Chapter 39

Finding her horse and cart was an adventure in and of itself. She was in an unfamiliar forest, and she had no idea how far she'd been carried when she was unconscious. Norn was west, but she couldn't tell how far north or south she'd been brought, and besides, she needed to find her horse. The area she was in was wholly unfamiliar to her, and the forests' canopy was too dense to get her bearings with the sun.

She reluctantly made her way back to the centaur camp, and was happy to discover that the gap in the trees allowed her to check the sun and orient herself. The camp itself seemed eerie with nobody inhabiting its tents. She picked through the centaurs belongings and found a couple of rough blankets, and a mix of foodstuffs she deemed edible. She made several circuits about the camp and found a few separate trails. One was large and beaten down, the ground churned in a mostly straight line. She checked her orientation again; the trail came from the northeast. She surmised this was the path the beastmen had made through the forest to this point. She tracked one of the smaller trails, it led to a latrine. Strange, that they would do this. Didn't they shit everywhere, like animals? She shook her head. speculation for later. She found another trail, but discounted it immediately, it looked to have been made by only one of the centaurs. If she was lucky, she'd find a trail made by three, and those three would lead her back to where she had been ambushed. She returned to the centaur camp to spend the night.

"Disgusting things." The woman said as she eased herself down next to Katarina, who looked up at her from her makeshift bedroll.

"The beastmen?" Katarina asked, and the woman nodded. "I had once hoped that they could be welcomed into the fold. To be taught and raised in the light of my love." She shook her head. "But their hearts exist too much in the primal, more beast than man." Katarina nodded her agreement.

"Have you come to my dreams to teach me, Goddess?" Katarina asked, and the woman smiled. "Such temerity!" She exclaimed.

"Do you know the Invocation of the White?" The woman asked. "If not, I shall teach you."

Katarina nodded. "I know it." She replied. "I haven't had to use it, but I know it." She replied.

"No lessons tonight, then." the woman advised. "But when you wake, you will bear the marks of my affection." She decided, and reached over to Katarina. She touched the Witch Hunter's hair, which suddenly glowed with a warm, golden light. Katarina blinked at the golden strands in the woman's fingertips.

"I brought you here, Katarina. It's important to me that you know that."

Katarina nodded, puzzled. "Of course you have." She replied simply. "Haven't I devoted my life to you?" She asked, and the faceless woman smiled down at her.

"It's not yet time for that." She replied. "Do you know the old vow I swore to the Anglish so long ago?" She asked, and Katarina shook her head, confused.

There was a long silence that seemed to stretch out forever.

The woman tapped the ground where she sat. "Breakfast for tomorrow, Katarina." She said as she stood and turned away, and as she turned she faded away.

When she awoke the next morning, she clamped her lips tightly. The change bothered her. Her hair had originally been almost totally white, with perhaps the barest hint of blonde; now it was a rich, lustrous pearl, and one lock was wholly golden. Katarina dug where the Golden lady had pointed and she was unsurprised to find another lily bulb.

As she was eating, a sudden suspicion bloomed in her heart: What if it wasn't the Goddess that came to her at night, in her dreams? What if it was a demon? Or even one of the malignant gods of magic that liked to twist and mutate and curse those who drew on their power? Absurdly, she wished for a cleric to advise and pray over her. What could she do if she returned to Norn and she was accused of heresy and mutation? She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself and didn't move for most of the morning.

She found the trail she was looking for just after the sun's light declared noon, and paused. For the first time in ten years, she spoke the Invocation of the White, an aura that radiated out from her that consecrated the ground she stood on, that provided a slow healing effect for those that used it. It was chiefly popular with the paladins of the Anglish Empire. The ache in her back and shoulders from sleeping on the ground eased slightly, and Katarina began the trek along the trail.

