The river gurgled quietly, thick with mud and silt. Squat, fat toads crouched on the banks, their croaks a little cacophony rising into the air while birds swooped by overhead, dipping into the waters in pursuit of little fish.
Marren watched the waters tensely, pacing back and forth as the moments passed by. A knot of worry gnawed at his guts as his hands clenched and unclenched. It had been too long, far too long.
With a gasp, Brass breached the surface of the water, his braids flicking back and forth as he shook his head to dislodge the water and mud that threatened to run into his eyes. In his arms, a stained bundle weighed him down, making any efforts to stay afloat that much more difficult. With a grunt, he kicked towards the bank, slowly dragging his burden with him. Finally, with a little help from Marren, he heaved the sodden bundle up out of the water, clambering after it. The villager offered a hand to the Witcher, still breathless with worry.
"By the gods, I thought you'd drowned!" He exclaimed. "You were down there for at least ten minutes."
"Killer Whale potion." Brass breathed heavily as he sat upon the bank, wiping at the muck that mingled with his beard. "Helps me hold my breath for longer. The potion's effects ran out towards the end, wasn't expecting to take so long. Its murky down there."
"Aye, storms woulda washed a bunch o' muck into the waters. Some of the bank upstream collapsed two days back." Marren paused, glancing at the long, tightly wrapped bundle. Tension filled his features. "You sure this is a good idea?"
"I need more information." The Witcher answered. "If I want to figure out how to get rid of the spirit, I need to look at her body, understand how she died."
"If you say so..." Marren's tone brimmed with doubt.
Carefully, the Witcher took his knife to the soaked ropes, struggling to saw through the bloated fibres. After a few minutes of work, the bundle was untied, the linen falling away to reveal its contents.
"Oh, Melitele's grace..." Marren wilted at the sight, turning away. Retching sounds rose in his throat as he staggered away.
The remains of the she-Elf known as Deanna released a pungent odour, the stink of rot hitting Brass like a war-hammer. Worm-like creatures writhed in the waxy remains of whatever fat and flesh had once clung to bones that were almost completely picked clean. A few small fish flopped about in the hollow remains of her ribcage. The skull, no longer connected to the rest of the body, rolled free from the bundle, the Witcher just barely catching it before it slipped back into the river.
Brass lifted the skull for a closer look. The bare bone and empty eye-sockets stared wordlessly back at him, the features elongated in a fashion the Witcher knew all too well. Clearly Elven, from the sharp cheekbones to the teeth, smaller than a Human's and lacking any sharpened canines. He turned the lifeless hollows of its eyes away from himself, running rough fingers over the smooth dome.
"Some small cracks here. She take a hit to the back of the head?"
"Uh..." Marren hesitated, unable to turn and face the Witcher and his makeshift autopsy. "Maybe. I think one of the lads hit her with the handle of his pitchfork as we were trying to tie her up."
"Hmm..." The Witcher allowed his gaze to turn to the rest of the corpse. "A few cracked ribs, looks like someone got a few kicks in while she was down on the ground. Fingernails are still there, but some are broken. All signs of a struggle."
Brass leaned forward, his willpower stronger than the stench. He moved closer to the neck and shoulders, eyes narrowing.
"Lot's of damage to the neck and the collarbone. Whoever took her head, he was lousy with a weapon. Reckon it must have taken him a dozen or so swings before he was even close to killing her."
"Porsten, the Ealdorman, he was the one to do it." Marren shuddered. "He used an old axe that was better for wood than warfare." The villager's shoulders slumped as he still could not look back. "There was so much blood, and she screamed for so long."
"Not a clean death." Brass clicked his tongue. "Lot of suffering, lot of time to spit ugly words. There are a lot of curses that find their root in the desperate words and thoughts of the dying."
A flash of white caught the Witcher's eye. There, among the muck that had once been a living being, a small shape poked out of the slurry. Brass reached out, hand going up under the ribcage as he reached out for it. Ignoring the slimy feeling of the waxy residue, he scooped up the tiny trinket, surprised to see a familiar shape on the rotting remains of a leather thong. A quick tug tore it free.
