"Now I might be being a bit optimistic here," Arten said, pacing back and forth in the dark, dank space Bearskull had led them to. "But you don't think that your spell might have killed the Patriarch, do you? It sounded quite chaotic up there."
Bearskull, covered in her robes and stinking skull, wafted at the small fire sitting in the centre of herself, Arten and Conrad. With her short movement, Conrad could no longer see figures in the flames, nor could he hear the shrieks of the poor, slow Zweihanders being ripped apart.
It had been a strange thing, watching Bearskull's trap unfold through a fire. It was hard to make out details, and every person looked orange, though Conrad could see what he needed to. From the perspective of the small fire Bearskull left in the living room of the house they'd been staying in; Conrad had seen a sample of her might. So far, he'd only seen Bearskull as a witch with a great capacity to heal, and travel faster than any horse. He'd not seen this yet, not seen her cut down dozens of men with conjured demons. Suddenly it didn't seem such a ridiculous notion that the gaunt old woman hiding beneath her robes could kill the Patriarch.
"No," Bearskull said, answering Arten's question. "You saw how he fended off my first assault. I merely wanted to scare him away, cull his forces slightly."
Arten stopped pacing and sat on the floor. As his arse connected with the damp dirt of the floor it squelched. He didn't hide his disgust well. His mouth curled as though he'd stepped in a heap of horse shit. He pulled his knees to his chest and stared into the fire. Though Arten's face had paled, and his hair was becoming whiter by the day, his eyes held a life unmatched. They were as fresh and inquisitive as they'd always been, emboldened by his anger at the country he'd been willing to give his life for.
That's the problem with attaching yourself to things like that, Conrad thought. Women, rulers, your country. Eventually the thing you've idolised will disappoint you.
Conrad would've never said something like that out loud, not to Arten. Probably not to anyone else either. He wasn't one to look for a fight, with swords or with words. He'd never wanted to speak his mind with the chance it would lose him a few teeth. Patriarch, country, Conrad had never been willing to die for them, so he certainly wasn't about to die just to let loose his thoughts. There were more pragmatic things to live for than there were illogical reasons to die. He hadn't been glad to rid himself of the infantry's pay, or the promise of a bed and hot meal, but Conrad didn't believe they'd betrayed him, or had gone against their purpose.
"Well," Arten said, his voice echoing in the empty darkness. "Now we've all watched whatever that was, can we know where we are?"
Bearskull's red glower washed over Arten, then with another waft of her hand and a muttered whisper the fire rose to three times its size, lighting up their surroundings for hundreds of metres. They were sitting in a circular chamber it seemed. Some of the walls were made of a stone that was the colour of sand, though most of the slabs of the stone had long since crumbled. A large boulder was sitting next to Conrad, a detail he'd only just noticed. It looked like it had impacted into the floor, as shattered tiles lay all around.
Around the central chamber was a simplistic mural. Over a dozen black-cloaked figures were assembled in a circle of red. Knowing Bearskull and all of her lengthy past, Conrad knew exactly who these figures were. All he didn't know was what they were doing.
"We are underneath Quenasses," Bearskull said. Her voice was more laboured than usual, rasping with fatigue.
"I know that," Arten replied. "You led us here. Out of the city and into some hole in a field."
"Then why ask the question?" Bearskull asked.
"Alright then, a better question. What is this place? I'm assuming you know it well, considering you and your like are depicted on the bloody walls."
"I'm not there," Bearskull said. She removed the skull from her head, revealing tired eyes and a face that looked thinner than it ever had. "Most of my sisters aren't either. Another generation of witches, you see. The ones that created the Low Wood. The story's all over the walls, if you'd care to read it, though I think most of it is broken up now. It's from a long time ago. We were respected then."
"What changed?" Conrad asked.
"People," Bearskull said. She looked over the walls, examining some of the paintings with a faint, sad smile. "Vovequia was once split, not unlike Drevon, between rival kingdoms and lordships. One such egotistical drunkard wanted there to be no easy way to assault his kingdom. He wanted to exist alone, and in peace, so he called on us and we created the Wood, splitting his kingdom from the others of Vovequia."