Katarina was trekking through the woods, humming a hymn under her breath when something droned by her ear, startling Katarina out of her reverie. The dull crack of gunfire rolled over her a moment later, sending a hot shock of adrenaline through her veins. Her heart lurched in her chest and suddenly something slammed into and through her shoulder, sending hot, splintery shards of agony through her body. She hit the ground as her legs gave way beneath her. A distracted thought, 'So that's how it must feel for them' went through her head as the sound of the second shot rolled over her.

Katarina panted, her whole right side was a hot blast of screaming agony, and there was a strange wetness along her ribs. She couldn't breathe, a horrible auger of pain bored into her right shoulder. She needed to look but was too terrified to turn her head. She struggled just to keep conscious. Hot tears spilled from her eyes as everything went dark.

She opened her eyes and jolted. A man was looking down at her. His face was bony and grimed with dirt, his hair messy and unkempt, and he hunkered next to her, propped up with the butt of a long rifle.

"You must be Katarina." He remarked in a conversational tone, holding up her pistol. His voice was dry and raspy. "I'm sorry to see you suffer." He added. "It was my hope that I'd get a clean shot, but..." He shrugged indifferently.

"What-" She startled herself by speaking. It was weak and whispery, though.

"Morgan Blackhand." He said by way of introduction. "I used to be a Witch Hunter for Her." He spat. "Now I'm... well, now I guess I'm not." he decided. "You was smart, you'll quit too." he advised. She shook her head.

"No no no." he replied to her negation, his voice a little wild. "Maybe you don't get it." He decided. "You feel Her touch?" he asked. "Of course you have. You're famous. You've been at this longer than anyone else. You have to have felt that horrible touch, worming its way into your soul." He described, shuddering. "Disgusting. Foul. It's not natural. She gets inside you like a thousand twisting worms, gnawing away at your guts from the inside out."

Suddenly he looked at her with a suspicious fear. "Is she there, in you, looking at me through your eyes?!" He shouted, and dragged out a knife. "Cursed eyes, always staring at me! Her eyes!" he exclaimed, and brought the knife down in a brutal arc. The blade scraped through the layered silk of her brigandine vest, hit the steel plate, and skidded off. Katarina cried out in shock; and surprised by the strength in her shout, reached across to her useless right side, and snatched out her own knife, thrusting it up into his face.

The blade clipped across his cheek. He let out a terrified shriek and pushed back from her. She rose up, panic and adrenaline fueling her movements, reached for him. His arms waved frantically as he fell on his ass. She climbed to her feet, an explosion of pain ripping through her chest. Her right arm flopped limply, useless.

"Morgan." She panted as shock washed the color from the world. "Morgan Blackhand." She panted, gritting her teeth against the pain that seared through her. Dimly, she could feel fresh blood splashing down her ribs. How much blood has she lost? The bullet he'd given the saloon girl was filled with misery and despair, did that infect each and every one of his bullets? Was it even now poisoning her? Who could come to her aid, so far into the wilderness? She wondered. She was always alone. Always.

She spied her gun laying in the soft carpet of leaves. No, she was never alone. What was her name? Katarina wondered, and struggled to form the words.

"Simurgh..." She whispered.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning cracked from the sky as thick clouds boiled up overhead. She sagged back to the ground, the wind whipping the leaves around in furious patterns. Katarina couldn't tell if she screamed, the sound of thunder was absolute and blotted out everything. Morgan screamed and flailed, body smoking. Katarina's eyes bugged; had he been struck?

Katarina glanced at her right side and her eyebrows rose. It looked like his shot had gone through her shoulder at almost the exact place a javelin once had. If she was lucky, she might get through this. The fallen Witch Hunter's gasping cries tapered off and she glanced over at him. He flopped and spazzed as if seizing.

"Oh Goddess." She prayed desperately as she wavered. "Am I going to die?" She struggled to remember the words for the Invocation of the White, and darkness swept over her.

