The sun was directly above them as Silas and Vala entered Witswick. A nice little village, log cabins dotted around rather than built in rows, plenty of space between each one. The village was surrounded by woodland on three sides. Several large pockets of trees had been cleared. A few stone-built buildings stuck out against the rest, the biggest one of them being the tavern.
Silas settled down in his new room, his home for the next few weeks. The wound was red raw, and he gingerly tried to clean it, but it was too painful to do a decent job. A skin full of ale would take the edge off. But he couldn’t do that. Not while I’m… like this. Whatever this is. Not while I have to work. I’ll be fine now I have something to focus on, other than this fucking leg. Tomorrow I’ll get started.
Silas left his room and sat at a table in the tavern hall. “Ale.” Just the one.
Silas woke up the next day with the familiar headache caused by drinking too much. For god’s sake, why? What has become of me? He could remember patches of the night. Enough to say that he hadn’t got himself in any trouble, caused a scene, or had any botched attempts at sex.
He remembered the fat man’s jowls wobbling as he bellowed with laughter amongst his friends. Fat slob. The fat man squeezed the arses of the tavern girls as they had passed him, much to their disgust. Even some of his so-called friends looked to whisper their distaste to each other. Then again, there was a chance he’d imagined it all. What’s real and what isn’t? Silas felt sad, almost tearful. He sat up. The pain in his head sharp, the pain in his leg sharper still. “This is no good. Pull yourself together, Silas.”
Silas fought the hangover for most of the day, finally ate something, cleaned the wound, and headed to the forest on foot. He had an hour before darkness, then an hour until the fat man, Gerald Curtis, should make his appearance. He made himself a low hide and waited, belly down.
He watched the sun fall and cast the village in darkness. Small fires sprung up outside some cabins, clusters of people congregating around them. A song could be heard in the wind, no words, just the drone of men’s voices singing together. Friends. Working together, sharing their ale, singing of the women they love. His own situation, laid in the mud and covered with old branches, felt all the more miserable. Alone.
The horse’s heavy breathing could be heard before its silhouette appeared on the trail, the unmistakable blob that was Gerald Curtis balanced on top. Like clockwork.
Silas welcomed the relief that the detail passed on by the Shadows had been accurate – second-hand information was usually unreliable in his experience. But this was as far as the information went, so it was into the unknown from here. The taste for ale had made its inevitable return. Let’s get this over with. He wriggled out of the hide.
The forest dark, Silas had no choice but to stick to the trail until Gerald lit a torch in the distance. The fat man stood next to his horse, then walked deeper into the trees. Silas took a wide berth around the horse so as not to spook it. I ought to cut you free, let the fat bastard walk back.
It didn’t take long to catch up. The fat man’s panting meant even without the torch Silas could have found him. Gerald heaved a pile of dead branches away from a huge patch of briars, easily fifteen feet tall, retrieved his torch, and ducked into a tunnel. A moment later, the thump of a door echoed through the trees, and the torchlight disappeared. What the hell has he got in there? A cabin?
Silas approached and stared into the pitch-black tunnel. Too risky. Gerald could come back at him at any moment. He’d have to return by daylight. Silas listened hard to a muffled conversation, but it wasn’t long until it was replaced by a soft knocking that gradually got louder and faster. Gerald’s grunting filled in the blanks. So, who or what have you got locked up in there, fat man?
Silas’s wound ached. He had a good mind to take Gerald’s horse back to the village, give the poor thing a break. But he didn’t, instead taking the slow, painful walk back to the tavern.
Several hours later, Silas nursed his second ale. Small sips, rather than gulps. He wouldn’t be drunk tonight, only a couple to take the edge off.
Gerald sat a few tables away, bellowing with laughter. I can see why he’s been chosen for Mara’s first. Only a threat if he falls on him. An easy kill, like slaughtering an animal. The red-faced pig. Silas looked over at Gerald’s friends. Multiple possibilities of people that have paid for your death, one of them aware of your wrongdoings. Or maybe they have no idea and want you dead, regardless.
“Gerald,” a woman by the tavern door shouted. She was stick thin, had a pointy nose and long black hair. The tavern became deathly silent.
The finest example of a witch I’ve ever seen.
Gerald stood, arms in the air. “My wife, my gorgeous wife.”
“You were to be home an hour ago.”
“My dear, I simply –”
“You will come now or sleep in the fields.” Gerald’s wife stormed out.
“My esteemed friends, I bid you adieu.” Gerald bowed, then followed his wife.
The tavern erupted with laughter, Gerald’s table mates laughing the loudest.
Perhaps the wife scraped together enough to have her own husband killed? Must be expensive to feed him and looked like she could do with the food herself
.
“Another?” the tavern girl said.
Silas looked up to see her equipped with a tray of ales. He took one and put a coin in its place. “One more before bed.”
Hungover again, Silas regretted the lazy decision to ride Vala back to the briar patch. The stretched wound felt like it was on fire. The briars were decades old, as thick as Silas’s wrist in places. His decision to avoid the tunnel by night had been the right one. It wouldn’t have taken much to become snagged on one of the two-inch, poison hook thorns. He didn’t much fancy becoming Gerald’s next victim himself. The impenetrable wall wound high into the surrounding trees and was thick enough to hide whatever Gerald had beyond them.
The branch pile was easily dragged away to reveal the well-maintained tunnel. Even the smallest shoots looked to have been cut back, the poisonous tips of the thorns filed away. It snaked through the patch for twenty feet or so to a clearing. In a natural bowl on the forest floor stood a well-built wooden shack big enough to house two horses.
Silas crept over and pressed his ear to the wall. Someone breathed laboriously inside. Then came a shuffle, the clinks of a chain, and the high-pitched moan of a woman in discomfort. The victim. Did the witch wife find out about this place? Or has an accomplice found a conscience? Silas gently placed the back of his hand on the wall. It’ll all be over soon. The boy will be your saviour.