. Dead old friends, of course, just like everyone else he once knew. “Seems like it’ll take a bit of getting used to. I’ll need another for that.” He turned to the man by his side to see his cup was also empty. “Make that another two, keep your rounds for the bear, I’m in this for the drink tonight.”

“Dunno how your Greldin puts up wi’ you, you’ll be the bloody death of me, man,” Saltwood muttered, grabbing the bottle of spirit from the shelf. “Spice ain’t cheap, but, Pits claim me, just take the bloody bottle.” He slammed it onto the counter, threw a dirty rag over his shoulder and stormed away to tinker with his stew. “But don’t blame me if you knock yourself out on it and find yourself lost an’ out in the snow tomorrow mornin’.” The innkeeper disappeared through a door.

“Good man, that Bly,” Marigold said, sniffing the spirit as he poured himself his next measure.

“He is a one, err, a kind of a one,” the man by his side confirmed.

Marigold furrowed his brow and examined his cup, then did the same to his drinking partner. “What?” he said, shaking his head lightly.

“Not so easy for you to be getting me, hey?”

“Southerner, right?”

“Right.”

“Simmermund?”

“There is being more to the south than Simmermund, but, yes, will do. Is close enough.”

“You’re rather far north for a Simmerian.”

“I am hunting.”

“Anything good?”

“A witch.”

A witch? Now that was something that could get Marigold’s blood pumping, something to spark a flame in the forgotten muscles in his head that bear fights didn’t stoke. A new opportunity to smash the fingers that flung the spells, to mush the mind that wrought the enchantments. To undo the unnatural. He found himself pouring a third measure of Spice and offering the mouth of bottle to his witch-hunting friend. “Saltwood!” Marigold barked.

“What now?” came a distant and pained reply.

“Bowl of your finest, man.”

There were more curses than pleasantries from the cook. Ah, to the Pits with the man, he’d have no food at all if Marigold wasn’t out hunting for the meat. Water and roots do not a meal make, though Bly certainly tried.

“So, friend, tell me about this witch.”

“Sparing you the story. Witch, err, had me?” The man looked up at the cobwebbed ceiling and nodded to himself in agreement. He gestured both hands at his head. “Had me. In the south. I am chasing after witch, north. Ending up here, in Winteridge. The board, it has the note.” The man twisted on his chair and jerked his head back in the direction of the noticeboard. “Witch in the woods. Maybe my witch?”

Marigold placed his elbows on the bar and propped his chin on his palms, drumming his mouth with his curled-up knuckles. He was trying to hide the grin. That tale, that brief and simple tale, was like a child’s retelling of a story. And not an intelligent child’s retelling.

“I could be doing with the partner. Two heads are being better than the one with a witch.”

“Agreed, absolutely,” Marigold spoke through his fingers. “You know, I thought I’d left magic and all that shite behind by coming up here. Wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to fight any more of it, not after the last scrap. But, just this little conversation, just you bringing it up, it’s got my head whirring again, got me thinking of all the ways there are to end their kind.”

“Then you will be helping?”

“Let me drink on it,” Marigold said. He had intended to say ‘think’, but either worked as far as he was concerned. He’d spent a lot of time up here thinking. Thinking at the bar, thinking in the bed Saltwood had given him, thinking out in the forest while the claws of bears lunged for his throat or the odd roughskin missed with a bow. He thought about his old life. His life in the south. There was no life for him down there anymore. Chief among that was that he no longer had anything left there, no clan, no friends, no home. No wife. His last fight, his blood-soaked battle through the sorcerer Cezare’s tower had done a number on him, physically and mentally. The tower alone had been as great a solo job as Marigold had ever tackled but putting down a demon in the image of his wife so soon after her death had really killed his momentum. Elvi hadn’t deserved any of that, and she wouldn’t have had it had Marigold never... He stifled the birth of an exasperated sigh. These were the things he thought about. At the very least, Marigold had felt that he could do with a short while off fighting magic.

But Marigold really did hate magic.

Despised the fucking stuff. Twisted, vile powers used only to increase one’s standing over another. Fire to burn, healing for payment, knowledge to belittle. Nothing for good.

A chill draught swept through the dingy room as the shifty pair that Bly sent out to move the bear returned to their table and warming ale.

