Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(16)
“Tush! Think no more on it! You are more than a match for any bandits, M’sieur Lefebvre.”
“I may not be a match for one with a bow.”
“Anyone skilled with a bow would be patrolling a richer stretch of road than a wagon trail in this mildewed fen, m’sieur.”
He had a point, damn him. Using one of my charms—newly completed at that time—I cast night vision as a precaution and didn’t look toward the torch anymore. If another set of bandits wished to ambush us, I would see them coming. I was so intent on scanning the area on the right side of the road that Shakespeare startled me after a half mile by saying, “There.” He pointed off to his left, and I had to lean forward and crane my neck to see what he was looking at. It was a faint white glow on the horizon, a nimbus of weak light in the darkness near the ground. It flickered as if something passed in front of it and kept moving. “What could that be?” he asked. “ ’Tis the wrong color of light for a campfire, wouldn’t you say?”
I grunted noncommittally but could think of no good reason to ignore it. I followed Shakespeare’s horse once we came to a track that appeared to lead directly to the light.
As we drew closer we could hear chanting floating over the fen, and I realized that we might have actually found the witches Shakespeare was hoping to find and I was hoping to not. There would be no telling him to turn back while I investigated on my own—and I did need to investigate, in case their ritual proved to be an attempt to usurp some measure of the earth’s magic. But I couldn’t risk revealing myself as a Druid to him if I was forced to act. I would be every bit as damned in his eyes as the witches if he discovered my pagan origins.
We dismounted to creep forward on foot. I doubted the horses would still be there when we returned, but we couldn’t take them with us; even though they were quieter than usual in the soft earth, they weren’t stealthy creatures. One impatient snort could give us away.
Keeping my voice low, I said, “Conceal the torch behind my body,” and watching him step uncertainly in the mud, still quite drunk, I added, “preferably without setting me aflame. It will allow us to see while hopefully preventing our detection.”
“I approve of this plan,” he said, enunciating carefully, and we stepped forward into the mud. The macabre sounds of muted chanting pounded nails of dread into our hearts. With every step nearer, I grew more certain that we had, in fact, discovered a small coven of witches. The light was indeed from some kind of fire, but the wood wasn’t burning orange and yellow as it should. It was silvery, like moonlight. Perhaps there was phosphorus at work. Or something arcane.
I began to worry about Shakespeare’s safety. I had my cold iron amulet tucked underneath my tunic to protect me against magic, but the bard had nothing. I wanted to tell him I had protection but couldn’t tell him I had bound the cold iron to my aura. I had to craft a lie that he would accept. “Master Shakespeare, should we be discovered, let me go ahead. I have a blessed talisman that may shield me against their, uh, infernal practices.” I wasn’t sure where he stood on the Holy Roman Church, so I settled for the generic blessed rather than Pope-licked or Cardinal-kissed or any number of other vaguely holy-sounding phrases. I drew Fragarach from its scabbard. “I also have this, should it be necessary.”
Shakespeare’s breathing was coming quicker and his eyes had widened. “Your plans continue to be well conceived, Marquis.”
We crept closer still, the voices growing louder, and a faint rumble and hiss could be heard, which I imagined to be something boiling in the cauldron. It was a large black iron affair, the sort one uses to feed armies and that’s usually transported in a wagon, and I could only imagine how they had lugged it out there and what might be boiling inside it. Perhaps the darkness concealed an ox and cart nearby. The unnatural white flames glowed underneath the cauldron and licked at its sides, consuming what appeared to be normal firewood.
As we grew close enough to distinguish words, I recognized that the chanting was in Greek, which Shakespeare did not understand but I understood very well. I chose to be a classically educated marquis and translated for the bard in whispers when he asked me if I could make sense of their babble.
“It’s an invocation to Hecate, pleading for her guidance—no, her personal guidance. As in guiding them, in person, right here! They are trying to summon her.”
“A summoning! For what purpose?”
“I know not.”
We were close enough now that I, with my aided vision, could distinguish shapes in the darkness; I doubted that Shakespeare could see anything, except something that kept moving in front of the firelight.
There were three witches circling the cauldron, naked but smeared with dark streaks—blood or animal fat would be my guess. Their ages were indeterminate; by appearance they were somewhere on the happy side of middle age, but I knew that in reality they could be much older than that. As they circled the fire they also spun around, raising their arms and voices to the sky. I wondered how they kept from getting dizzy.
Their right hands each held a short dagger—no special curved blades or gilded guards, nothing you might call an athame; they were merely sharp, efficient knives.
“Master Shakespeare,” I whispered, “they are armed, and I do not doubt they will attack if provoked. We should probably keep our distance.”
“How can you see anything, Marquis? I can only see shadows in the dark. My eyes need some assistance and I must see better; this could prove to be a fine provocative sauce for my play.”