When she opened her eyes again, cold rain splattered in a constant torrent. Katarina closed her eyes and opened her mouth, swallowing what she could catch. She laughed as the rain played over her face though it chilled her to the bone. "Thank you, Simurgh." She whispered. "You're so wonderful." She whispered as she blacked out again.

She woke again, her shoulder throbbing with pain. Strangely, she felt almost normal. She glanced at her right shoulder; unfortunately she wasn't able to tell the damage well. She'd need to get somewhere where she could examine it properly. She idly considered her position. She might be able to get to her feet, but if she rolled over onto her right side to push herself up with her left hand, it would hurt. If she rolled to her left, her arm wouldn't roll with her, and the wound would twist, and it would hurt. Sit up? After a long moment, she decided that would be the best. She rose up to a sitting position, her shoulder screaming in agony. She pulled her feet under her, and rose to a standing position. She eyed Morgan's fallen form.

"Asshole." She complained, and kicked his corpse. Parts of it crumbled away like fine ash at that and she stumbled back in shock. "Some lightning." She breathed, and toed him with her boot curiously. His body crumbled apart like campfire embers.

She reached for his gun- no matter what, guns must be recovered- and stared at her useless right arm. "You're getting to be a real pain in the tits." She complained. She looked at her hand, hanging limply, and tried to get it to clench. When the fingers didn't even move, a thread of panic wormed its way through her. A Witch Hunter with only one arm? Impossible.

"Was this what you wanted for me, Lady?" She prayed, hot tears of anguish rolling down her cheeks.

She angrily dashed away her tears and picked up his rifle, which was charred from the lightning. She'd need to recover any ammo as well. She grabbed his belt, which held a row of cased bullets, and tugged it free. She slung his pack over her shoulder. She picked up her own gun and holstered it, and angrily slung his belt over her right shoulder, which complained with a burst of pain. She savagely picked up his rifle again with her left hand and struggled on down the trail.

She was able to make her way back to her cart after the light of day had fled into the glow of evening. She climbed into the seat and prayed to the Goddess, then dragged out her map and marked the centaur's camp, and the direction they'd traveled in order to get there. It was as effective a triangulation as any; it pointed back in the same direction as the undead and the demon she'd fought had come from.

As she stowed her map, she was alerted to a thrashing sound from the forest ahead of her. Something was blundering through the forest towards her. She drew her gun left handed and eyed it darkly. "I hope the dirt and the wet didn't ruin you." She half-pleaded, half-prayed.

She struggled off the cart, and turned her horse away. As she pulled her horse in a tight circle with the cart trailing behind, she caught the sound of several more things coming from the same direction. Three, perhaps four, total.

Two more of the small, purplish demons broke through the underbrush into the tiny clearing. She cursed and fired, blowing one back as the other surged forward. She ducked to the side and blew off a tentacle from the other, and danced backwards out of its path. The first one was flailing around, but not attacking anymore, so she holstered her gun and awkwardly drew her sword and swung and sheared off a couple more tentacles from the second. it flipped over, spraying oily, iridescent blood, shrieking and flopping around. Katarina buried her sword in it, pinning it to the ground as the other two arrived. She cursed and drew her gun, pushing out her antimagic field. The last shot bowled it over, and she tossed her gun to the side and pulled out a knife and swung at the second, which sheared off a few tentacles and sent it flying.

The one she'd impaled on her sword was still thrashing weakly. She remembered the bottle of spirits and dragged it out of her pack savagely. She shook the metal bottle, there was quite a bit left. It seemed they were vulnerable to it, she remembered from the first encounter. She crouched by the demon she'd stuck, and shook a few drops from the bottle onto it. The alcohol sizzled and seared the flesh of the thing like acid. Her eyebrows rose, and she smirked a little, and sprinkled the spirits on the flopping and twitching bodies. She wondered if she had any more. Sometimes, in frontier towns, a flask of spirits was included in the contents of a healer's kit. She pulled the sword out of the demon and hacked it to pieces. when she was convinced it was dead, she checked the kits. No luck, there was only herb pouches, needles, creams for poultices and salves, a bottle, no longer than her thumb containing the generic "health" potions that were supposed to have miraculous alchemical properties, and rolls of bandages.