Marigold downed another cup. Was that hiss coming from his throat? “Aye, right, where is this fucking witch then?”

“I am needing the guide. Witch is in woods, deeper in. Request for witch, contract, it is on the board, yes? I am thinking, maybe, it is my witch.”

“Yes, yes, you said that – drink?” Marigold offered the bottle again. The stranger pursed his lips and nodded. Marigold poured. Barely a third left. “Who left the request?”

“Is not being named, friend, but having many rounds for reward.”

“Hmm,” Marigold droned. Either the petitioner was too scared of the spell-slinging bitch to leave a name and simply wanted rid of the fucker, or it was the witch itself posting the message. The latter wouldn’t be surprising. The kind of dark shit their kind dabbled in needed blood and bodies in abundance and Winteridge was hardly flooded with those resources. Better to lure fools over with the promise of easy payment. “The witch left the request,” Marigold confirmed aloud. “After fresh bodies no doubt. Just trying to lure some fucker out there so she can go town on their veins and call out whatever Pit-spawned demon she needs for her particular task. Well, the bitch hasn’t reckoned on me being in her neck of the woods. Or she has, and she wants me ‘n’ my blood, wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You are having the confidence,” the man smirked, gesturing for another cupful.

“You want the help or not?” Marigold demanded, fixing his eyes on the stranger as he poured another measure.

“I am. The reward we are splitting?”

“Well, killing a witch is reward in itself, eh? There likely isn’t really any coin to be had in this, you know? But, if there is you can keep it for yourself, I’m happy with the blood.” He extended a palm, “I’m Marigold, er?” He gestured for his new partner to offer a name.

“Cost ya.”

The back of Marigold’s neck tensed. He was a man quick to anger even without a skinful, and his head was positively swimming in the stuff right now. His left ear was fucked though, and it turned out that a torn off ear wouldn’t grow back either, so it was better to give the benefit of the doubt before doing anything rash. He placed the tip of a forefinger below his last remaining ear and leaned in. “You what?”

“Cost ya.”

Not his hearing then. “Hey, ha, friend,” he laughed. “I’ve spent all this time filling your pissing cup and you want what? More for the privilege of your fucking name?” Marigold smashed the bottle onto the bar, an explosion of shards skittered at all angles as the last measure of spirit fled across the wood. He’d never owned a particularly even temper. “Your name, or my knuckles? Quickly.”

The man to the side of Marigold breathed in sharply, opened his mouth, “Co-”

Marigold’s buried a fist into the bastard upstart’s pointed fucking nose.

Crunch.

Blood painted Marigold’s knuckles, spurted everywhere: the bar, the tables, the trophy wall. Down went the prick, off his stool onto his back. That pointed nose was broken again. Good. A couple of chairs scraped elsewhere in the inn.

“Marigold! What in the Pits do you bloody well think you’re doin’!” Saltwood yelled, hurling a plate of broth aside as he began barrelling his way over the counter.

But Marigold wasn’t about to listen to reason. No.

The cocky bastard on the floorboards spun himself onto his front, blood spattering over the wood with a tap tap tap. “Sand in your eye!” he hissed.

Marigold kicked the arms aside and down he went again. “How’s that for your fucking payment? Now, you’re going to tell me your name, or your stool legs’ll be replacing your cunt teeth.” He hoped to bleeding Greldin that the name was forthcoming; that Cerulean Spice almost had him on his arse. Marigold placed a palm on the bar to steady himself. With luck his new nemesis wouldn’t notice that. He should have known that emptying his hipflask before entering The Hearth was going to be a bad id-

Stars filled his eyes.

“How’s that, y’fucking brute?”

Splinters of wood cascaded around Marigold’s head as pain flooded in from behind. The drink filling his skin brought nausea as he lunged forward.

“His name is Kostya, you fucking halfwit. Names from ‘is lands aren’t like our names.”

Marigold’s foot slipped on the blood still dripping from this ridiculously named fellow’s nose.

“Then again, neither’s your name is it, m’little flower?”

The bar’s edge and Marigold’s forehead met with a lightning crack.

