Branches and twigs snapped and burst under his steel-shod boots. Stealth was no objective. The Beastmen were routed, their monsters slain. He knew who he was after, and where to find her. The hut had been abandoned. Fulda had known he’d come for her, but her path had been marked with strange fetishes, marks of heresy that sullied the very earth, twisting and choking all life along it. Had the path been visible before? Adebar could not say. His last stay here had been so seemingly long ago, and, even if it was a small comfort, he had taken to believing that he had been hexed, made susceptible and malleable, so enabling his flight of the last night. Something told him that was only partly true.

Whatever the truth of it, he would find Fulda and make her pay for what she’d done.

Pay for the untold dead of Gostahof, pay for the shattered carcass of Ludolf Holzer.

The death of the woodsman had become known only after his arrival at Castle Gostahof. Adebar had gone to see the remains, and found now that the horrible mess would likely haunt him forever. He still saw the open, accusing eyes, the slack jaw, above…

Stinging rage shot into his head, only doubling the pace at which he gave chase to the witch, in his breast a flame of indignation that drove fresh vigour into leaden limbs.

There was an acrid note in the air. The forest had grown dark, the wind stagnant. The trees around were blackened, knotted, gnarled things, grown over boulders and cracked masonry. This place was ancient, and it was home to a wicked intelligence that was felt in every pore. The twisted underbrush seemed to wish to sweep Adebar from the narrow path, but no thorns would deter him now, no matter how worn the steel he wore.

The dark spat him out in a clearing. At its centre grew a tree much larger than any he had ever seen, by its roots lay the bones of the dead of generations, he wagered. There, in the shade of the carcass-tree, stood the young woman he’d seen from the walls of Gostahof, her purple robe revealing and torn, hid little of the supple flesh that now, he knew, hid the soul of the crone he’d met before.

The she-devil smiled coyly. “You came… I knew you would. The only question is what you intend to do now.” She slowly, very slowly, moved down from the slight incline, at the roots of the hag-tree, toward Adebar.

“You could kill me, and more blood would be spilled senselessly.”

Von Bolstedt swallowed down some bile. He knew what she was trying to do, he felt the sweet honey of her beguiling magic working its way into his head, keenly aware of how she worked her charms. Even worse, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her now.

“I could show you so, so very much, Adebar. I’ve seen riches and pleasure you cannot imagine, all well hidden, all in recompense for many lifetimes of good service.”

Fulda was before him now, irises that flashed pink and silver held his gaze, transfixed him where he stood. “It could all be yours, for so, so much less.”

His mouth felt dry, his throat felt parched. He knew of wine, he knew what she offered, the sweetest, most cloying nectar. His exhaustion returned, became known to him with full force. Luxurious rest awaited there, behind Fulda...with her. He could have all that which even his family’s wealth could never bestow, if only, in this very moment, he agreed to her pact. Cold sweat pearled on his brow as she laid her arms around his weary shoulders. He felt warm breath against his ear, numbing the pain of his burning eye.

“Who cares what they think,” she whispered, “you never cared for them anyway.”

Cold, harsh reality settled in with the finality of a Morrite bell.

His heart, almost beating in tune with hers, became cold and hard as stone.

Holzer ghosted through his mind again, the Count, the people of all the places he’d seen. They jeered at him, they scoffed at him. A soft noble, a liar and thief at best!

His gauntleted hands, clad in heavy leather, wandered to Fulda’s hips, moving away from her, seeking her eyes. The witch, in her stolen, false form, held his gaze with the surety of the successful seductress.

“I am not here to judge you, Fulda.”

She hit the ground hard, he was atop her, his gloved hands on her throat. Smug victory became terror as the witch realized that her charms had failed. Her eyes pleaded, cursed. She spit at him, mouthed ancient, terrible curses. The witch struggled for her life as the noble throttled her, squeezing her throat ever tighter. Her death wouldn’t be easy.

“I merely execute the verdict.”