28. Bog #3
She took another sip of her tea and sauntered forward.
The dagger glinted in the firelight. Then, with a sudden, vicious flick of her wrist, she drove the blade straight into Kyron’s thigh.
A choked, agonizing gasp was cut short in Kyron’s throat.
He forced himself to freeze, his eyes wide and watering from the sudden spike of pain.
Dark blood pooled rapidly, soaking through the fabric of his trousers and dripping onto the floor.
But he didn’t scream or fight, he couldn’t risk revealing the truth yet.
She then laughed, a high-pitched, delighted cackle.
She twirled on her heels, her ragged, mud-caked skirts billowing as she spun in front of the hearth, humming a low, tuneless melody.
Noctis growled, her shadows rising like razor blades, but Sorcha’s knuckles turned white as she buried her hands deeper into the beast’s fur, physically pinning the Noctis to the floor.
The witch danced back to the table and ran a filthy, long nailed finger along Kyron’s trembling jaw, leaving the dagger deeply buried in his leg as if he were nothing more than a pinned butterfly in her collection.
She turned to Sorcha next. “And what do we have here?” she sang out with delight.
Sorcha braced herself, waiting for the poison to drop the hag.
Why wasn’t she falling? She drank the tea.
Why wasn’t it working? Panic flooded her thoughts, as the witch raised a small, serrated paring knife.
With a slow, agonizingly motion, the witch brought the blade to Sorcha’s head.
She didn’t just cut; she pressed the dull edge against Sorcha’s scalp, dragging it down hard enough to scratch the skin before severing a long lock of golden hair.
Sorcha forced her eyes to stare straight ahead, refusing to blink, even as a bead of sweat rolled down her temple.
The witch held the golden strands up to the firelight. “So much potential. It’s a shame Bres wants you alive. Oh the magic I could create with your marrow.” She licked her lips in hunger. “I’m going to chop your little friends into pieces and you’re going to watch as I devour every bit of them.”
Sorcha’s heart was hammering away, her breath labored, and she was struggling like a caged animal.
The poison failed. It failed. They were going to die here, pinned to chairs, carved up piece by piece and she was going to imprisoned to Bres.
The witch turned back to the table, raising her teacup to take another sip to celebrate but this time when witch swallowed her throat convulsed violently.
She paused, her hand hovering in mid-air.
Her fingers began to tremble, a sudden, erratic twitch jerking her wrist. She took a step back, her boots wobbling as if the floor had tilted beneath her.
Confusion flickered across her decayed face.
She blinked rapidly, her gaze dropping to the wooden mug. She tilted it toward the firelight, her pupils dilating as she finally noticed a thick, foreign sediment settling into a dark crust at the very bottom.
“You…” she hissed, her voice dropping to a demonic, guttural sound.
The hag lunged across the table, her claws extended straight for Sorcha’s throat. But her knees buckled halfway across. The poison finally hit her like a sledgehammer. Her body collapsed forward, knocking bowls and iron cups into the air as she hit the dirt floor with a sickening, heavy thud.
For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the cabin was the sharp crackle of the hearth and Kyron’s ragged, hyperventilating breaths.
Sorcha shot out of her chair, her knees shaking. “Now! Move It!”
Kyron didn’t hesitate. Gritting his teeth until they nearly cracked, he grabbed the hilt of the dagger in his thigh and ripped it out in one violent motion.
A spray of dark blood hit the floor. Maelan scrambled over the table, tearing through his pockets for the stolen herbs.
He muttered a frantic, breathless incantation, crushing the dried leaves into a bloody paste between his palms before slamming them directly over Kyron’s open wound.
A faint, pale-green light sparked beneath his fingers. Slowly, the jagged, torn flesh began to knit itself back together. The blinding, throbbing pain remained, but the terrifying torrent of blood finally slowed to a halt.
“Can you walk?” Maelan gasped, hauling Kyron up by his arm.
“I can run,” Kyron wheezed, his face ghostly pale.
They didn’t waste another moment. They burst through the heavy wooden threshold of the cabin, plunging headfirst back into the suffocating bog.
The air out here was thick and humid, heavy with the stench of rot and sulfur.
Mud bubbled in sluggish, black patches around their boots, releasing pockets of noxious, stinging gas while the dead reeds swayed against the windless sky.
Above them, a chorus of hidden crows began to caw with a frantic, deafening alarm that echoed through the murky mist.
Suddenly, a massive black raven descended from the fog, landing on a rotting stump right in front of them.
Its dark, intelligent eyes gleamed with a terrifying awareness.
It tilted its head, assessing their bleeding, breathless forms for a split second before letting out a sharp, commanding cry.
It took flight, its massive wings cutting through the heavy air as it guided them forward.
“Follow it!” Kyron shouted, limping heavily but forcing his legs into a sprint.
The raven stayed just a few feet ahead of them, banking sharply left and right through a dizzying maze of identical reeds and sinking mud. It called out continuously, its urgent, piercing cries the only thing keeping them on solid ground.
Then, a bloodcurdling, inhuman scream tore through the swamp behind them. It was a sound of pure, demonic fury.
The hag was awake. They ran faster, feet slipping in the muck, the bog closing in around them as if it were alive, twisting and turning as if they were trapped in a maze.
The raven kept pace, its wings cutting through the thick mist, guiding them through the endless labyrinth. And then they broke through.
They stumbled out of the thicket, lungs burning, gasping as they tumbled into fresh air.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the bog was behind them.
As they emerged from the bog, they ran toward the cliff’s edge.
Stopping too late, they collided into one another.
Their feet failed to find solid ground as they tumbled downward, rolling and sliding, gravel and dirt scraping against them.
They hit the ground hard and lay still, catching their breath.