Water streamed over Marigold’s face as he opened his eyes to a blurry scene of table and chair legs. Fireside warmth and interior gloom caressed sweaty limbs. He was on his arse, that was for sure. The muddy outlines of his own boots were before him. By Greldin, he had one pounding bastard of a headache. Right over his eyes. He blinked several times to clear the grogginess. It was like the sting of a bee with each fall of an eyelid. He ran his tongue over a wet top lip. Beard, lukewarm water, a touch of blood. A carcass of a stool was scattered around his feet. The windows were dark. Night had fallen.

Why the fuck was he on the deck?

Marigold groaned as he twisted to look either side. Boots, legs, a backside on a seat. He had walked into the Hearth and…?

“Hey, Saltwood.” A strange accent from above. “He is waking up now.”

“Aye, well, pour the rest o’that cup over the fool then.”

Another small shower pattered into Marigold’s matted hair. The barbarian brought a hand to his brow, gently massaging the fluid into his temples. Tender to the touch. He blinked at his hand – stinging pain again – and saw that it had come away red. “Fuck me, what happened? How long was I out? Why was I out?” he asked as he went for the hipflask he kept on his side. Empty, by the Pits.

“Not long enough! And it was your temper, again,” a stern voice snapped from above. “I can take the odd chair or table needing repairs, but you’re wearing out my goodwill when it’s m’patrons as start needing ‘em, Marigold.”

Ah, that was right. Man with a name that sounded like he was charging.

Marigold pulled himself up and dragged a stool from further along the bar. He sat down and rested his head in arms, groaning like it was his very first night on the drink. By Greldin, though, that first night had been a night: Haggar with his bottomless barrel, Vik bringing his sisters, and a distinct memory of greasy rukh feathers on his bare stones. Fuck knows where he had woken up, clan found him and then he’d passed out on the return journey. Oh, to be young again.

“Y’can forget about lying there feelin’ sorry for yourself, Marigold,” Saltwood barked. “You’ve a bed for that, while I’m still renting it out to you.”

With a crack of his neck, Marigold sat himself up straight. He looked to the man at his side – Kostya – noting the black eyes, the split bridge of his nose, and the dried blood around the nostrils below. “Fuck,” he wheezed out. “Did I do that?”

The man shrugged, “You are not looking much different now.”

Marigold didn’t doubt it given the pain in his head. “Sorry, sorry. It’s the drink, and the empty stomach.” He rubbed his hand over it and noted the empty bowl before Kostya. “Speaking of… Bly? Bly! Where’d that plate get to?”

The proprietor emerged from around a corner in the back of the inn. “It’s on the bloody floor with you is where it damn well is, and you can add yer foul temper to yer list o’ pathetic excuses. You should drink less. A lot less.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. I always am. You should know that by now, Marigold. Anyway, that’s done and dusted. Another plate’ll be coming right up, but you’re having nothing more’n water to drink tonight, y’hear?”

“Well, yes, if I’m having that broth,” he hissed under his breath. Was this man his bartender or his father? Old bastard seemed to be forgetting that he was the one refilling that fucking hipflask on a daily basis.

“What was it we were talking about… Kostya?” Marigold hauled himself up onto the closest stool.

“Mhm. Talking of witch in wood. It is being here, read on note I have claimed?” Kostya slid a thick piece of dog-eared paper over to Marigold.

“Ah, yeah.” Marigold dragged it over and moved his head back and forth to bring the words into focus. The pain in his skull increased the clearer the writing became.

White-haired, young witch practicing evil magicks north and west from Winteridge, south of mountains, set up by lake. Follow westward trail to meet stream, march to lake from there. The mark is not local, unknown origins. Conjuring beasts and other evils to our forest. Cannot be stood for!

WANTED DEAD!

Seeking the strong to bring her down. Head preferred as proof but open to negotiation.

FIVE-HUNDRED ROUNDS REWARD!

Marigold turned to Kostya, “Who left this?” No answer beyond shrugged shoulders. He searched for Saltwood, “Bly! Who in the Pits left this? Did you see? Was it a woman?” He waved the note in the air then brought it back to read over again. No name, no poster. Nothing on the back of the scrap either. Who the fuck would be coughing up money around here? “Head preferred? Has the cunt ever fought any curse-spouting, hexing pricks before? Head’s where it all comes from, you don’t leave that bloody little organ intact, do you? Everyone knows that.” Marigold laughed incredulously, spitting a little onto the paper. He turned again to Kostya, shaking the note and his head in equal measure. “Sodding ridiculous, isn’t it? Well, unless it’s a trap. Which it probably is. Does sound like they’re trying for realism, at least.”

