Dreamweaver - Chapter Four

The ninja of Hoshido were infamous for their possession of a mysterious, nearly empathetic sixth sense that allowed them to detect the presence of others, whether it be friend or foe, animal or human. It was thanks to this sense and training with others that carried the skill that they were such excellent messengers, assassins, and scouts, able to both sense the presence of others as well as suppress their own, skulking like thieves of the night through scraps of gloom and shadow.

Nohrian knights were not nearly so sneaky, but a large chunk of their training did deal with being able to anticipate attacks, as well as being able to tell what an enemy might do before they'd even thought about doing it, and act accordingly. King Xander was a master of such reflexive forethought, and he seemed to have passed his ability down to his son, whose trainers were quickly realizing that the eldest son of their king was going to quickly outstrip their own combat abilities, thanks to that skill alone.

It was this sixth sense that woke Siegbert later that night — it was not so much a gut-wrench as it was the terrible, stifling feeling that he was surrounded, that danger loomed hair-raisingly close to his person. Though most of his mind was foggy with exhaustion and heavy sleep, his body seemed to move of its own accord, unfolding from the bed and reaching down into the shadowy area between his bed and desk, where he always placed his shortsword before he went to sleep.

It wasn't there.

That snapped him fully awake — alertness sharpened his senses in a stinging wave as he cast his eyes about the room, looking for whatever had moved his weapon. He saw nothing but shadows in all directions, but the drapes were closed, and his eyes hadn't adjusted yet. Sweat eked down the young lord's face with the realization that something sharp and pointy could shoot towards him from any direction, and he doubted that he'd be able to dodge it, sixth sense or no. Darkness had the uncanny ability of muddying one's reflexes.

Down beside him, Forrest stirred and awoke. "Siegbert," he grunted, "is that you making the bed move?"

Siegbert's fingers dug hard into the blanket. What to do? The weight of multiple presences inhabiting the darkness made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. If he tried to alert his cousin of the danger, the shadows might attack. But he also couldn't leave Forrest oblivious.

"Where's the flint?" he decided to say, voice sharp.

Forrest sat up, alarmed at Siegbert's tone. "Pardon?"

"Where's the flint?" Siegbert repeated, trying to formulate a plan. Something had moved his shortsword, but he also kept a dagger in the bottom of his wardrobe. If the predators in the shadows thought that he was just innocently looking for something in the clothes closet, they might not attack just yet. But he needed light, first. Right now, he was so tense that he actually couldn't remember where the wardrobe was relative to his current position.

"Er, I don't know." Forrest sat up, trying to see his cousin's eyes in the gloom. Siegbert's rigid silhouette and tense voice were making him nervous. "The desk, maybe? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Siegbert said. "I just need to get something out of the wardrobe."

"Don't bother." A low, threatening voice came out of the gloom, and Forrest jolted, instinctively grabbing Siegbert's arm. "Your weapons won't save you, whelp, even if you could get to them."

Surprise then terror slithered up Forrest's throat, seizing his vocal chords. The same terror tightened the muscles in the back of Siegbert's neck, but unlike Forrest, he didn't allow it to paralyze him — instead, he straightened and issued a challenge:

"Show yourself, intruder."

A dark chuckle. "I'm not hiding," said the malicious voice. "You're looking in the wrong shadows."

A loud swish from behind made Forrest jump, and he turned to see that an elegant hand had drawn back the drapes, flooding the inside of the room with moonlight and starshine. Siegbert instantly wished that the intruder had foregone the drapes, because now he saw that he was surrounded by six  darkly dressed, stormy-faced witches, just like the ones Forrest and Siegbert had run from not ten hours ago. The one by the window was the oldest of the group, a tall, wiry broad with silver hair, most of which was concealed under large-rimmed, pointed hat. Her eyes glowed like a blood moon, shining with malice, and her nails, dropping the curtain cords, were longer than hawk talons and seemed to be just as sharp.

The old witch chuckled as she pushed away from the wall. "The looks on your faces give me no small amount of satisfaction," she said. She dropped Siegbert's short sword and dagger, which she'd held in her other hand, to  the floor. "I'm glad to see that you've grasped the gravity of the situation."

Siegbert ignored her and shouted at the top of his lungs, "HELP! SOMEONE! FATHER! LORD LEO! HELP!"  Unwise, he knew, but he had no choice — he had no chance of combating six witches at close range. Even if they struck him dead, there was the possibility that someone would hear his cry and come to investigate, sparing Forrest the same fate.

But none of the witches lifted a finger as he lifted his voice — in fact, the old broad actually laughed.

"Stupid whelp," she said, snickering behind a hand. "Shout and scream all you like. This entire room is coated with a soundproofing spell. Any sound you make will be redirected inward, not outward."

