The town of Madaren lies in the depths of a thick forest. The forest is dark and full of strange animals and creatures the further one goes from the town. The people of Madaren are a suspicious lot who hold to many ancient rituals passed down by their ancestors to protect them from the fell beasts of the woods. Things like ancient wind chimes to repel wind spirits, leaving out food to please the earth spirits, and sprinkling salt on their crops to repel demons. No one is left who knows how these rituals work or what to do if a new spirit or demon appears, they only know what their ancestors have left them. And it is not enough.

A young boy is taken one day, down by the stream where the women fetch water. He is playing on an old dead tree with his friends and they stay out far later than they are supposed to. A dark shape slips from the shadows and catches him in its jaws. The other children flee back to the village wailing and yelling, unsure of what they have just seen. They sob and cry into the soft arms of their mothers and tell their families what they think happened. There are four children and by the end of the night they have seven different stories leaving the townsfolk unsure of just what they are facing. They know one thing though, there is a dark creature out in the forest.

They send out a hunting party the same night. The biggest and bravest men they can find. The woodcutter, the hunter, the trapper, the musterer, the smith. They each gather what weapons they can find and carrying flickering torches head out into the forest.

The dark woods press in around them, their torches illuminating nothing more than the ground beneath their feet and flickering shadows obscuring everything else. They trudge on though, unwilling to show fear before any of their companions.

The smith has never been far in the woods before and finds the looming trees and rustling leaves disconcerting. It is also much colder than in the forge, and much much darker. He has little experience with animals and nature, preferring the steel and fire of his profession. He is the biggest and strongest of them all and carries a grand sword passed down through his family. Yet he is the most frightened.

The musterer has left most of his dogs behind and takes only Bella, his most loyal one. A great black and white shaggy sheepdog some have mistaken for a bear. She lumbers along next to him, untroubled by the cold forest or the flickering shadows. If there is a creature out there, she will smell it. The musterer has a long dirk and he is the smallest of the men, yet he is hardly afraid at all. For he has roamed these woods by night many a time and now he has four other men with him.

The hunter and trapper are brothers, each has always strived to outdo the other and they are not going to show fear now. They have caught animals before and know just what to do should they find one. When they reach the river they are the ones who look for tracks and it is the hunter who finds them, aggravating his brother who hoped to find them first. With just the flickering light of their torches they follow the tracks deeper into the woods.

They are wolf tracks, both of them can recognise that, but it is the biggest wolf they have ever seen. Bigger even than Bella. The sheepdog is nervous, she can smell the wolf and she also knows what it is. She stays close to the musterer who thinks he perhaps should have chosen one of his fiercer dogs. Bella weighs twice as much as him, how does she think he will be able to protect her? He mutters to himself and they continue on through the forest.

The woodcutter is not afraid. He is just a woodcutter.

The tracks go deep into the forest and with the amount of blood they find with them they decide the child is dead. Still, with the tracks so fresh now may be their best chance to catch the beast before it harms anyone else so they continue on. The wolf travelled up the stream, higher and higher into the mountains. The forest grows rocky and steep. Moving with torches in one hand and weapons in the other is difficult. The men sheathe their weapons and some of them put out their torches and put them in bags as well. They can always light them again later. The wood grows ever darker as only the musterer and the hunter have torches now. The others scrabble up the hills, clutching onto root and earth, pulling themselves along. In the darkness this is difficult and some of them slip. Sliding down the hills in sprays of dirt. The others have to wait while they traverse the slow dark climb back up.

The hunter holds his torch close to the ground and in the loose earth following the wolf’s tracks is not difficult. His shadowy figure moves easily ahead of the other four until he stops suddenly. He has reached an end to the tracks, they head into the river and he is not sure where they come out again. Finding them in the dark seems near impossible but he carefully steps over the rushing river and tries anyway. The wolf could have gotten out anywhere and he doesn’t know where to look. His torch is flickering and dying and the shadows obscure everything. He tells the other men this and his brother steps across the river to look for himself. They both look long into the night while the other men slowly follow. The five of them climb slowly up the hill along the river but their search is in vain. They find no tracks.

But they do see a light.

It is the trapper that spots it first. Staring at the ground he notices he can see slightly easier and traces this back to a light. A light off in the distance buried among the trees. A house they decide, the light is too still to be a fire. They know of no houses in the forest but they move forward anyway, perhaps the owner of the house knows the whereabouts of the wolf.

Moving through forest that has not been cleared away by the river is harder but they all manage it. Most of them have done this many times before and can help the smith as he bumbles and stumbles his huge frame through the trees. They do not slide off down the slope and instead arrive at a small old cottage, nestled in the trees, with a light on in the window.

The musterer walks up to the door with his dog following him and sticking very close to him despite her huge and powerful form. He rolls his eyes at her.

