It was a calm day as he rode into the village. Oxbridge was no different than

any of the countless border towns. A skeleton of branches came to a gate. A

boy, he assumed no older than seventeen, was doing his best to look

intimidating. He could do little more than shake his head before dismounting

and walking his warhorse towards the youngling.

“Hold. What business dost though have in Oxbridge?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What’s your name, Boy?”

The spear remained pointed at him, shaking in the youngling’s hand. “My

name is of no matter to you, Stranger, lest you seek to know your death.”

He lifted a hand, trying hard not to chuckle. “Easy. Easy. My name is

Willem Meade, temple knight of Karass. Your priest sent word that the Deep

Woods Witch has surfaced. I am here at his request.”

The boy shot to attention, giving the knight a sharp salute. “Forgive me, Sir

Meade. I had not been made privy of such tidings. Pass freely into town.”

He gave the boy a bow, “You honor me, Sir.” The boy’s makeshift armor

began to clank as he stood trembling. Meade’s thoughts drifted back to his days

as a squire. “Will you tell me your name now?”

“Peter, Sir. Peter Boothe.”

“Well, Peter Boothe of Oxbridge, you will make a fine knight some day,” He

patted the lad’s shoulder, “though I highly recommend losing that horrendous

affectation. It does not suit you.” The boy’s nerves subsided enough to pull out

a smile. “Now direct me to your temple.”

He pointed down the path. “You can see the spire up on the hill there. Keep

going down the road and you’ll find it. Our priest is Father Ellis."

He bowed, “Thank you again, Peter. Carry on.”

“I will, Sir. Nothing’s gonna get past me.”

People shuffled about the market stalls. A man darted in front of him,

chasing after a runaway goat. Most of them appeared weathered, but pleasant.

Few would make eye contact with him. It came with the job. He had become

used to that sort of reception.

A child approached him, holding out her hand towards his horse. He gave a

soft tug on the reigns, and the horse snorted to a stop. “Don’t be afraid. He

might be big, but he’s quite friendly.”

She spoke just above a whisper, “What’s his name?”

“His name is Hunter.”

“He’s pretty.” She said, shuffling her foot in the dust.

“Did you hear that, Hunter? I think you should thank the young lady.” It

bowed its head low, and her eyes opened wide. “Well done, boy.”

At that moment, a woman in dark clothes ran and grabbed the little girl’s

arm just as she was about to touch its mane. “No, Sara. You mustn’t touch.”

"But, Mother. It's such a pretty horse."

“I assure you, Ma’am. He is a well trained animal. She is perfectly safe.”

She did not say a word, catching up the little girl in her arms. As she walked

away, he could not help but hear her say, “What have I told you about them?”

He and his brothers were the mailed fist of the Lord’s judgment. Most of

them spent their service guarding the Holy City, but some were given a higher

charge. Traveling the lands of Abradine as judge, jury, and executioner. They

were the Faehounds.

The hounds’ responsibility was to hunt down and destroy those forces His

Holiness, the Exarch, named heretic. It had been ten years prior that the decree

came to a freshly bloodied hound. He was to hunt down a woman accused of

high sorcery. He had fought her countless times, but never defeated her. He

would take no other calling until she was his for good and all.

The temple was as the boy described. Atop a hill at the edge of town, the

opulent spire pierced the sky. He tied Hunter to a tree and entered. The

sanctuary was empty, though the scent of incense remained. He watched the

adepts as they made their preparations for evening mass. He caught one and

asked, “Pardon me, but might you tell me where I can find Father Ellis?”

A whisper escaped from beneath the white hood, “He readies himself for

this evening.” He then stretched out a finger to an alcove beyond the altar.

“Thank you, Brother.” He knelt before the altar and then proceeded to

where the adept had pointed. He knocked against the door, pushing it slowly

open, “Father Ellis?”

“I asked not to be interrupted, Anthony. What – Oh.”He turned to see the

knight standing in the doorway, “You are not my assistant. Who might you be?”

“Willem Meade, Father. I have come at your request on behalf of the

brotherhood in Karass.”

“Ah, yes. You must be my hound. Excellent. Most excellent indeed. But

what sort of host am I? Sit, sit." He directed him to a chair beside the desk

before calling out into the sanctuary, "Anthony? Where are you, my boy?"

A towheaded boy popped into the doorway, "Yes, Father Ellis?"

"Fetch us some tea, and be quick. Mustn't keep our guest waiting." He

turned his attention back to Willem, "Do you take cream or sugar?"

"No, thank you, Father."

"Well then. You know how I like it, Anthony. Off you go."

"Yes, Father," he said, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived.