So that was why his shout was echoing around him rather strangely. Siegbert shut his mouth around grinding teeth, his terror now threatening to overcome him.

Beside him, still clinging to his sleeve, Forrest suddenly started. "Wait," he said, addressing the old witch. "I know you, don't I, madam? Are you from that Deeprealm we were rescued from?"

"That is correct, you thieving filly," the witch growled, taking a threatening step forward — Siegbert shifted automatically, sliding his legs over the other side of the bed and moving in front of Forrest. "And I'm sure you can guess why we're here."

Filly? The insult served to break up some of Forrest's fright. "I can't think of any reason of why an old crone like you would invade in on the privacy of royalty like this," he hissed angrily. Siegbert gave him a hard, warning pinch on the forearm, but he ignored it.

"I disagree," the crone said. "For the reason hangs from your very ears."

"My—" Forrest reached up, and the cold stone of his borrowed earrings brushed his fingertips. Oh no!

"Indeed," Griselda said as she saw Forrest's eyes widen. "The Edon Stones, our village's most sacred artifact, hanging from the ears of a child like common ear threads. It is a blasphemy worthy of death."

Sacred artifact? You've got to be kidding me! A string of curses wound through Siegbert's head, the likes of which he wanted to direct at Forrest, but at the moment he was too busy watching the circle of witches for movement to indulge in bad language. There would be plenty of time to curse at Forrest later once he was actually sure that they were going to be alive later.

"Return them," he hissed in his cousin's ear. "Now."

Forrest didn't argue — he reached up to unhook the Edon Stones from his ears, but Griselda's merciless voice stopped him.

"Don't bother," she said yet again. "I did not come to this world to kindly ask you to return our relic. We've come to claim your lives on the grounds of sacrilege."

What?  "You can't be serious," Forrest croaked.

"Deadly, lass. You made a mistake, trifling with witches. With which you will pay the price in blood."

Siegbert's mind spun. He had seconds, seconds to come up with a plan, some way to overcome these bloodthirsty women. His eyes scanned the room once more, absorbing every detail — the old witch was by the wardrobe, separated, in theory, from the other five, who guarded the opposite side of the circular room. If he could jump fast enough, tackle Griselda to the ground, overturn the wardrobe, grab his sword...

"Madam, please," Forrest said as Siegbert pulled a leg beneath him, ready to jump. "T-There is no need for violence. Today was a mistake. A simple mistake. I did not mean to take your relic. I didn't even know that they had such value. I saw them as o-ordinary jewelry, and was simply trying them on. And then when my father came through to defend us...I just forgot to put them back, and wound up taking them with me. I was going to return them. You have my word on the matter."

"Perhaps," Griselda said, "perhaps not. I care not for your excuses. In the end, you will pay for your indiscretion."

Forrest thought fast, playing the only card he had left. "We are royalty!" he cried. "Do you truly think it wise to kill us? For then you will have the entirety of Nohr on your doorstep. If we die, you'll pay with the well-being of your village."

Griselda was done talking: she fired of bolt of black magic towards the two boys. It was fast, shooting like an arrow towards Forrest's chest, but Siegbert was faster — with a blow to the shoulder, he knocked his cousin to the floor, and the magic hit him instead.

It struck him like a battering ram, driving him into the bedstead hard enough to splinter the wood. The magic ate into his skin faster than acid, arresting his homeostasis and causing rapid, catastrophic organ failure that stopped his heart nearly a second and a half after he was hit.

By the time Siegbert flopped down onto the pillows, he was already dead.

Forrest clambered up from where he'd crashed down onto the cobblestoned floor. "Siegbert?" he gasped. He grabbed his cousin, dreading what he already knew, deep down in his heart. He'd seen the flash of black magic the old witch had thrown at him, tasted the toxic tang of blood and death before Siegbert had knocked him out of harm's way. "Siegbert!"

His cousin did not respond — his eyes were dark, staring vacantly at the ceiling. A vile, acrid steam pulsed from his ears, filling Forrest's nostrils with the scent of burnt flesh. Forrest grabbed his wrist, looking for a pulse, but found none — Siegbert's flesh was already stiffening, and growing cold.

"N-No." The voice seemed to belong to someone else — someone still capable of speaking, someone whose throat wasn't being crushed by disbelief and despair.

Behind him, Griselda cackled. "Forget it, lass," she said, fingers crackling with belligerent magic. "None can survive my deathstroke magic. Case in point."

A second arrow of black death flashed from her fingers, ramming into Forrest's spine with force of a crossbow bolt. He died instantly, collapsing on top of Siegbert, golden hair cascading over the young lord's chest.

Griselda laughed maliciously, allowing the magic to fade from her fingers. "Vengeance is mine," she purred.