Graden opened his eyes. Light filtered through a dirty window, telling him morning had finally arrived. Grit behind his eyes and a throbbing headache were testaments to a poor night's sleep. He looked around and, strangely, his companion was nowhere to be found. Irritated, Graden sat up and scratched the rough stubble under his jaw. How had he slept so soundly he missed Tamara getting up and packing their things out of the room? He rose to his feet, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. The room was frosty and little heat radiated from the dying coals on the fire grate. His boots echoed loudly in the room's absolute silence as they kicked up little dust motes that swirled for a moment before settling back on the rough plank flooring. Even his breathing seemed to thunder in his ears, too noisy in the preternatural stillness as he went to look for Tamara.
The hallway seemed to go on and on. He couldn't find the front door. Graden looked around as confusion made laps inside his skull. Why couldn't he find the front door? He didn't remember the hallway being this long. Maybe if he went down the stairs. Darkness crept through what little light remained of the dawn, crushing him along with any illumination. He could barely breathe as he made his way from stair tread to stair tread. His footsteps mingled with the creaking stairs, shattering the silence with pops and shrieks. Fear settled in his chest like a clenching fist, squeezing tighter and tighter till his ragged gasps barely supplied him with enough oxygen to stay conscious. A strange sound in the distance compelled him forward despite his swimming head, dragging him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the manner.
Gradan began to fight against the goads that prodded him forward. He felt their phantom knife pricks in his back and sides, felt them digging into his skin, felt an invisible meat hook plunge into his belly. It sent searing pain through his gut whenever he strained against it. He stumbled through door after door, finally tumbling to the ground after the last one. There was a shrine to the eternal flame with a fire bowl burning brightly. For a moment, Graden felt reassured and safe. Kneeling he held his hands out to the blazing warmth and began to recite the catechism of flame.
"Eternal Fire, which lighteth our hearts and giveth us light,
Heat us with Thy warmth," he murmured, hunching over as the steady pain in his belly increased as if the phantom meathook were twisting his bowels. "Dry our tears, burn our foes, embrace our friends in Thy care."
The candles started to sputter and flare, their flames turning an unearthly blue, the fire bowl, too, began to glow azure, casting demonic shadows all around him. Scuttling away, Graden began to cough violently as a deep voice began to chant. Almost. He could almost make out the words as he crawled away as fast as he could. The blue fire followed his tortuous path up the stairs. Each step behind him disintegrated just as his foot left it to seek another. The chanting grew to a roar as he reached the landing and stumbled to his feet. The door! There it was! He had to make it outside before the chanting stopped. He could barely breathe as the hall stretched on and on before him. Finally, he pushed out of the house into dim light that made him blink back painful tears. Rolling down the outside steps, Graden found himself on hands and knees as he looked up to the crooked oak dominating the courtyard. Something swayed, suspended from the hangman's noose in the tree. Moaning in pain he approached as sick fear clawed at him. He knew it wasn't the Baron's body. He reached out to turn the hanging corpse and looked into Tamara's bloated face. Her eyes opened and glared at him with burning blue fire lighting their depths.
"Wake up," she said as her hand stretched out to him. He scrabbled away, clutching at his belly and screaming.
"Wake up, Graden! Wake up! You're having a nightmare!" The girl shook him roughly, her voice loud in his ears as he jerked into consciousness.
"Tam … Tamara!" He rasped, gripping her shoulder as he sat up. Terror dogged him into wakefulness as the girl passed him a cup of hot tea. "What time is it."
"It's almost morning. Are you alright?" asked Tamara in a worried tone. "I don't know what happened here, but the sooner we put Crow's Perch behind us, the better off we'll be. You aren't the only one who had nightmares." Graden nodded as he finished his tea and stood up. Fully awake now, the echoes of his dream still dodged around in his mind playing hide and seek with subliminal imagery.
"Forget about wearing cassocks today, in fact, leave the damn things here," Graden grumbled, throwing his into a corner. "Pretending to be priests was a stupid idea from the beginning. We should have just taken the most direct route to Vizima rather than march around Velen."