Conrad looked to Arten. He was leaning forwards, listening ever intently to the story. Arten hadn't always loved history like Biter, but he did love a good story, wherever it came from. It's why he stuck his nose in so many books of religion, philosophy and what Uttoll called science.
"Magic is a funny thing," Bearskull continued. "It gives you what you want, but never tells you how it will do it. The Low Wood, the Patriarch, they all accomplished things beyond imagination, but every success has its price. In the creation of the Wood, so many lives were lost, and the land left in its place was hospitable only to those like me and other odd creatures."
"So, people turned on you?" Conrad asked.
"Yes. Instead of the ruler that had ordered their demise, they sought us out. Only a few years after this monument was created was it crushed under the city by the people's rage and wizards from nearby lands. In Drevon, the persecution began not long ago, but my sisters have faced hate since our founding. Yet, people still sought us out, they still wished for us to do the impossible."
"Can I ask you a question?" Arten asked.
Bearskull nodded.
"How old are you?"
"Darling," Bearskull smiled. "A man never asks a woman such things. Besides, I'm not sure I rightly remember. Not exactly, anyway. Is that sad?"
"A bit, yeah," Conrad said.
"I am sorry you know," Bearskull said. "Dear boys, I believe I may have ruined your lives, and perhaps for naught. I don't know if I can defeat the Patriarch."
"See sense," Conrad replied. "Without you, I'd be dead, and if I'd have died there's no way Arten would live as he does now."
"I wouldn't be that broken up about it," Arten said.
"You dolt I meant you'd be a bloody Pale Boy."
"Oh aye, yeah."
"What we're saying is," Conrad said, looking across the flames and into Bearskull's tired eyes. "We can't complain. Whatever happens over the next few days, whatever you can or can't do, none of us can do anything about it now."
"That doesn't sound as if you're happy to be on the path, darling."
"I'm not," Conrad said bluntly. He looked at the zweihander sitting across his lap. There were a few new notches in the blade, made by Robert Wisser's sabre. Dirt and dried blood coated the hilt and beginning of the blade, washing it in a wave of brown. It was nothing like the sword Biter had given Conrad. How long ago was that night? A week, a month? It felt like nothing short of a lifetime ago, and even then, things had been far from perfect.
Looking at the state of his sword, Conrad couldn't help but feel guilty. He'd not cared much for zweihanders before. They were just things which could be replaced and destroyed. Like the thousands of men in the military, so many weapons were lost on a daily basis there wasn't much point in caring for them. This sword was different though. It was no thing, but a gift. It deserved care, something Conrad had neither the time nor effort to dish out.
"If I had things my way," Conrad continued. "I'd serve perhaps a couple more years in the military, however long the war holds out really, until returning home and facing the inevitable."
"And what's that?" Bearskull asked curiously. "Plan to off yourself? Might be tough now darling."
"Probably work with my father. Inherit his forge, become known only so far as a small village is concerned then plant some baby in a farmer's daughter before turning into my father completely. Or if no woman would take me, I might be lucky enough to end the family tree then and there."
"If I'd have known I was resurrecting a man quite so depressing," Bearskull said. "I might have left him in the dirt."
Conrad smirked. His hands reached out in the dim light, searching for a small saddlebag. It was the only container he'd been able to find in the mad dash out of the house this evening. Everything from food and water to books for Arten had been shoved in there. Even the painting of the horse faced woman had found its way into the bag. Well, not the entire painting; Conrad had carved out the awful face of the poor woman as quickly as he could. She was missing half of her hair, but was otherwise still held the same amusing ugliness.
Securing the bag, Conrad rummaged further for a small flask. He shook it for a moment, and admired the glimmer of its metal in the firelight. The initials 'T.D.' were inscribed into the silver, no doubt the same initials shared by whatever nobleman Bearskull had stolen the house from.