Kostya grinned ever so slightly and nodded back.

“Well, you’ve got yourself a hand in this, Kostya.”

“So, you will be coming? Joining in the hunt?”

“Aye, but this negotiation for proof is going to have to happen if there really is someone waiting with this reward. Never leave a witch’s head intact,” he began muttering to himself about the foolishness of such a request as Saltwood approached with a bowl. The beaten metal dish scraped the bar as it slid over to Marigold. A clattering spoon from Saltwood’s apron swiftly followed. “It’ll be the witch that posted this, y’know?”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said all that. Now eat up and dilute that bloody drink, Marigold, son. To think I let you waste a whole bottle o’ that Spice. Ach, ne’ermind, the other bottle’ll last long enough, if I keep you off it.” Saltwood produced a filthy rag and a cup from the sizeable pocket in his apron and began the hopeless task of removing the dirt from it.

Marigold plucked the spoon up and swirled it around the watery, brown soup. Flashes of orange and white rose to the surface. Carrots, potatoes, the odd bleached pea. Barely a shred of anything resembling bear meat swum within the flow. “For fuck’s sake, Bly, I’ve seen more meat on a sparrow’s ankle!”

“You know the routine, Marigold,” replied the barkeeping chef as he dropped his cup and rag back into his apron. He stood with fists firmly on hips, ready to defend his attempt at a meal.

Marigold slurped from his utensil. Less taste than water, and somehow even thinner. “I bring you the fucking bears! Least you could do is spot me a leg.”

“The bloody least, is it? Eh, you’re heading out with the lad here, hmm? What if you don’t come back? Who brings the bear in then?”

“He is making the good point,” Kostya interjected.

Marigold squeezed the cutlery in his fist. He wanted a decent damn meal! He wasn’t a particularly calm man, but that rage of his was swiftly becoming more tangible than the soup. “When,” he growled through gritted teeth, “have I not come back, Bly? I always come back.”

“Even so, Marigold, that bear’s gotta feed my patrons till the next carcass comes in!”

“Aye, all pissing five of them. There’s meat for a month on the arse of today’s carcass alone!”

The door of The Shivering Hearth swung open to admit a cloud of snow and an aging couple, husband and wife? Stoutly they stood together, taking in the inn as the door closed behind them. They already looked too warm in here, wrapped up tightly in skins and rags and leather-bound boots. Candles flickered in the chill gusts, and the roaring fire in the hearth cowed like a beaten hound. They nodded to one another and took the bar-stools to the left of Kostya. Both of them openly noted the wreckage of the broken stool on the floor, then the bloodied and cut faces of Kostya and Marigold. After a brief session of brow raising between the pair, the old fellow made a cup gesture with his hands, to which Bly nodded and set about filling two mugs, but not before he raised his own brow at Marigold.

Marigold shook his head and sighed. “Seven then. Whatever difference that makes. Besides, it’s one witch. We might well be back before supper tomorrow.”

“Hmm, well, we’ll see about that, won’t we, Marigold? When was the last time you’ve fought something that threw spells at you? Thought you said you’d left all that behind? Unless those bears are more foe’n you’ve let on, you’ve not had that kind of fight since-”

“Alright, alright!” Marigold cried. “Just wanted some more fucking meat. By Greldin, a body like this doesn’t sustain itself on goodwill and tepid banter.”

Saltwood busied himself with his new customers while Marigold brought the bowl to his lips and slurped the mixture down. Could have done with a heel of bread at least, though that was a rarity up in Winteridge. A biscuit? A turnip? Anything more than just liquid.

Howls from a pack of wolves outside were close. Chairs by the windows scraped away from them. The two older men sat alone finished their drinks and ordered again. One of them brought Bly over for a discussion about renting a room for the night, to which Bly was loudly amenable; a good night of predator activity outside was a boon for the innkeeper’s purse. Something scraped the window by the lone, old woman.

“Enid,” Bly called out as he walked over to lock the front door, “Have that curtain shut, will ya? Don’t want nothin’ looking in as might see us as an easy meal.”