"We didn't want to attract attention, remember?"
"What day is it?" Graden sounded peevish even to his own ears. "The eleventh of October? The twelfth?" He stood, glaring at the false light in the window, his brows drawn down in a stern expression. Tamara tilted her head in crepuscular light outlining her features in chiaroscuro.
"I think it's the thirteenth, actually," she murmured.
"We should have been in Vizima already. The hell with this cloak and dagger crap." Graden's voice was bitter as he yanked his satchel closed and held a hand to the girl, pulling her to her feet.
"Heatherton is half a day's hike along the road. We should be able to buy a couple of horses, including tack and saddles, and sell the mule," Tamara said, tapping her chin in thought. "We need to restock our food in any event and it's on the way. Vizima is a hard two days ride from there, assuming the roads are passable."
"Let's get going. There's still your father's body to take care of and I'd like to get that done quickly." Graden's regard was solemn as he watched the girl swallow and nod. For all her rancor against the old man, she had loved her father.
By tacit agreement, the companions finished packing and wasted no time leaving the brooding manor house. They stepped into the yard just as the sun breached the horizon casting glittering pink and gold streamers to reflect off new fallen snow. Their footsteps crunched lightly on the frozen grass as they made their way to the stables, turning their heads away as they passed the oak. They didn't notice the bloody baron was no longer swinging from his branch.
The stables loomed before them, cast in the last lingering shadows of the oak as morning light shimmered at the lintel. The large door creaked as they pushed it open, their shadows stretching in front of them as the dawn peeked over the horizon enough to outline them in a rosy glow. Silence reigned. Even in winter, there were birds in the morning, except here. No swallows, great tits, sparrows, siskins or blackcaps lent their voices to the day. Even the wind was still, the air bitingly calm. There was no sound from the mule and they approached his stall with unacknowledged fear clawing up their throats. Gloom reigned inside the stable until the door creaked shut behind them then suddenly booming open with an alien gust of cold wind. The sound resonated through them; Tamara screamed and Graden yanked his sword from its sheath. The mule, until that point quiet in the straw, leaped to its feet, squealing and braying in panic, kicking at the stall with all its might.
"It's just the wind! Just the wind!" Graden's words burst forth on gusted breath as he returned his sword to his side, hand shaking more than he wanted to admit. "Tamara, see if you can chock that door open while I calm the beast. Can't have it flapping open and closed on us all morning."
His good sense calmed the girl and she bustled to do as she was bid. Graden approached the mule, speaking softly and offering a bit of sugar to calm it down. When Tamara returned, her companion was speaking reassuringly to the animal, running a gentle hand over its neck. Unaccountably, she wished he would sooth her similarly, then shook her head to dismiss the thought as a provocative image rose to her mind.
"Let's get Clyde packed up. I want to leave as soon as possible," Tamara said through chattering teeth as she eyed the deep shadows in the huge, old barn.
"Clyde? Since when did you name the mule?" Graden teased, a smile ghosting across his lips as he slipped the bit between Clyde's teeth and adjusted the bridle over its ears.
"Since I got tired of just calling it 'the mule'." Her nose crinkled and her eyes sparkled with sass. Graden chuckled as her humor dispelled the creeping tension they had felt all morning.
"Here, you hold Clyde while I get the panniers in place. We still need to …" Graden's jaw bunched as his eyes cut to the wide open door against his will to glimpse at the tree. He shook his head and passed the leading strings to Tamara then turned to the baggage. Ten minutes later, they led the mule out of the barn into crisp, morning light. A spade clutched in his hand, the man started for the tree, intent on cutting the body down for burial. He came up short as he stared at the empty branches, that serpentine fear coiling at the base of his spine once more.