He knocks and they wait as movement is heard within the cottage. Then a young friendly woman opens the door and smiles at them. She is far from what they had expected and far from the plump and homely women of their home. She is beautiful, even in the flickering light of the torches.

Then Bella leaps in fright and slips behind the musterers legs. Huddling down for safety despite his small size compared to her. The musterer turns around to wring his hands at her and the woman looks confused.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

Then the hunter and the trapper move forward. Each carrying one of their few remaining torches from when they were hunting for tracks. The woman’s smile fades as their torches light up her face, and they all see her golden eyes.

They all know who has golden eyes.

“She’s a sorceress!” The smith cries and he lunges forward with his hammer, shoving the musterer out of the way. But his arm is caught by the woodcutter and he is jerked off balance. The woodcutter says nothing, only leaping forward himself to knock the smith away from the sorceress.

The hunter and trapper move backward and the woodcutter glares at them, baring his axe. The musterer picks himself up, his huge trembling dog still trying to hide behind him. They all look at the sorceress and her minion looking down at them. Then they all run.

It is a mad flight back to the village. They scramble and fall down the slope back to the flatter part of the forest. On the way both of their torches go out but they don’t bother to relight them. They only run.

The smith does not know the way back but he simply follows the sounds of crashing and scrabbling right in front of him. Miraculously none of them get lost. They splash over the river where it is shallow and run past the old dead tree the children were playing in. All four of them stagger back into the town, Bella loping along beside them. The townsfolk see them coming and rush out to meet them. Bringing them warmth and affection, and questions, so many questions.

This time there is only one story that is told. The men are all experienced and wise and can fill in the gaps fairly easily. After they are done telling it is agreed that the sorceress is responsible. That she is controlling the wolf as she controlled the woodcutter. They decide that something has to be done about her. But for all their ancient rituals and customs, they have no idea what to do.

Sorcery is a dangerous thing. It is said that no mortal man can kill a sorcerer and there are many who have tried and failed. Some people wish to leave the town, to flee from this horrible creature and her slaves. Others say they should send for help, there must be someone they can find who knows what to do. Still others want to stay and fight. They say the sorceress may well be powerful but they’d like to see her live with a knife stuck through her.

None of them truly know what a sorcerer is capable of. None of them know what the best way to stop her is. But all of them agree it must be done. She has already killed one child and taken one man under her foul control. Who knows what she will do next.

The children are not told of this but they listen in and know anyway. Tales begin to spread of just what the sorceress is using their friend’s body for. Just what horrible magic she is doing. They have grown up on tales of sorcery and magic and they have plenty of ideas to use.

The sun rises but few people have slept that night.

A new party sets off into the woods. This time numbering twenty men and ten women. Each armed with whatever weapons they can find as well as various wind chimes and other charms. Some bring salt, somewhat to the derision of their peers. Many of the children want to go as well. They have never seen a sorceress. But they are made to stay behind and are watched closely by the old crones who are too weak to fight sorceresses. So they stay and whisper stories about her and the woodsman and the wolf.

The party leaves at daybreak and marches into the forest. It is dark, even in the light of dawn, the trees still blocking much of the light. But they do not need torches and instead have hands free to carry their weapons. They talk amongst themselves, laughing and singing about the great heroes they are about to become. What other townsfolk have such an opportunity, to slay a sorceress and become as famed as the mightiest of heroes. None of them question why it is only mighty heroes heard about in song that have slain sorcerers.

As they begin to climb toward the cottage they laugh less and less and their songs fade away. They begin to talk more softly as well and then they stop talking at all. It is all very well to talk of magic things when they are far away but as they grow closer it becomes far more terrifying. Even as the sun rises and the birds begin to sing they fear what they are walking towards. They do not know magic, they know gardening, and thatching, and smithing. They don’t even know war, or anything about what battle is really like. The birds sing happily but the townsfolk do not sing at all.

Then they reach the cottage.

Inside the cottage the sorceress looks over a map she has drawn. A map of the forest and the town. She has an inkwell next to her and scratches crosses into the map. Behind her stands her woodcutter guardian. His huge axe strapped to his back. He stares lifelessly ahead while she puzzles over the map.

She hears movement out in the forest and looks out to see the townsfolk trying to approach her cottage stealthily, carrying weapons and little charms. She should have known this would happen. She stands up from her desk and clicks her fingers to bring the woodcutter with her. She emerges from the cottage and the townsfolk rush toward her. The woodcutter barrels into them but does not draw his axe before they overwhelm him and then they are upon her. Knives and spears plunge into her and she screams as her blood sprays from her body. But that is the villager’s mistake. Physical injury does nothing to a sorceress, but her blood can be deadly.

In their frenzy they don’t notice the burning and scalding for a second but by then it is too late. They stagger back in agony, colliding with the townsfolk behind them. In the confusion the sorceress gets to her feet, blood dripping from a dozen horrific wounds and then she stares down at them with angry golden eyes.