Brass leaned back on his heels, lifting the trinket into the light as he wiped away more of the gory grime that clung to it.
His eyes roved across the familiar shape, noting the signs of wear. Some edges had been worn smooth, the figure's curves and contours shiny as if rubbed by fervent fingers countless times. The Witcher's mind looked back to Vreni, one of his closest friends during his years of training. He remembered the way she would pray while holding a similar totem, he fingers caressing the small shape as she recited holy words. This was a well-loved and much-used symbol to the goddess.
"Melitele..." The Witcher mused as he glanced out to the river that had been the she-Elf's resting place. "It always seems to come back to her, huh? What was her connection?"
Marren did not answer.
"Marren, are you sure you never saw Deanna go to-" Brass turned, only to see his companion looking away, staring wordlessly at some point behind the Witcher. Slowly, the monster hunter turned, rising to his feet.
A woman stood there, not young, but not old either. The first signs of grey had begun to run through her chestnut hair, while the occasional wrinkle roughened otherwise smooth skin. She wore a simple smock, light green, with an off-white apron over it. A braided cord of brown and emerald green girdled her waist, while a brown shawl draped over her shoulders and down her back. She looked to the Witcher, and the grisly bundle that sat before him. Wizened eyes flicked to the trinket in his hands, and then to the hunter's eyes.
Absorbed as he was in his investigation, Brass could not miss the flash of emotion that appeared in that gaze. He'd seen grief many times before on his travels. He looked at her expectantly, unsure of how to break the silence. Finally, it was she who broke the tension in the air.
"I think I may be able to give you the answers you seek, Witcher." Her voice, although hoarse, was still kind. She glanced to Brass' companion. "Thank you, Marren. I can help our friend from here."
"A-are you sure, Merda?" The villager stammered. "This is the first time I have seen you leave the village since-"
"I'm sure, Marren. Go back to your family. Make sure the children don't get into trouble. Your Martha has enough on her hands without running after them all day, too."
Marren, without a further word, merely nodded and moved to obey, glancing sideways as if to bid the Witcher farewell. Once he had passed the priestess, as Brass could confirm as he caught sight of the symbol of Melitele fastened to the cord at her waist, the villager spared a backwards, surprised glance, almost as if unsure that he could really believe what he was seeing.
"Go, Marren." Merda didn't even look around, refusing to break eye contact with the Witcher. "I am certain that our burly friend here can keep me safe should the need arise."
With that, Marren was gone, and the pair were left alone. Merda regarded the Witcher for another moment, eyeing him up and down, then sighed.
"The townsfolk say that you plan to rid us of the Dullahan." She began to walk towards the Witcher, the long skirt trailing through the grass to hide her feet. "Do you?"
"It's my job to hunt down monsters wherever I find them." Brass shrugged.
"Even when there is no pay to be had?" She spoke cautiously, her eyes shining with an intelligence that was hard to read.
"I am sure things will work out, one way or another." The Witcher shrugged, uncertain in the face of the woman's shrewd gaze. "All I care about is one less monster terrorising the common folk."
"Hmm." The sound was utterly unreadable to the Witcher. Then, with a twitch of her head, she gestured for the hunter to follow. "Come. Walk with me. I'll tell you what you need to know."
With that, the priestess turned away from the bundle, beginning to walk along the riverside. Brass, still clutching the totem in his hand, swiftly followed.
"I assume Marren gave you the gist of how Deanna died?" The priestess asked.
"Yeah, more or less. She-Elf came to live here, bad things started happening, the villagers found out she was using magic to curse them, and executed her."
The older woman grunted disapprovingly.
"That is the tale most believe, yes."
"But it's not the whole truth, is it?" Brass asked warily.
"Porsten, the last man in Rieslen to hold the title of Ealdorman, was a pig of a man. He waved his authority over any and all within the village. Half of the little ones I helped to deliver each year were his bastards. When Deanna arrived… she caught his eye."
Brass suppressed a sigh. The number of times he'd had to deal with a curse brought about by another man's ability to keep his trousers buttoned, a scorned lover or a family broken. And for an Elf, of all things… Merda did not miss the subtle sound.
