The witch's cackle escaped just a moment too early. Fiona sprung backwards over the granite block, still airborne when the gourd grenade squashed into the terrain. The concussion froze time; the cloud of smoke shrouded the block. The witches landed in a triangle circumscribing the cloud. "We got one!" celebrated the cackler. The other two squinted into the dissipating smoke, chrome craniums held at the ready.
To Fiona, the voice was muffled, barely audible under a deafening ring from the explosion. She rolled to her feet away from the stone block at the center of the explosion, gathering her dagger into her hand in the same fluid motion.
Her one "advantage" was that she wasn't unconscious at the center of the explosion. The witches didn't expect her to be behind them; she had a total of two seconds to act before the smoke would fade enough to reveal her absence. The optimal strategy would be to disappear into the woods, but the high, cleared vantage point that was perfect for surveillance was awful for escape. There was no way she could reach cover before the witches had her chained up.
The decision took half a second; no more to waste. Fiona leapt at the nearest of the witches readying a skullchain and concussed the atmosphere with her own fearsome roar. The roar put the other two witches back on their heels; Fiona's impact flattened the nearest witch to the dirt. Fiona rolled off her victim, coming up to her knees with the witch's broomstick in her left hand.
She blinked, shook her head. Her vision was foggier; more than she'd expect for the amount of smoke. Her ears felt plugged. Her whole head rang.
She forced herself to focus on the next threat, the witch whose cackle had bought Fiona the two seconds. Fiona forced herself upright with the broomstick, then swung it in a broad arc, cracking the cackling witch in the head. The broomhead replaced the witches head, her hat momentarily adorning it, before the whole assembly crumpled to the ground.
The violent motion had twisted Fiona's body away from the center of the group; now her back faced the third sorceress. Two down. That's good. Fiona's inner monologue tried to rally the rest of her foggy, rattled head. A chattering rhythm began behind her. That's bad. She needed to juke to evade the chain; just a couple steps would do. She launched off her left foot, chambered the dagger with her right, and planned the landing on her right foot to twist her into position to deliver the dagger into the face of her aggressor.
The landing never came. The first witch, busy unflattening herself, had pushed herself up from supine just far enough to snag Fiona's right boot. Fiona lurched forward. The chattering chain zipped a foot past her neck. She yanked her right foot free, but not soon enough to catch her fall without a savage twist on the way down. Pain rang up from her ankle to join the ringing in her ears.
Fiona was wildly disoriented; about the only thing she knew, from the crack to her elbow, was which way was dirt. Her opponent had missed, and would require time to re-arm herself. Fiona tried to roll back to standing, but collided with the very stone that had been her bench for the last hour, killing her momentum.
She pulled all of her limbs below her, right hand still clutching the dagger, until she was on all fours, putting gravity where it belonged. Everything was happening more slowly than it ought. She was a better fighter than this! But she was tired. And hungry. And her head was foggy; she had escaped the worst of the jack-o-lantern, but it still took its toll.
Her head took its sweet time lolling towards the witch; she demanded her eyes to focus. She regripped the dagger, determined not to set loose her only weapon without making it count. The witch was digging in her basket for another munition. Somehow, the skull's chatter began before the witch had even retrieved it.
Fiona took aim, cocked her arm.
Teeth bit viciously around her shin. Fractious falconers! she swore. Her balance was lost, and she needed the dagger anyway to disengage the skull. Fiona spun around and stepped on the chain to frustrate its holder, then pried her blade into the jaws of the weapon. How had she thrown it so fast? She had loosened its grip, but still needed to work on the other side lest she yank it away and take a chunk of her own flesh with it.
...when the next skull snagged her neck. Jinxed jesters! How can that be!? That was pretty much the worst place to leave exposed. Fiona looked up to assess the situation. The chain from her neck drooped across the clearing to the last witch standing. The skull on her shin, now regripping itself, led a chain that ran back under her right foot, to the first witch she'd flattened; she had managed to sit up. Oh no. I'm falling behind.
Fiona clenched her lips, grabbed the lower chain, and yanked hard on it, pulling the sitting witch over onto her face. She splayed out, releasing the chain.
Simultaneously, however, the third witch hauled back on her own chain. That forced Fiona to collapse forward onto a knee to relieve the grip on her vulnerable neck. She reached up to grab the second chain, but her vision blackened at the edges; the skull was strangling an artery. Her head swam.
Vertigo.
Fiona tipped forward, clawing lamely at the side of her head. The dagger dropped from her grasp and she slumped into the dewy grass.
·❧·
Fiona awoke to her head colliding with rough wooden floorboards. She'd been tipped into the back of an armored wagon. Her hands were tied behind her back, so she had splattered unceremoniously prone, only her cheek to soften the blow. Unseen hands lifted her feet, bending her knees to fit her limp body into the container, then slammed the gate shut before they fell back down. A heavy iron bar clanked shut.
Coherence took its sweet time draining back into her. Her head still felt doughy and thick, although the ringing from the concussion had mostly faded away. Her twisted ankle still grimaced from its place propped on the door, and her opposite shin felt like it had taken out a coffee table. Her shoulders were torqued back by the awkward position of her arms and her wrists burned from the ropes binding them. Her face was attached to the floor by a splinter.
The bottom of the cart smelled of hay and manure and weathered wood. The cart rocked lightly as one witch after another mounted it and climbed up to the seat.
"AYUP!" crackled a witch. She cracked a whip to motivate the beast, and the cart lurched into motion. The floorboards jostled and bounced into Fiona's face. The splinter chose sides, separating itself from the cart to stay with her cheek.
"Well I never thought I'd see the day," shrilled the same witch. "You nitwits did something right!"
"You watch yer mouth, Brinda! We're doing our part on patrol just the same as every other witch out here! And you can't complain we caught an ogre!"
"An ogress, Luna. A little wee one. And from the looks of her, Trix caught a broom to the face," taunted Brinda.
"Ogre, ogress, she's ours and we're gittin' our reward!" sang Luna. The chatter continued, bragging and taunting and then on to gossip about the Big Capture earlier in the night.
Fiona tried to orient her thoughts. That was no easy feat, as every few turns a wheel found a rock and the cart bashed into her head, scrambling them back up. Fiona groaned and twisted and managed to tip onto her side, her hands coming up against the cart wall.
At least I'm not fighting anymore. The thought introduced itself to her, bringing an offering of momentary relief. Relief that drained away as quickly as it had arrived.
I'm not fighting anymore. This time it stung.
Nobody's left to rescue them.
I lost.
Her heart exploded. It eclipsed the pain at every limb.
I lost.
It was all for nothing.
I lost.
The cart rolled on. The floorboards shook and rattled and jammed her shoulder at irregular intervals.
The queen had toppled; there were no pieces left on the board.
"...like you, you wrinkly shrew! Aah – hahahaha!" The cackle filtered down through the iron bars, rising over the clatter of metal rims on dirt and rocks.
Every thread Fiona had woven had come unraveled.
I lost.
The sentiment weighed heavily on her. A little ember still burned deep within, but her body was exhausted. Everything hurt, there was nothing she could do, and if she were quite honest with herself, it was nice to not have to try. Just for a moment. She drifted asleep and jolted awake, her conscious state bouncing to the erratic rhythm of the cart on the path.