Willem tried to focus the priest, who had begun to bounce about the room

with a clumsy sort of smile across his face, "Father Ellis, could you tell me of

the men who discovered the Witch had taken up residence in this part of the

Great Wood? How did they know it was her?"

Father Ellis's attention snapped back. Taking his seat, he coughed,

straightening his vestments, "Yes, certainly. The business at hand." He took on

his most regal tone and continued, "It is often the practice for the men of

Oxbridge to make occasional trips into the Great Wood. These are often

considered hunting parties. They are mostly to keep the wolves at bay, or to

check on the sort of wanton criminals seeking to hide from the eyes of God

beneath the thick leaves. Two of our finest went into the Wood not but a

month ago. Only one returned, shouting outrageous stories of a woman who

conjured fire from her thin air and slithered about the grass like an adder."

He struck a thoughtful pose. "The fire I know of," he said, moving a scarf

he wore about his neck to reveal the hideous, raised flesh, "I have tasted it

myself. Though the slithering? Either this is another creature all together, or

nothing more than the fanciful talk of a terrified soul."

The polite smile that had still remained fell from the priest's lips. "Are you

saying, Master Hound, that my people are liars? Fools prone to exaggeration?"

"I mean no disrespect by it, Father. Only to say that I will have to investigate

further. When faced with the Fae and other Wood-folk, it is not uncommon for

even the strongest brothers in my order to grow fearful, and fear has a terrible

way of confusing the senses."

That seemed to set him more at ease. The smile crept its way back, letting

slip the lyrical tone of joy from his arrival. " Will you be hunting the beast

today?”

“It has been a long journey from the Holy City, Father. It would be unwise

to start before I can get a meal and a night’s rest.”

“Oh, yes. Certainly,” the father continued, shaking with nervous glee, “I will

have the tavern open its larder for you. Oh, and the finest of beds. Nothing but

the best for a man of your honored office.”

“No, Father, you are not the only one who requires silence and simplicity

before plying his duty. I have brought all I need. I will camp at wood’s edge this

evening, and will begin my hunt tomorrow. I only ask that you and the people

of Oxbridge leave me to my work and stay clear of the woods.”

“Certainly, yes. Most certainly. We shall leave you to your business. The

people will not interfere.”

They talked a while longer of the Witch, of the Holy City's Alabaster

Temple, and other such church business. He deftly dodged any of the good

father's well meaning personal questions. When he had finished the tea, he

stood with a bow, “I will leave you to your preparations, Father. May the Lord

shine on your mass this evening.” He left the chamber and headed back towards

the gate. “Well met, Peter Boothe. Keep steady watch. Lord willing, I will

return with reports of the witch’s demise.”

“Yes, Sir.” He paused, “Um, Master Meade, Sir? I was wondering, if a young

man wished to join the brotherhood. You know, be a temple knight good and

proper? How would he go about that?”

“It is no simple task to enter the brotherhood, Peter. A young man would

entrust himself to a respected brother. His master would train him for a number

of years before eventually recommending him for the trials.”

“Forgive me, Sir, but would you be willing to take me? I would serve you

well.”

He gave a sigh. There was too much of himself in the boy. “No, Peter. I

cannot take you on.”

“But, Sir, I don’t understand. You said.”

“I say a lot of things. You are young and have much to see. Enjoy your life

before you offer it to the trials. Stay in Oxbridge. Guard this gate. Grow strong

and learn how to use that spear you hold. Once you have proven yourself, come

find me in the Holy City. Then I will help you find a proper teacher. For now,

your place is here, and mine lies out in the wood.”

He left the boy to sulk, though he had no doubt he would see Peter Boothe

again. There was no time to dwell on it, however, as the skies were growing

dark. If he did not make wood’s edge soon he would lose time the following

morning. He kicked Hunter into a gallop and headed towards the tree line.

The Great Wood sprawled before him as he approached the northern

border. A thick forest of twisted oaks, over the centuries it had become a haven

for any manner of highwaymen and heretics. He thought of days when the

brotherhood’s numbers were stronger. There were regular patrols there once,

but the overgrown shrubs and skulking wolves that greeted him spoke of leaner

years. He set camp. Sleep came slowly, and the morning came on its heels.

The sun rose as he broke camp, though it would make little difference. Small

fingers of light slipped through the thick canopy above. He jumped at every

scurrying shuffle in the brush, every cracking twig, until he heard it. Light and

lyrical, the song danced through the trees. Words spoken in an ancient, heathen

tongue long forgotten by the world. He raised his sword and quickly pressed

forward. The song grew louder. He started to run, but only made it a few steps

before he found himself falling. A vine had wound its way around his ankle. He

hacked at it with his sword, but found that every cut grew back fast and thicker

than before. Then a second vine snapped out from the brush and grabbed his

other leg, then his sword hand, strangling the blood from his hand until the

blade dropped with a dull thunk to the ground.

