“There,” I said finally, pointing to where the mist parted to reveal a structure that seemed to rise organically from the bog itself.
The witch’s hut squatted like a malevolent toad among the reeds and brackish water. Its walls were a patchwork of mud, bone, and twisted wood that defied natural growth patterns. The thatched roof sagged in places as if weighted down by invisible burdens, and the single window glowed with sickly purple light that spilled out in nauseating waves across the water’s surface.
Three misshapen skulls hung beside the door. Not human, not quite animal either. Their eye sockets were filled with something that glowed faintly, pulsing in unison like a single heartbeat shared between them.
“Sweet merciful Christ,” Alf whispered, crossing himself hastily. “Master Gaspard, I beg thee, reconsider this course. Whatever lies within—”
“Silence,” I snapped, turning on him with enough sudden fury that he stumbled back a step. “Thy weakness disgusts me. Take the horses to higher ground and secure our supplies. Wait for my return.”
His round face crumpled like a child denied sweets, but he knew better than to argue further. With trembling hands, he gathered the reins of our exhausted mounts and began leading them toward a small rise where the ground looked solid enough to bear their weight.
“Master Gaspard,” he called after me, his voice cracking. “What if thou dost not return?”
I paused, my hand already reaching for the bone handle that served as the hut’s door pull. “Then consider thyself free of my service, and pray I never find thee in the afterlife.”
With that, I pulled the door open and stepped inside, leaving Alf and the last vestiges of mundane reality behind.
The stench hit me first. An unholy mixture of rot and strange herbs and something metallic that coated the back of my throat. The hut’s interior was larger than its exterior suggested, the space stretching in ways that hurt my eyes if I looked too directly at the corners where walls should meet. A fire burned in a pit at the center, but it gave no warmth despite the dancing flames that cast long, unnatural shadows across the dirt floor.
And around that fire, three figures hunched over a bubbling cauldron.
They might have been women once. They still wore the tattered remains of dresses, fabric so ancient and stained that its original color was lost to time. But whatever beauty they might have possessed had been traded long ago. Their skin hung in loose folds where it wasn’t stretched tight over jutting bones.Their hair a ray of gray, black, and white respectively, moved of its own accord, writhing like nests of thin snakes around their faces.
“Enter freely, hunter,” the one with white hair croaked, not bothering to look up from the cauldron. “We’ve been expecting thee.”
“The man who walks with darkness hanging from his neck,” the gray-haired one added, her voice like stones grinding together.
“The man who hunts what should not be hunted,” finished the black-haired witch, finally raising her head to look at me with eyes that had no whites, only swirling pools of that same sickly purple light that emanated from their brew.
I squared my shoulders and stepped further into their domain, refusing to show the primal fear that clawed at my gut. Fear was for lesser men. For men like Alf. I was Gaspard Coventry, the greatest hunter in ten provinces. I’d tracked and killed creatures these hags could only glimpse in nightmares.
“I seek the one who cursed the Forbidden Forest,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The one who turned it from sanctuary to prison. I want the beast that dwells within it.”
The three witches exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them that made the air in the hut grow heavier, harder to breathe.
“And why,” asked the one with black hair, “should we care what a mortal hunter wants?”
“Because I offer payment,” I said simply, reaching into my vest to touch the medallion. “My grandfather’s blood runs in my veins. He knew you three when you still walked among men. When you were still called the Fates.”
This caused a stir. The gray-haired one hissed like a startled cat, while the white-haired crone leaned forward with suddeninterest, the bones woven into her dress clacking against each other with the movement.
“Coventry,” she murmured, her milky eyes narrowing. “Yes, I remember thy grandfather. He had such exquisite taste in trophies.”
“And what dost thou hunt now, little Coventry?” asked the black-haired witch, rising from her crouch with a fluidity that belied her apparent age. “What beast has caught thy fancy?”
I met her gaze directly, refusing to be cowed by the unnatural light swirling where her pupils should be. “The beast who has taken my bride.”
The middle witch with black hair tilted her head with a leering grin that revealed teeth filed to points. Something in that smile told me everything I needed to know. It was her. She was the one who had cursed the forest, who had created the monster that now defiled what was mine.
“Thy bride?” she repeated, moving around the cauldron with unsettling grace. “I see no ring upon thy finger, hunter. I smell no bond upon thy flesh.” She leaned closer, inhaling deeply near my neck. “I smell only want. Hunger. Pride.”
My jaw clenched, but I kept my composure. “She was promised to me. The beast stole her away and keeps her in his castle deep within the corrupted woods. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but the spirit mirror had shown me enough. I left out the details that might weaken my position—how Isabeau had fled from me, how she seemed willing enough in the beast’s bed. Those were complications, nothing more. Effects of whatever spell the creature had surely cast upon her.
“A beast in a castle,” the white-haired crone cackled. “Oh, Enid, thy work always did have such poetry to it.”
So Enid was her name. I fixed my eyes on the black-haired witch, watching her circle me like a predator assessing prey. “Iwant a curse,” I said plainly. “One that will destroy the beast and whatever power protects his domain. I want his head for my wall and his pelt for my floor.”
