Sitting in ambush for hours at a time is not an excellent way to spend a day. Sigismund waits, with diminishing patience, for what feels like an age and a half. But neither target shows their back.

It becomes fairly obvious that neither Deirdre nor Derek is going to pass by his well-chosen ambush point.

He did not choose well it after all; it seems.

Something howls very close by, and though he cannot admit it to himself, it thoroughly spooks Sigismund. The crazy wail of some monstrous creature in the deeper darkness of the forest feels like a nail driven into his spine. He cannot see it, but it sounds painfully close. Whatever it is, it must have a line of sight on him right at this very moment.

Acknowledging this failure of planning on his behalf, Sigismund stands from his hiding place, bow in hand and prepared to do violence against the forest creature.

But he can see nothing from where he stands. There is no dire wolf ready to pounce upon him.

But the path is safe. The path is always safe from the horrible magics of the deeper, darker woods one must traverse if one is to approach the civilized people on the other side.

Sigismund climbs onto the bridge and looks carefully at the path behind him for any sign that the missing thief and deputy may be there. There is always a chance that his deputy is actually competent enough to have caught his cousin again, with no help at all.

It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would certainly be the least opportune time.

With a deep and angry sigh, he pivots on the balls of his heavy boots and turns toward the deeper forest.

If there is a monster lying in wait there, it will have to bypass the ancient magic of the protected path. This is sufficient for his purposes. It will not stop him from his purpose. They will both die before they can expose the lie.

Walking the path could almost be pleasant, but Sigismund strides purposefully and with anger barking at his heels. The old and powerful bow feels warm in his hand. With the rain ended, he stalks down a tunnel made of branches. They lock their limbs overhead in a thick canopy, even though fewer leaves burden the branches to block the light from the late season.

It does not take long at all for him to find himself confronted with a sight he has never seen on the path he has followed so often.

Just barely under an hour after leaving the bridge in his dust, Sigismund finds himself faced with a curious sight. On the side of the path, a short picket fence made entirely of bone pulls out its own fence posts. Bony feet wriggle out of the dirt and brush themselves off. Leg bones make up the slats of the fence, and they vibrate with excitement to be moving.

Not only has Sigismund never seen a fence made of bones, but he has certainly never seen a fence shake itself off and walk.

He approaches with some caution, bow in hand. Whatever is in there will face a swift death.

Hopefully, there are fewer than five things needing to be slain.

Sigismund stops to stand at the ready when he reaches the low gate. And he looks, with a deep concern, that perhaps the denizen of this location slew his targets have already beyond it.

And beyond the gate is a tiny house with a post and beam foundation. Beneath the house, he can see toes flexing and stretching, with enormous sharp claws digging trenches in the ground. And in front of the house with hen’s feet, an elderly woman sweeps an empty yard.

“What are you doing, witch?” Sigismund calls out, “Have you seen a man and a woman pass through here?”

As the witch straightens her back and stands to look at the sheriff directly, a subtle transformation occurs. Her crooked spine untwists itself. Her bowed legs straighten. Her swollen ankles shrink. The gout about her neck vanishes. The dark blotches of age about her face lighten. Her complexion brightens with the glow of good health and few years. She stands well taller than Sigismund himself.

She removes a pair of thick glasses from her face and stands to face the impolite man, with lips lightly parted in a cruel sneer.

“Who are you to demand?” the witch asks, her voice like a summer breeze, smooth and full of promises.

“I am the sheriff of these parts.” She does not impress Sigismund with the transformation. Magical glamors are the stuff of pixies and things that will try attempt to deceive. It is better to disbelieve than to fall for the illusion.

“These woods recognize no laws of man,” the witch responds. “Who dares to impinge upon that which is wild and free?”

“I uphold the laws of civilization,” Sigismund insists, “and those which belong to it are beholden to those laws.”

The witch’s green eyes flash bright with anger. She crushes sharp smelling pine needles beneath her heel, which she grinds into the ground with fury.

But what she says is a disconnect. Her voice is gentle.

“And are you beholden to them to?” the witch queries, in a breathy voice that promises much that remains unsaid.