"Where is he?" Tamara's voice shook with the hammering of her heart. The tree rose above them, its twigs and branches rattling in a sudden wind that sprang unexpectedly from the air. It whistled and howled through the tree, sloughed around buildings and buffeted the puny humans mercilessly. Clyde trumpeted in panic, breaking away from Tamara's grasp on its halter plunging away from her and bolting toward the abandoned village. Plumes of snow, kicked up by the preternatural wind, swirled around the witch hunters, lacerating them in the frigid cyclone. Shadows gathered over the sun until the yard was plunged into a hellish twilight. Gradan's sword was in his hand and Tamara ripped hers from its sheath as the shadows coalesced into a monstrosity made of pure nightmare.
Bat-like wings dominated a twisted, caricatured body topped with the bloated face of Philip Strenger. Its eyes were blind, milky white, yet all-seeing. A foul-smelling, black ooze dripped from three-inch fangs in its distended jaws while long, needle sharp claws extended from misshapen hands and feet. It thrust a single, gnarled appendage toward Gradan and spewed a hideous laugh, turning the man's bowels to water and his knees to withered grass.
"In… in the name of the Eternal Fire… BEGONE!" Graden gasped. "I will not fear the terror, it is an illusion, the Fire protects me …" He ground out the catechism, desperately hoping for its power, knowing it was powerless. The monstrosity cackled again and surged forward, wings outstretched as it raked its claws at the witch hunter's face. He parried in time to avoid a wicked blow, but the force of the monster's strike sent him flying to his back. In an instant, the terrible thing was upon him, surging over him ready to plunge its fangs into his throat.
"Here! Here you piece of filth!" Screamed Tamara, flinging the fallen spade at their assailant. "Leave him alone!" White, sightless eyes whipped up as caustic black goo dribbled from a gaping maw, leaving a scorched trail of burns on Graden's flesh. It crawled toward the girl, sickening chuckles barking out of its throat.
Its movements reminded Tamara of a spider she once saw skittering up a fence post. She felt caught in its web as it minced right up to her, cocking its head back and forth as if trying to identify her scent. With a roar and a sudden explosion of movement, it raked sharpened claws across her face, sending her reeling to the ground. Three red weals rose on her cheek as she lay in shock for a moment. Blood welled in the wounds, gathering to fall in a single bead, painting a crimson flower in the snow. She tried to get up, pulling herself to her hands and knees. The beast leaped to her back, shoving her roughly to the ground and fastening its jaws around the back of her head. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die and waited for the harsh crunch of those jaws to crush her skull. The weight pinning her to the ground was suddenly gone and she rolled over in time to see a bright golden ball of light battering the thing away. Graden rushed to help Tamara to her feet and the two witch hunters clung desperately to each other, watching as the nightmare was driven into the stable. For just an instant before the golden light disappeared from view, Tamara thought she saw within its brilliance the form of a small girl. Words formed in her mind as she staggered next to Graden.
"Run, sister! Do not look back! Run now!" Sister? Who? But no! The child her mother lost that night! The lubberkin protecting her blood! Tamara grabbed Gradan's hand, hauling him down the road as fast as her legs could propel her. The man stumbled, slowing their flight for precious seconds before regaining his feet as they pounded past the deserted smithy. They ran until they were away from Crow's perch, the deserted hovels laughing as their boots rapped a hollow counterpoint on the bridge. They kept running until their bodies demanded they stop, dropping them in a barren field covered in thistles and frost.
Catching his breath, Graden reached out to grasp Tamara's jaw, inspecting the ragged scores across her cheek. He pulled a clean rag from his belt pouch and gently dabbed at the wounds till the bleeding stopped. Neither witch hunter spoke as he ministered to her, helping her to her feet, loath to let her go. Finally, the man cleared his throat and gestured with a nod toward the east.
"Clyde's waiting for us. Let's go." They looked down the fallow rows toward the mule, pawing the ground and looking for a frozen turnip or some forgotten rutabaga. Just beyond the field, they saw a slow trickle of smoke rise into the air and heard the telltale sound of a smith beating steel against an anvil. Making their slow way forward, they collected Clyde and trudged toward the warmth of human habitation, trying not to think of the horror they left behind them in the abandoned keep. It was time to regather and take stock. They still had a job to do.