If I ever meet this T.D., Conrad thought. I owe him a drink, and then some.
Conrad threw the flask towards Bearskull. She snatched it out of the air with one hand, before holding the flask to her ear and giving it a good shake. There was some audible sloshing, but by the disappointment on Bearskull's face, Conrad could tell it wasn't enough. He opened his mouth to apologise, but Bearskull raised her hand, silencing him.
"Thank you dear," she said.
"Are you sure drinking is the best idea?" Arten asked.
"I've plenty of time to recover from a hangover."
"No," Arten said. "I mean, could we not do something more productive?"
Bearskull looked over to Arten. For a while, she'd been treating him respectfully, seeing the value where before she had not. That respect disappeared in this look though, Bearskull glared at Arten as if he were the dumbest shit to ever grace her with his presence.
"For you, sitting and stressing about what's to come might be your key to success. For me, I like to drink until I must do something, so I can give it my all."
"But-"
"I've had plenty of time to plan," Bearskull said firmly. "I won't do any more."
Arten pulled his knees closer to his chest, becoming as close as he could to a human ball. He didn't open his mouth again, though Conrad could see that his mind was still working away, unable to rest even for a moment.
"And you?" Bearskull asked. "Drink, or do whatever he's doing over there?"
Slapping his hands to his knees, Conrad stood, picking up his sword as he did so. He gave the zweihander a few practise swings before answering Bearskull.
"Neither," he said. "I think I'll go for a walk."
"Alright then," Bearskull replied. "I suppose there's no law against being dull. Have fun on your little walk, darling. Oh, and try not to hurt yourself, I don't have the strength to spare healing you, and I simply can't be arsed."
Conrad left Arten and Bearskull with a wave, his sword held to his breast, as though he were marching. He stepped from the warmth of the fire, sloshing through the wet, muddy earth beneath his feet. Neither the cold nor the dirt bothered him much. He couldn't feel the former much anymore, on account of his dying and all. He'd been covered in so much of the latter that a little bit of extra dirt couldn't do much harm.
Still, after a few moments of walking in his dilapidated surroundings, Conrad regretted his decision to go on a walk. Boredom was the killer of any activity, and as Conrad's surroundings were either half-broken murals or too dark to see, there wasn't much to spark excitement. Looking up, there was nothing but black. Down, and there was mud dotted with the occasional floor tile. Left, there were shattered pillars, boulders, and other rubble, left to sit under Quenasses forever. Looking right was slightly better, though Conrad couldn't gain much enjoyment from the crudely drawn witches and their half-finished story. He'd already heard it all from Bearskull before, or should he call her Winnifred now?
No, he reminded himself. Not Winnifred, not unless you want her to send you back to death.
Returning to death, even the thought made Conrad shudder. He'd had a mixed bag of thoughts, feelings, and everything else since returning from the grave, though he could feel all of that dwindling with each passing day. The fears, they were disappearing quickest, though he'd found he was laughing less too, feeling saddened by fewer things. Death though, even the idea of it, was enough to remind Conrad what fear felt like. True fear, inescapable fear as he pondered what he had seen as he fell into the Low Woods. Or, more accurately, he pondered what he hadn't seen; his fear stemming from the fact he'd seen, he'd felt nothing at all. That was true oblivion, and what a cruel joke it made life out to be.
Forgetting himself, Conrad tripped over a slab of stone jutting out from the mud. He fell clumsily to the floor, his hands barely shooting out in time to save his face from smacking onto the ground. Dirty, foetid water splashed in Conrad's face. He knelt on the floor for a moment, grasping clumps of mud with his hands.
"Pick up your blade lad," whispered a familiar, angry voice. "Leaving it on the floor, that's no way to treat a good sword."
Conrad's head shot up at the sound of Biter's voice. He looked around, catching no sight of his short, bald friend.
"Shit," he whispered. "That's no good."
Conrad returned to Arten and Bearskull. He didn't tell them of the voice he'd heard, and he didn't move much from the fire for a long time. Like the other two, he was in a horrible waiting game. He did not want Bearskull's fated day to come, but he didn't exactly want to stay in this stinking hovel for eternity either.