A shadow flitters over the sun and wraps around her. Picking her up and taking to the air. It flits through the sky to the woodcutter and casts off the men holding him down. He is taken into the shadow and it vanishes under the trees, leaving the townsfolk injured and confused all around the cottage. Many of them are in agonising pain from her blood and their skin begins to sear and blister as they howl in pain. The others are unsure what to do but try their best to help. Once most of the blood has burned itself away they all limp back to the town. But some of the uninjured ones stay behind and decide to investigate the cottage. They find nothing of interest and are disappointed. There is a map with quill and ink but there are no charms or dolls, no wands or staves, nor any wolves or signs of one. They take everything they can but that is surprisingly little. There is barely even food or water in the cottage.

Then as they leave they decide to burn it down. The forest is not very dry and the cottage is not too close to many trees. They set it alight and watch it burn before heading back down to the village.

There they find another child is missing. The old crones tell the story through waves of tears and sobbing. The young children were out playing in the field, far from any trees or the forest at all. But then, the dark shape of the wolf had bolted out from the trees and lunged at them before they could escape. It had slaughtered the miller’s son, a small plump boy, and picked him up in its huge jaws. Then it had calmly walked off while the old crones threw rocks at it and tried to give chase. It seemed the wolf had attacked them right in their moment of weakness while all the rest of the townsfolk were off battling the sorceress. Madaren mourned deeply that day. They had lost another child to this horrible monster and six of their people had been scarred beyond recovery by the blood of the sorceress. The elders tried to heal them but such burns would stay with them for the rest of their lives, and it was feared they might become infected before too long. Some elders even wondered if her blood was still in the wounds, sinking deeper and deeper into the person and turning them into some new magical horror.

The townsfolk held a melancholic meeting. Their attack on the sorceress had failed, they were sure of that. Some held out hope that she would die from her wounds but the others were doubting it. They figured there was a reason only mighty heroes with magic swords killed sorcerers and seeing her stand up after being stabbed so many times was starting to make them believe that. It took a long time before they decided what to do and it was not a decision they liked. They would barricade the town as best they could. Putting up walls and spikes to stop the wolf. They didn’t have the woodcutter so this would take time. They would also send a messenger to other towns and search for reinforcements, hoping someone would know what to do about their sorceress.

So they sent their messenger and they started putting up their walls but they all knew walls would do little against the sorceress who could fly. There was little anything could do against the sorceress.

Night fell and they set a watch around the unfinished walls. They wouldn’t have the wolf capturing any more children unguarded. Many of the guards weren’t too worried about the children though. They had heard about how big the wolf was, they were worried about themselves. They stood there long into the night, next to flickering torches and watchfires they’d set up. They were all relieved to go inside and wake up the next shift after a few hours had passed.

The night dragged on and guards came and went until eventually the final watch stood, tired and sore, and watched the sun slowly rise over their town. Then a shout of alarm rang out from out by the forest and the townsfolk rushed to see. Was the wolf back? Was it the sorceress riding atop her shadowy creature? But it was neither of them. It was the woodcutter, stumbling out of the woods with his big arms carrying a huge dead wolf. It was scarred and ugly and it looked terrible, even in death. It had a great many wounds but there was a clear axe stroke that split its neck in half, causing its head to swing off the woodcutters arms. He dumped it to the ground and stood there exhausted and covered in blood. He looked confused and far away and the townsfolk stood there confused for a moment as well.

Then they surged forward and cheered the woodcutter. It seemed clear to them now. The sorceress had died of her wounds after all and the woodcutter had been freed from her control. Then he’d found the wolf, killed it and brought it back to show them. The woodcutter nodded along with all of this, he didn’t really remember much of it. He was just a woodcutter he thought. But he was happy to go to the tavern and have as much ale as he could drink and have all the pretty girls of Madaren tell him how brave he was. He stayed up with the townsfolk and partied long and hard into the night.

In the forest the sorceress watched and smiled happily. She had saved them all from the wolf after all and now they wouldn’t even worry about her either. They could go on believing that they’d killed her and she could be off to go and help somebody else. The woodsman would be happy and everyone in the town would be safe for a while. It was a pity about the burned townsfolk though, she wished they hadn’t attacked her. That was the problem with sorcerers. They had a bad reputation and so whenever a baby was born with golden eyes someone always tried their best to kill it. It wouldn’t work of course, it never worked. And the baby would grow up by itself, never learning the morals or ethics of its parents. It would only ever learn killing and death for that was what followed it everywhere.

She hadn’t been like that though, she’d been raised by her parents who hid her golden eyes from the world and she’d learned to only use her magic for good. She tried her best but it was hard. The foul magic of a sorcerer was hard to use for good. She’d mutilated those townsfolk, and she’d raped the woodcutter to birth her great shadow bat, and she’d killed. She’d killed many many people. But she tried, and she would continue to try.

She walked back into the forest, climbed on her bat, and flew away into the night.