The merchant scoffed. ‘She was still party to it. Blinded the poor beastie. Frightened her. Tortured her. Cut out her heart on a dark altar.’ He spat at the witch. ‘She’s evil, Annev. Not because she has magic, not because she’s a witch. She’s evil because of what she does. And what she did. She deserves to die.’
‘Spared the mule,’ came a pathetic cry from the ground. ‘Killed the monsters. Spared the mule.’ Crag and Annev both looked down at the witch. She was still crumpled in a heap on the ground, but she had stopped shaking and her tears had subsided. She sniffed. ‘Told them not to kill her. They didn’t. Told them not to harm her. They did. I killed them. Spared the mule. Mercy, I spared the mule.’
Crag rubbed the patch of hair on his lower lip. ‘She’s still dangerous,’ he said stubbornly.
‘But do you think she’s lying?’
Crag considered it. ‘I don’t think so. Ones like these make strange bargains for their powers. They see what is to come, what is, and what has been, and they are compelled to tell the truth. But the truth you hear is not the truth as it is. They are malevolent creatures, which twist things to suit their own purposes.’ Crag brought his hand back up to the bone fragment tied around his neck. ‘Watch.’ He crouched down in front of the witch. With a jerk, he tore the bone trinket off his neck and held it in front of the crone’s face.
‘Speak no lies, witch, and tell me no riddles. Speak plainly and truthfully, or I will crack your skull and smash your brains across this ground. I will burn you and bury you, cast down your dark altars, and sow salt in your grave. Understand?’
The witch hissed, her arms slithered around her neck, and she bobbed her skull up and down. ‘I hear your words, Wanderer. I will tell you no riddles and speak no lies. Have mercy.’
‘First I will have the truth. Then we shall see about mercy.’
The witch bobbed her head again, drawing back from the talisman in the pedlar’s fist. ‘Yes. The truth. I told them not to harm the mule.’
Crag grunted. ‘So who killed her?’
The witch glanced furtively at Annev. ‘I sent the monsters to catch the mule – to dig a pit for the beast of burden. Catch the beast to bring the boy.’
Annev’s back stiffened and Crag looked from him to the witch, suddenly wary of them both. ‘The boy?’
‘He’ll kill us all,’ the witch whispered, rocking gently once again. ‘Kill us all. Kill you. Men. Gods. Keokum. All dead. All gone.’ She shook her head, her dirty white locks lashing across her face. ‘The Shadowcaster hunts him. The Shadow God wants him. The Fallen God needs him. I have been waiting so long …’
Crag brought the bone fragment back up in front of the crone’s nose. ‘I said no riddles!’
‘No riddles, no riddles,’ she moaned. ‘I speak plainly. My whole life, I waited for him. Found him and lost him. Seventeen years of darkness and despair. Then he cast his blood into the shadows – blood stained with blackthorn. He taunted us, he teased us … but Kelga was waiting. The Gods were watching. They sent the Shadow Reborn to claim him, and he sought my aid. Dorchnok seeks him as well, but he cannot pierce the veil. Cruithear covets him, but he has given up on his feurog, so he uses Harth as his puppet. And Tàcharan – my Lord, my God of Doom – he will not let me return without him.’ She hissed in frustration. ‘That boy is the bane of this world. The Son of Seven Fathers – the one-armed Son of Keos! By his hand we shall all die. In his death, we shall all live. I speak truly. Mercy, mercy, have mercy.’
Annev flexed his gloved left hand and instinctively pulled it close to his chest. Crag peered over his shoulder at him. ‘Ignore her. She knows no words but dark ones. She is lying still.’ But the pedlar’s eyes told a different tale. There was fear there, Annev saw, and not fear of the witch.
‘I’m not evil,’ Annev said. His heart beat fast and furious in his chest. His cheeks flushed red. He took a step backward. ‘I’ve never killed anyone.’
‘If you live we will all die.’ The witch pushed herself away from Crag and towards the bloodstained hole. Crag took three quick steps and placed himself between her and the pit.
The crone heaved a great sigh and lowered her head to the ground. ‘Your mule was dead and dying when we killed it.’ Her gnarled talons dug into the soil, grinding it into her skin. ‘The feurog had already dug the pit when I lured her. She fell in. Not hurt. Not hurt.’ The crone gave him a ghastly smile. ‘Called for them,’ the witch moaned, ‘called for the feurog to fetch the mule. No harm, I said. No harm. Did not listen.’
Crag drew his right hand through the air and made the sign of Odar, flicking his index and middle fingers once to the left, once in front of him, and once to the right.
‘I compel you, witch. The feurog,’ Crag demanded. ‘Who are they?’
‘Godless ones – cast off, sent to wander alone … like you.’ She pointed at Crag. ‘They served my sisters once. Many still serve, but these were mine. They are like children. Twisted by the magic, forsaken by their father. Cruithear did not love them, but I did …’
‘And did your children kill my mule, or did you?’
‘They smelled the iron on her feet. Smelled her blood. I told them not to but they could not resist. I killed them for it. For ruining my plan, for tainting the prophecy. But the mule was dying. Dead but alive. I led her to the altar. Took her heart. Took her eye. Took it all to summon you. Mercy, mercy. I showed her—’ Crag cracked her hard on the skull with the butt of his staff and she crumpled to the ground, panting, panting … and then her breathing stopped, her eyes closed, and she lay still.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Annev stared at the witch’s unmoving body. ‘Is she dead?’
Before Crag could answer, a low growl came from the witch’s mouth.
‘Seachranai,’ the witch mumbled, opening her eyes. ‘Fanai.’ She rolled to a sitting position, eyes open to reveal bright red pupils locked with Crag’s. ‘Anam caillte.’ She started to rise, her toes barely touching the ground as she slid towards the pedlar.
‘Deorai,’ the crone roared, ‘sainmhiniu d’fuil!’ She lunged for Crag and he swung hard, snapping his staff across the witch’s face. Her jaw cracked audibly, red spittle and broken teeth flying from her mouth.
Crag swung again, but the witch’s gnarled hands shot out, inhumanly fast, and wrapped around his throat. ‘Tugann Tàcharan neart domsa,’ the old woman growled, squeezing. ‘Ní theipeann orm arís.’ The veins in Crag’s eyes bulged red and purple, his cheeks grew pale, and his strength seemed to rush out of him. His arms dropped to his sides and the staff and bone talisman fell to the ground. His knees buckled, and his body would have fallen without the witch holding him up by the throat.
In contrast to the weakening pedlar, the witch seemed to be growing in strength. She stood taller – her back straightening, her stoop disappearing – until she towered over him. The white smoke that had once blanketed the crone’s eyes darkened into a riotous swirl of red and black. She smiled, drawing her bloody lips back from her broken fangs, and heaved, lifting the fat merchant aloft.