He found himself trapped without any means of rescue. He could hear joints

popping, sending sharp pains throughout his body as the vines tugged at him in

four different directions. The song echoed through the wood. He grit his teeth,

could feel the sense leaving him. Even if he was not quartered by this tangle, the

song would drive him mad before long. His thoughts went to Dellenor Fields.

Ten sworn brothers ran screaming into the night before the battle had even

begun, tearing at their helms to drown out the throbbing melody.

He let out a scream. If he did not do something, he would be dead for sure.

Then he remembered the pouch. He shifted himself as best he could to get

some leverage. With all his strength, he pulled to free his right hand. There was

a snap, and the vine went limp. He reached for the pouch, pulling out the stone

held within. He drew it to his lips and whispered a short prayer. He could feel

the heat pulse through his veins, his body engulfed in blue flame. The rest of

the plant writhed in agony as the flames carried to the root.

The song stopped. He lay there on the damp ground for a moment. He had

hoped he could have saved the amulet of St. Ignatius for the witch, but he had

learned that these sort of battles rarely go as one would like. After a few

adjustments to make sure all his pieces were where they should be, he continued

on. Not yet. You haven't got me yet.

He made his way through the trees into a clearing. Unhindered by the

canopy, tall grasses and radiant blossoms covered the ground. He found altars

buried among them bearing the Lord’s mark, as well as ruined columns and

well-worn statues. He wondered if it may have been considered a sanctuary in

days past. Had there been priests willing to go this deep into the Great Wood?

He ran his fingers over markings etched beside them that he had never seen

before. A carving of two figures stood before an altar. One wore the vestments

of the holy orders. The other wore strange robes that looked almost inhuman.

He was interrupted by sounds of movement.

A young, cloaked woman wound her way amidst a bed of heather. She

would stoop to gather herbs that grew amidst the flowers, tying them in

bunches with silken thread she pulled from her basket. He watched her for a

while, hiding himself behind the worn pillars.

"Do not think for a moment I don't see you, Hound. You are in the Great

Wood. The trees told me of your coming before you had broken camp."

He presented himself, sword drawn, "Very well then, Witch. I have come to

deliver the decree of his Holiness the Exarch. By virtue of my office, I have

found you an abomination against God, and have come to administer the Lord's

divine justice upon you."

She placed her bundle into the basket. “Justice?” She pulled back the hood

of her cloak to reveal long, platinum hair. “A dog knows only its master’s will. It

cares not for justice.”

For a moment, his resolve weakened as she removed the cloak. Strange

markings covered the robes she wore, shimmering in the light as she moved. In

all his travels, he had never met anyone to match her beauty, nor had he met

one so dangerous. “I am the loyal servant of the Lord. His Holiness has decreed

your death, and so it is my duty to make it so.”

“Strong words, Hound. But would you spill blood in such a place? This is

hallowed ground to both our peoples.”

“Whatever sacredness this place once held, your kind have defiled long ago.”

She sighed, “Well then. If that is how it is to be, let us begin.”

The Faehound lunged with his blade, but she nimbly dodged it. His

momentum carried him forward until he felt a blast of heat. He reeled as her

palm pressed against the armor with an unnatural force. He barely caught

himself in time to shift away as her heel fell hard against the ground next to

him. Her hands swirled through the air and were suddenly bathed in flame. A

ball of flame crashed hard against him. He could hear his flesh crack, the clothes

beneath the chain and plate stuck fast to his wounds. Again, he found himself

on the ground, helpless as a babe. Tears began to fill his eyes.

His arms shuddered as he tried to lift himself. His armor felt heavy, weighing

him down. She was coming towards him with a confident stroll. In her mind,

she has already beaten you. This battle is over before it has even begun. Do not

give in. You are Willem Meade. A Faehound of the order of Saint Michael.You

will not die today. "I will not!" He willed himself to stand. His movements were

shaky at first, but he summoned up fresh resolve.

She chuckled like a school girl. "Oh, thank heavens," she cooed, "I was

beginning to think it was all up with you. If that were the case, I would not have

had any fun."

“Today I will finally claim my victory.”

“I have heard those words before.” She snapped her fingers and the glade

was awash in a bright light, as if she had called the sun to bear in its fullness. He

tried to force his eyes open, but even that did nothing. The world had been

reduced to dull flickers and shadows.

"This has been a merry dance, Hound," a voice whispered behind him. He

spun, flailing his sword in the direction of the words, but found nothing. "But

you bore me. I may have to kill you."