"I see that you know where the tale is heading. Yes, Porsten lusted after Deanna, and time and again she declined his advances. She was better than that." The priestess idly plucked a blade of grass, running her fingers along its length as she gazed out over the river. "Porsten, so used to getting his own way, could not accept this. Offended, he chose to exact his revenge. He worked at it for months, slipping idle rumours in the tavern, gossiping with the men at every chance he got. Pretty soon, he had almost the whole village jumping at shadows. He was a pig, but a cunning one."
"And then the crops failed." Brass concluded.
"I'm not sure if that was a stroke of luck for him, or maybe the sickness of his mind polluted the land." Merda cast the blade of grass aside. "I pray to Melitele that it was not a deliberate act on his part. Many children starved that winter."
"And when the blame fell on Deanna..."
"Desperate people do not think rationally. When Porsten produced his 'proof' of her witchcraft, they did not question it. They had someone to blame for their suffering, and they did what any mob will do when stirred up in the right way."
"Marren said that she had a magic altar in her home…?"
"An altar to her own goddess." Merda replied as she stopped, gazing out over the water coldly. Ahead, just appearing around a bend in the river, a small wooden pier could be seen, fit for fishing or mooring up a small row-boat, although none was there at that moment.. "Decorated with flowers and carvings that she made, gifts from her family before she came to Rieslen. A thousand different memories of her life, private and precious. The people could not see that. They saw what was different to their own and, with Porsten fanning the flames, they burned it to the ground before executing her."
"And so she rose after her death, looking for revenge."
"It only took a few nights." The priestess explained. Moist eyes turned to the Witcher. "You must understand, she was never like this in life. She kept to herself, respected other people's space and never interfered. She was an efficient hunter when she needed to be, but never caused harm unnecessarily. She was never cruel, and certainly never vengeful. When she first arrived, many of the townsfolk treated her with suspicion, but she took it all in stride, forgave freely, and lived as one of us." Her mouth twisted downwards, a dark light entering her eyes. "If Porsten hadn't… look at the horror of what he did, what it turned her into!"
"Death twists even the best of people into all manner of monsters." Brass answered. "But I don't think it was just Porsten that she came back for. If that were the case, surely she would have faded after his death, her revenge achieved."
"So… what? You believe that she's come back for the whole town? Wants to kill everyone involved in her execution?"
"Perhaps… but maybe not." Brass lifted the totem he had taken from the corpse, offering it to the priestess. Pieces began to fit together in his head, a puzzle solving itself. "Why don't you tell me about this?"
Merda looked at the trinket warily, a hesitant hand reaching out to grasp it. She turned it this way and that, as if seeing it for the first time. A wan smile slunk across her features.
"You know… the Elven goddess is very similar to Melitele. She presides over life and motherhood, grants fertility and bountiful crops. When I spoke with Deanna, I was amazed at how similar her beliefs were to my own. Maybe they even had a similar root, long ago, and simply found different names among our peoples."
She handed the totem back, but Brass did not take it, instead watching every tic in her expression, reading her carefully.
"Its just a silly little trinket." She shrugged dismissively. "I gave it to her as a payment, for all the good she did for the village."
"No."
Merda glanced up at the Witcher's word, surprised.
"No? What do you mean, 'no'?"
"That's no simple trinket, and it wasn't just a reward for a job well done." Brass pulled his own symbol from where it hid next to his breast, holding it clear for the priestess to see.
Brass looked to the trinket in his hands, feeling the hours that went into making it, the kindness and care behind it. His mind filled with memories, some warm, others not so much. A face, a touch, a whispered word. Feeling these thoughts and emotions rise within him, he pushed on.
"It's a symbol of protection, and something that you give to somebody you truly cherish. It's a gift between two people who care for each other a whole hell of a lot. So maybe, instead of telling me just a fraction of the truth, you can tell me what was really going on."
Merda sagged, all confidence leaving her as she looked down at the totem again. A long moment passed before she pulled her own symbol from her belt, holding it beside the other. It was then that Brass spotted the similarities between them. The same lines of wear and tear, the same quirks in the design, the same pigmentation visible in the colouring. Clearly made by the same hands, and more than likely at the same time, a matching set. Finally, her voice brittle, Merda spoke again.