Enid hurriedly obliged.

Marigold dropped his bowl to the counter. “So, Kostya. How you finding this stone-freezing region? Man from the south must be taking to this climate even worse than I do.”

“I am hunting the witch; temperature is not mattering. Let us hope this is witch I am looking for. I… I am not knowing, but description in note is… encouraging.”

“Right, so, you know the witch? Personally?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly not on good terms now, so why is this witch still alive?” He blinked in Kostya’s face. “Sorry, I’m having difficulty remembering what we spoke of before our… altercation.”

Saltwood brought a pair of drinks to the couple and returned to the space on the opposite side of the bar between Kostya and Marigold. “You’ll find you’ve both somethin’ in common here, Marigold,” he said with a grin.

“The witch I am speaking of, she had me captured, for a long time.”

“How long? You don’t look that old: twenty, twenty-five winters?”

“Where I am coming from, we measure in summers – that is season that will be killing you – but yes, close. Twenty-seven summers, and I am missing twelve of the last thirteen because of this witch.”

Marigold felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Turns out that he and Kostya did have something in common, and that was beyond anything that Bly knew about. For Marigold it was his childhood that had been claimed by magic. Nothing more than a nameless boy, put to work gathering precious stones in a dead volcano. Sorcerous bastards that had him do it were too pretty and soft to do the work themselves. It wasn’t a past he dwelt on, even if the knowledge of it was always lingering on the edge of his thoughts. He had chosen not to forget entirely, after all, it fuelled his hatred of magic and all that it entailed. Even so, he never could remember exactly how he escaped; that part always seemed to elude him and that probably meant there was a very good reason for it. “Well,” he began at length, “this is what you get with magic. Fucking evil, the lot of it. It’s never used for good, not real good. There’s always an ulterior motive; payment, lording over the normal folk with knowledge, improving social standing where personality is too weak to do the heavy lifting.”

“Oh, you do paint a dreary picture, Marigold,” Bly broke in. “Ever thought that perhaps not all magic is an ill? How about healers, makin’ folk better. They could unbreak Kostya’s nose, clear up yer black eyes if they were here now.”

Black eyes? Bloody hells. “Payment, Bly! I just made that case. A healer is going to want payment. Besides, I heal well enough on my own.”

“Oh really? What if it wasn’t just bears you were fightin’? What if you took, I don’t know, a knife to the back?”

"I’ll be bloody fine without the pissing spell chanter, that’s what. Have been on every other occasion that’s seen steel dance with my flesh.”

“Fair enough, Marigold, but we’re not all built like you, are we?” Saltwood carried on.

Kostya shrugged dismissively and took a sip from his cup.

“What if I took a knife to the back, Marigold? What if I was the one with the knife sticking out my back and… Enid! Enid over there were the healer and could bring me back from the brink o’ death, would you permit that?”

“No. I’d demand she let you bleed out so that we might get a cook that wasn’t so stingy with the meat.”

“I don’t know why I let you stay here, Marigold, I really don’t.”

“You like me.”

“Hmm, true. I still haven’t worked out why though.” Saltwood pushed himself up off the bar and returned to his duties of cleaning and tidying behind the bar.

Kostya sat chuckling to himself by Marigold’s side. “You are having the way with words that I am not, eh?” he grinned.

“Hardly, Bly here just makes it too easy.” Marigold took a deep breath and exhaled, letting his cheeks fill as he forced the air through the gap in his front teeth. “So, this witch. Let’s do it. We can set off tonight – weather’s a bit shite though, you’ll need more than what you’re wearing – or we set out at first light and – if needs be – we camp when we’ve found the area and make a plan.”

“I am having plenty of furs in room, and weapons, some food.”

A loud and distinctive knock rapped twice at the door. A savage gust of wind followed, whistling through every split in the old planks of the inn walls. A silence grew as the blast died down. A third knock came.

“Leave it!” warned Bly. “There’s more’n bears and witches in these woods, but it never comes in. Don’t think it can, not unless we let it. I shan’t be lettin’ it. Stay here tonight, both of you.” He raised his voice, “All of you.”

Marigold looked at the door for some time. “We’ll go in the morning, eh, Kostya? I like a fight – you know that – but fuck knows what that thing is out there, and I’ve still got a pounding headache.”