After a few hours the light of a fresh day pierced through the small hole in the ceiling of the ruins, informing Conrad, Arten and Bearskull that the penultimate day had arrived. A horrible autumn wind shrieked down the hole in the ceiling, washing the trio in chilled air and threatening to destroy the fire Bearskull had brought to life. The flames were pushed by the wind, but showed no signs of going out. Conrad was glad for that. Though he could feel neither cold nor warmth as much as he once could, he'd rather not have frozen in what could have been his last day in existence.
My last day, Conrad thought to himself. He looked to Bearskull. The witch had her head rested against a rather uncomfortable looking rock. She caught Conrad's gaze and returned it with a sly wink.
Conrad shook his head and smiled. Though he knew there was a possibility that tomorrow he, Arten and Bearskull could all meet a grizzly end, he couldn't believe that would happen. No matter how much he tried to warn himself, death seemed so far away now that it occurring tomorrow was almost an impossibility.
While Bearskull spent her day doing nothing, and Arten seemed to be wracking every possibility over and over again in his mind, Conrad decided to do what he'd always done whenever he'd had free time. He picked up his blade, found a quiet corner, where none could see him and swung his zweihander in practise. If there was even a small chance that he'd face that pompous prick Wisser tomorrow, Conrad would have to be prepared.
The day came and went. Sunlight disappeared quicker than Conrad would have liked, showing the signs of the rapidly approaching winter that was coming. With the last of the pink sunlight retreating from the ruins, Arten went to find Conrad.
"Alright mate," Arten said, peering around a shattered piece of what was likely once a huge stone.
"Alright," Conrad panted. In his final exercise of the day, he swung his sword wildly, trying to strengthen his arms to deal more devastating blows.
"Save some of that energy for tomorrow, yeah?" Arten said. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. He looked quite proud with it, and combined with the clean, noble clothes he'd stolen from the house, Arten looked much more like a member of high society than an infantryman.
"I will," Conrad replied. He gave his sword two more practise swings before letting it rest at his breast. "You any good with that yet?" he asked, gesturing to the rifle.
"Sort of," Arten said. "I haven't actually shot it yet, didn't want to waste the powder. Only got enough for a few shots, so I just inspected it really. I'll know what I'm doing if I need to shoot now, and I've got a sword at my hip if I need it."
Conrad eyed the longsword at Arten's side. It was strange how easily Arten had become accustomed to life without a zweihander. Other weapons didn't feel nearly as natural as a zweihander did to Conrad's hands.
"About tomorrow," Arten said.
"Don't worry about it, mate."
"Let's just stick together, yeah?"
Conrad nodded. "Of course."
Arten returned the nod, smiling as he did so. Arten's smile was more charming than he'd ever know, or care to admit. It was the kind of smile that melted even the coldest heart. It was innocent, pure, even though Arten wasn't really either of those two things.
"I'm off to bed," Arten said. "Make sure you get some sleep. You'll need it."
Conrad found a suitable stone and sat down. "Will do. Goodnight."
"Night."
It wasn't the best night's sleep Conrad had ever had. Lying against a moist, cold rock in the middle of a centuries-old ruin wasn't exactly the same as a soft feather bed, but from his day of training he welcomed any sleep he could get. Bearskull and Arten seemed to be doing the same, or at least neither of them came to bother him during the night.
Strange noises, rustlings, and scratchings, echoed in the night. They bounced from the walls, threatening Conrad's sleep. In the dark, even with his eyes mostly shut he could see shadows slithering around, making their way towards the fire. Towards Bearskull.
Come morning Conrad found out what those shadows had been doing, what Bearskull had waited so long for, as a great rumbling awoke him. The ground and walls shuddered like a naked man left out in the cold, and suddenly, Conrad was launched from the ground and into the air, carried forcefully upwards by that which he could not see, hurtling towards the streets of Quenasses.