"Deanna and I were… more than close." She admitted. "It began so innocently, talks of our faiths, foraging trips into the forest, working to help the village. Over time, it grew into something… special. I began to care for her, and in time realised that she felt the same for me. We couldn't tell anyone, of course. A Human and an Elf, both women to boot? With the rebellions so recent in everyone's minds, we knew we could not let our relationship be made public. So we kept ourselves a secret, hid our meetings when we could, kept the pretence of propriety when secrecy was not an option." She glanced back over her shoulder to the pier. "This was our favourite spot. Close enough to the village to reach easily, far enough away for privacy when needed."
"Did Porsten know?"
"I don't think so." Merda considered. "Otherwise, chances are I would have been driven out of town. He was malicious enough that I think uncovering what we were up to would have driven his selfish heart wild."
"I see." Brass tapped a finger on his bearded chin. "So, on the night Deanna was… killed, where were you?"
"I'd arranged to meet her out in the woods that night. I waited a while, then saw smoke rising from the direction of her home. I ran to see what was wrong, and I got there in time to see the ruins of everything she owned, with no sign of her. That was when I heard the screams." Merda began to quiver, hand clenching tightly around the totem. "Her screams, coming from the market square."
"You went to investigate?"
"Of course I did!" Merda answered quickly. "I got there just in time to see the men beating her, the women throwing all kinds of insults and cruel words at her. Porsten was there, reading out his list of accusations, pronouncing judgement."
The priestess' voice hitched, a lump seizing in her throat.
"I could have stopped it all, if I had only stepped forward, told them all the truth."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was scared!" Merda spun to face the Witcher, tears that had been dancing in the corners of her eyes now flowing freely. "Speaking up would have meant revealing what we had done, what I felt, that I was..." Words escaped her for but a moment. "That I am who I am."
The priestess' head slumped forward, a few sobs wracking her frame. Brass, unused to such situations, raised a gentle hand out to touch her shoulder. Cautiously, he squeezed the shoulder, trying to offer support. No words came forward to aid him, so he elected to wait in silence, hoping that his presence might in some way be a help to her. Eventually, her sorrowful weeping slowed, and she continued.
"I was a coward, and allowed the woman I loved to be killed by that mob. I still remember the last moments, before the axe fell for the last time. She looked up, and she saw me, through the crowd. She looked right at me, as though she could sense that I was looking at her. She stared me right in the eye as they killed her. Now she's this… this thing, and I don't know what to do." She glanced up into Brass' eyes. "How do we stop her, Witcher? How do we put her to rest and end this madness?"
"I'm not sure." Brass admitted, his mind still working the details over.
"Then… she'll keep attacking? Keep appearing until the whole village is dead?"
"Perhaps not." Brass answered. "I don't think she's after the village."
"If not, then what does she want?" Merda was shivering again.
"You need to understand, there are many ways that curses are created, but the most powerful rise from violent death… and love betrayed." Brass raised a hand as the priestess opened her mouth to reply. "I know there was no ill intent in your actions, but it is possible that you failing to speak up made a link between you and her spirit, something that prevents her from resting. It would explain why she responds so violently to the sight of any symbols of Melitele- the represent the bond you once had, the one that robs her of her peace. When Marren told me about the first time she attacked, he said that you used some 'holy words' to drive her away. What did you say? Was it some kind of prayer to Melitele?"
"Not… not a prayer, no." Merda's voice dropped low as she looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in front of her belly. The totem still poked out from between her fingers. "Its was Elvish. Just some words she taught me that we'd use together. I called her 'Iaith na Suilean Muire', my lady with the eyes like the sea. Then I begged her to leave, to stay away."
"And she listened to that." It was not a question. "So clearly you have power in this situation, because of your bond."
"Does that help us?"
"Yes, it really does."
"Do you know how to help us, then?" Merda moved forward, one of her hands clasping at the Witcher's. "Can you help bring peace to Deanna's spirit and free us from the curse?"
"Maybe." Brass stroked his chin as he thought, glancing at his surroundings. An idea began to glimmer within his mind. "There are a few things I'm going to need first, though. there's a lot of work to be done before sunset."