Page 25 of Season Warriors & Wolves

We’d not travelled not even for an hour through portal after portal, effectively avoiding brushing any witch from Red Coven, before Melanthe began directing us toward a dead forest reeking with a scent of old sage and haunting voices that spoke through the wind. The beginning of an autumn chill did not help your imagination either.

The ground crunched beneath my feet where I’d stepped on a pile of bones—human bones. Lovely. What a way to ruin good leather boots.

A scream brought me out of my sorrow for the poor animal that had been turned into shoes. The Isjordian soldier scrambled backwards till her back hit a dead tree. Her eyes were livid, fixed ahead and onto…nothing.

Melanthe sighed and called out loud, “Guinevere, enough with your petty tricks.”

A young witch appeared from behind a massive pile of animal bone, snickering as she surveyed the terrified Isjordian soldiers. “Sorry, sister. But it is so funny how afraid they are.”

And it was, actually.

“Tis funny too when they skin your kind and make hogs wear your flesh coat as a party outfit for their hog gatherings,” I said, giving her a saccharine smile and my father’s soldiers chuckled.

Her smile wilted and she stood frozen for a moment before shooting Melanthe a glance. “The Ybris is with you.”

“Of course she is with me, Guin. She will go down the tomb to get the sceptre piece,” Melanthe explained, ushering all of us forward and lifting a veil that concealed a two-story house that looked older than Krig’s balls.

Guinevere, the young witch, walked right beside me, staring at me while we entered the mansion. The staring did not end at all. Only grew more intense.

“Making your kind really proud,” I said sweetly, turning to stare back at her.

She lifted her chin and looked away. “Urinthia deceived us. She no longer deserves our respect or loyalty.”

“I’m no Eldmoorian, but even I know you swear no loyalty to anyone who is not the one to bless you. You vow your word and your soul to the God of Death, and he appointed your Grand Maiden. Are that unafraid? Of your own god?”

She cleared her throat, looking perplexed. “Our…our god stands behind Melanthe. He let her exit Caligo unscathed.”

That made me chuckle. “Your god stands behind no one, and unscathed is an understatement for what she bargained for her return,” I whispered, and she frowned, looking between me and her new leader who turned scowling at us like fires of hells.

“Get away from her, Guinevere.”

“Why, Mel dearest?” I asked, lifting my chains. “What can poor me possibly do? Unless you get close, then I can strangle you like my father did years ago.”

When a few chuckled under their breath, the cuffs on my wrists tightened and burned, making me grunt with pain.

An Isjordian soldier stepped forward, grabbing onto my hand. “My princess, your skin is bleeding,” he said with alarm, reaching for a handkerchief to wrap around my wrist and turning to Melanthe. “What have you done to her, witch?”

I pressed my lips together and fluttered my lashes at a seething Melanthe. “You’re hurting me.”

Uneasiness filled the room when all Isjordian soldiers turned their heavy stares at the once dead and soon to be dead witch. The temperature had dropped low, and a shiver of satisfaction licked my spine when the black chains glowed red and suddenly loosened up a little, giving me some relief.

I squeezed the soldier's hand and offered a small thanks to him before following behind Melanthe. Several red heads of all kinds of hues turned when I entered what looked like a dining room that had become a war room. On top of the oval wood table rested a map of Eldmoor while several twigs of different shapes formed a star over the edge of Heca. Presumably, the sceptre was hidden there.

I’d barely caught a glimpse of their markings when the door was shut right in my face.

“Why are you letting the witch treat you as such, princess?” a soldier said, offering me a clean napkin to change the blood soaked one.

“Family,” I shrugged. “We ought to be forgiving of raging bitch behaviour.” Spinning to her, I asked, “Tell me, where are we?”

“About three miles inside Lissis forest.”

“Deadlands?”

“We are safe,” she assured. “The witch has promised us safety.”

My brows hiked up. No one stepped in the Deadlands and was promised safety.

It was the hour of the dead when we left the makeshift coven that Melanthe and her merry band of traitor witches had created. The moon was crimson red, draping a bloody hue over the cloudy skies and over the barren forest that hissed with murmurs of the dead and creatures who restlessly prowled from one snag to another as they followed our entourage along.