She used the toe of her boot to kick the demons into a pile, and tried to light them with the firestick, to no avail. She added twigs and leaves and bits of kindling and lit those, and continued to add more and more wood until the demons were burned to nothing. As she did this, she kept an attentive ear out for noise, and she kept an eye on her horse, paying attention to what her mount listened to, and she considered the situation she was in. Lesser demons, beastmen, fouled dead, and one fallen Witch Hunter. That burned at her, more than the rest. Could the dead, the beastmen, and demons been the result of Morgan? Being a Witch Hunter meant you were incapable of casting magical spells as your own magical resistance would cancel out a spell as it was cast. Perhaps by rejecting the Golden Lady he had gained that ability? Or had he made dark pacts and alliances with fiendish powers that allowed him to use magic despite his natural resistance to it? She dismissed that thought after a long moment of contemplation.

There was likely probably more than just one mage. A mage that treated with demons typically preferred to treat with one that could be reasoned with. These mindless beasts were ferocious, and could probably follow simple commands, but ultimately were cannon fodder. Several mages, or perhaps one mage and a powerful demon, a Greater Demon, or perhaps a Demon Lord.

She tapped her lips thoughtfully. It was time for reinforcements. She might be able to handle the fouled dead on her own, even crippled as she was, but beastmen or lesser demons on her own was no longer an option, and the closer she got to the heart of this den of sin and iniquity the more prolific they would become. She would bring her horse and cart around, and head back to Norn, request troops and clerics and march back into the forest and deal with this as swiftly as possible.

She pulled out a bucket from the cart and scooped up the ashy remains of the demons. Perhaps the church might have some use for them. She struggled into the cart and bit back a scream as her right arm moved.

She invoked the White Doctrine on her cart and signalled her horse. If the world appeared to gray out as she turned her horse, she wasn't aware of it.

"Powers of the heavens be under my left foot and in my right hand.

Glory and eternity take me by the two shoulders and direct me in the paths of victory.

Mercy and justice be the equilibrium and splendor of my life; intelligence and wisdom, crown me.

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia."

Katarina finished her morning prayer, mumbling the last bit. She jolted as her horse came to a sudden stop and myopically looked around. When was the last time she'd done that? She couldn't remember. It was hard to concentrate on anything.

"Well, you didn't get us killed." She murmured wryly to her horse and stepped down from the cart, grimacing at the rusty agony that spiked up from her right shoulder, oblivious to the reeling stumble.

Her horse had come to a stop because the world had ended; about twenty or so feet in front of her the ground simply stopped. She didn't remember a cliff's edge on her way into the woods, had she been going the wrong way? A jolt of adrenaline squeezed her heart, but her fear was buried under a strange, exhausted weariness that fogged her mind.

Katarina staggered up to where the ground fell away and glanced down. She stood on a cliff's edge overlooking a short valley. On either side of the valley walls, a riotous pine forest flourished; as one moved down the length of the canyon, the pines gave way to aspens and a freely flowing river at the end. She could see, following the river with her eye, a series of broken cliffs in the distance.

For a moment she was overcome with a wave of familiarity and nostalgia, and she frowned. Why would she feel nostalgic for a place like this?

She shook her head to dispel the feeling, and casually vomited over the side of the cliff. She blinked a few times at this. When was the last time she'd vomited? She was suddenly aware of how much her head hurt, and she touched it, only to jerk her hand away with a hiss. The skin was dry and hot; she was feverish. She had a moment of pure panic that unnerved her with how fundamentally it unmanned her. She was deep in the woods with no memory of how she'd gotten where she was. She couldn't tell her directions. She couldn't remember how long she'd been in the driver's box. Hours? Days? She was obviously sick with an infection. Had she treated herself at all since she'd been shot?