“Of course,” Sigismund scoffs with a snort. He rubs the smooth wood of the bow with an idle thumb. “I am the sheriff. I am unimpeachable in my adherence to the laws I hold others accountable to.” He is doing his very best to sound like the man he replaced several years ago. The former sheriff was too honorable to survive.

“No,” the witch whispers, and Sigismund has to lean closer to make out her words. He nearly takes a step off of the path in her direction. “No, you are not.”

“You hold no power over me.” Sigismund realizes the location of his foot before it passes over the white boundary stones of the safe pathway through the woods. “You cannot hurt me here.”

“Can’t I?” The witch smiles now, and the teeth she displays are as white as ice and sharper than cut glass.

Sigismund notches an arrow to the bow, pulls back with straining muscles, and lets it fly as swiftly as he can.

It lodges in the witch’s thigh. He has never missed such a close shot before, but instead of seeking directly for her heart, the arrow finds her flesh elsewhere.

The witch does not even flinch.

“Kinkiller, I name you,” she intones. The deadly venom of the arrow’s poisoned tip blackens her exposed skin. Her gray dress tears and pulls away to reveal the dark lines of poison running through her blood.

Sigismund takes a step back.

“Oathbreaker, I expose you,” the witch continues. Her volume increases, and Sigismund feels the icy grip of fear take his spine. “You chose the chains that bind you. You built the cage that will hold you. Your hands, not mine, will be the ones to damn you.”

The clearing was dimly lit by the feeble sun struggling behind so many clouds before, but now Sigismund could swear that it has vanished completely and true night befalls this location outside the scheduled daylight hours. The woods clench their fist of darkness around the witch’s bony fence.

The stones of the path shine brilliantly white against this sudden plunge into abyssal dark.

Sigismund turns on his heel and runs.

“Your fate is always yours to choose!” the witch calls out to him as he retreats. “Your doom waits in these woods. It grows ever closer. You hear it howling after you. You know these woods have teeth that will rend your flesh and bring you where you belong.”

Sigismund is not sure if she continues her screed, because his running feet beat a loud staccato against the gravel. The heavy crunch of each footstep brings him further away from the bone fence and the house on chicken’s feet. His heart beats violently against his ribcage, and his breathing comes fast and heavy.

It was only an hour; he tells himself. He was only an hour away from the bridge. It was only an hour of walking.

He runs for several hours, seeing no familiar landmarks. He knows he had turned the correct direction. He knows he did not get completely turned around while speaking with the witch in the woods. But he does not know where he is.

Sigismund is well and truly lost.

He slows down to collect himself, to catch his bearings, and to calm himself from the extreme panic.

It does not help. Standing still, the woods reel around him in a horrible spiral. He cannot tell up from down.

So he sits down, heavily, on the cold leaf-littered gravel. He inhales deeply the scent of the damp leaves. The crisp and herbal smell of crushed fir leaves gives him something to ground on.

Inhaling deeply, Sigismund presses his face against the cold, damp leaves. Their yellow and brown vanes have a slimy feel against his overheating skin. He lies face-down in the middle of the path and just breathes, deeply and slowly.

His racing heart feels fit to escape.

He doesn’t know what that was. He doesn’t know what curse she has put upon him.

He doesn’t know how that works.

Sigismund confesses to himself that he doesn’t understand magic. He confesses that he really should not have fired that arrow at a witch. He is not sure what overtook his thinking just then.

He wishes he had made different choices.

But he isn’t sure which of his choices he wishes to change - the ones in the most recent past or the ones long ago that put him on this path in the first place.

There is something to be said for regret. But Sigismund does not have the time to feel it. He pushes himself up from the ground, palms grinding into the sharp gravel. He struggles to his knees slowly.

Whatever that was, Sigismund determines, he cannot let it control him. He cannot let her be right. He has work to do. And that work, he decides, must have gone upstream after all.

What he does not admit is that he largely based this decision on an unwillingness to pass the witch’s abode for a second time.

But the work can wait a minute. He is exhausted.

When he looks up from the gravel under his hands, he recognizes where he is.

He has not moved an inch past where he first spotted the fence of bones. The river is just an hour’s walk away.

Better get walking.