She let out a scream and dipped her hand for her gun when her horse gave her a nudge from behind.

"You can be a right ass, can't you?" She asked the animal, who gave her a nicker in response. Katarina pulled her canteen from the wagon and bit off a short drink, and returned to looking over the valley.

"Why would I feel nostalgic about this place?" She asked aloud. "I'm sure I've never been here..." She trailed off as she spotted smoke rising in a thin thread from the valley.

"I suppose I have to check that out." Katarina mused as she struggled into the cart's driver's box. She turned her horse towards the river.

The riverbank was stony so Katarina dismounted and led her horse and cart along the shore, waving away mosquitos and wrinkling her nose in distaste at the smell of drying mud and algae. Further ahead the river was a bit calmer; if Katarina were forced to stay here by necessity she could likely fish with no problems. She glanced from the shore into the trees and froze, shock freezing her heart in her chest. Up in the tree branches, a deer skull hung by its antlers, the bones dry and white, the flesh long picked off. It had been there long enough for the tree to partially envelop it in places.

Now she knew why the place seemed so familiar. Towards the end of Witch Hunter training, one of the final tests was to spend a month in the woods unassisted. It was a grueling test, one that invariably killed many initiates. Ten years ago, Katarina took her survival test in this very valley. That deer skull could be from the deer she'd hung from aspen saplings prior to gutting. She left the river's edge and led her horse into the valley proper, stopped, and hunkered down in thought, dredging her memory for what she remembered of the valley.

She'd spent a good portion of her time in the valley back then. She'd eaten mostly vegetables, though she'd snared that deer. After the deer, she'd come to the aid of a fallen Witch Hunter, a crotchety old man by the name of Lord Donald of House Christensen. He made her his apprentice, and together they slew a nearby witch, but at the cost of his life. When she returned to Darnell, She returned a Witch Hunter's apprentice, although her apprenticeship had lasted only a few days.

She carefully examined the valley and tried to remember where she'd seen the smoke, all the while struggling with her feelings, struggling with her illness. Once again she wondered if she'd tended to her wound. She couldn't even remember looking at it. Her head was filled with a high sweet whine that nagged at her.

She forced herself to turn her head. The coat's hole hadn't been repaired. Her arm throbbed and ached and still refused to move.

"Come on girl, stop fucking off and get back to work." She cursed in a gruff voice, struggling into the driver's box of her cart. The world swam around her and she vomited up the water she'd drank earlier. She straightened up in the driver's box, drew her gun and checked her loads, and tapped the reins for her horse to move deeper into the valley, her pistol across her lap. As a precaution, Katarina extended her anti-magic field.

She moved no faster than what she could do at a brisk walk, gun across her lap, hat pulled low, singing a hymn in a low voice. There was a feeling, a sensation in her that said that whatever was going to happen would happen soon. The wind changed direction, the smell of campfire smoke was strong in her nose. The wind died, and with it the sound of insects and birds around her.

"Hello stranger, can you tell us where you've been?

More importantly, how ever did you come to be here?"

Katarina sang, eyes probing between the trees. From the right, a voice responded in turn with the next set of lyrics in a clear contralto:

"Though a stranger, you can rest here for a while.

But save your energy, your journey here is far from over."

Katarina glanced that way, knuckles tight on her gun. "Hello stranger." She called out. "Why don't you come on out where I can see you?" She offered comfortably.

"Why don't you introduce yourself, first?" The woman called back, and Katarina grinned. Those were the accents from her hometown.

"I am Katarina, a Witch Hunter in service to the Golden Lady." She replied, and the girl quickly stepped out from the trees.

"Yasmine Moldovan". The girl said by way of introduction, and touched her hair, which hung to her waist. "You can also call me 'Indigo', if you like." She took a breath. "I'm a Witch Hunter Initiate. You have no idea what this means to me, Katarina Magebane."