Another twirl without success. She was playing with him. Prancing about the

stumbling knight, taunting him. Gather yourself, Meade. Remember your

training. He tried to quiet his mind. His eyes burned, but he shut out the pain.

Eyes closed, he listened. Every blade of grass, every creature of the Wood, and

the air itself made themselves known. Despite the rumors, she was not outside

the natural order of things. Her footsteps had a voice, if you were of a sort to

hear them.

He brought his elbow up sharply at the noise behind him. The throaty gasp

assured him he had probably caught her in the sternum. His victory was short

lived, however. "Inferus arae'thoth!" The air crackled and another fireball

struck, carrying him across the clearing.

He did his best to scurry behind a statue of some long forgotten saint. His

armor glowed red from the blast, so he quickly unbuckled each piece, tossing it

aside. It could prove to his advantage. His sight was returning, and

unencumbered now, he could skulk about the ruins silently.

She was shouting curses at him. Blasts of flame burst around him like

festival fireworks. Pillars and statues exploded on every side. That last spell

must have taken something from her. She had not seen his hiding place. She

was hunting him now, and her eyes burned with anger. He would fuel the fires.

"Was it not you that ran like a frightened child when my brothers and I

found you out at Braemarsh?" He moved quickly, just barely dodging the flame.

He could see the frustration growing on her face. “Do not take mercy for

fear, Hound. I do not fear you or your brothers. No matter how many that fool

sends at me.”

He watched her pacing. She could not keep her pace. The fireballs grew

smaller. The blasts weaker. She was fading. Keep talking, Witch. I'll have you

soon."And what of Farshire? Bandywick? You cannot run forever, Witch."

She growled at him. “Where are you, Hound? Does your lord appreciate

cowardice? Does he call his warriors to flee from women?”

He had moved close enough now. He took a deep breath. Lord guide me.

With a shout, he leapt from his place behind an altar and swung his longsword.

The edge of the blade sliced her cheek, leaving a dark line.

She brought her hand to the wound, looking at her stained glove. There was

a deep, primal scream as she charged the knight, knocking him to the ground.

He struggled. Despite her small frame, he could not throw her. She drew an

ornately carved blade and brought it to his throat. He would not blink. Would

not move. Whatever was to happen next, he would face it without fear.

She leaned over her quarry, inches from him, before pulling him up to her.

She dropped the blade and smacked him hard across the face. “Damn it,

Willem. I cannot believe you did that.” She sat back, straddling his chest. “If

this scars, I will never forgive you.”

"Oh, and what about the Devil's Whip out there in the woods? If I didn't

have the amulet I'd be out there still!"

She smiled and kissed him, "You would have been fine. You didn't have to

kill it you know."

He returned her smile. Her eyes were warm and loving. "Well you gave me

precious little choice. Anyway, I think you'd look even more beautiful with a

scar. And the children's stories would certainly improve for it I'm sure." She

pouted. The power of life and death flowed through this woman, though there

she sat, sulking like a disappointed child.

"Can I at least have that glove?"

She punched his chest playfully, "You most certainly may not!"

“Oh, come now, Morgan,” He said, “I have to bring back something for the

Exarch or he might send someone else after you. It’s not my fault you keep

getting caught. Some hunter with ghost stories on the mind catches sight of you

and then we have to start this whole dance again.” He suddenly remembered

the priest's story. "By the way, what happened to that second hunter from

Oxbridge?"

"There are two ways I have always known to beguile a man. One you are

fully aware of," she said with a wry smile, "And the other is greed." Sent him

out with tales of faerie gold. The wood-folk assure me he'll not be harmed. He'll

wake one morning in bed, assured he dreamt the whole thing."

"Clever girl."

She smiled, “That's why you love me." Her hand once again touched the

wound on her face, which must have grown tender. She winced at the pain, but

continued to smile. "Well, after all this time, I suppose it only fair I let you score

one hit.”

He pushed at her playfully, “One? What about Falstaff? I swear I was about

to fetch their surgeon.”

She pressed in on the old scar at the base of his neck. She'd given him that

one night after an argument. He had learned his lesson. “You have lost your

mind. Don’t you know? I’m the Deep Woods Witch. You will never defeat me.”

She laughed, hold him down. Then her body gave a sudden jerk, and she

was silent.

“Alright, Morgan, you’ve had your fun. Let me up.”

The smile on her face had shifted to a painful confusion, as her hands

pressed against the red spot growing across her robe.

“Morgan, that’s enough. Morgan?”

He could feel her body go slack. He freed himself from beneath her, only to

see the shaft sticking out from her back.

“Sir Willim. Sir Willem,” cracked a voice from the trees, “Sir Willem, are you

okay?”

Still in shock, he could only mutter one word. “Peter?”

Peter Boothe rushed to the knight’s side, gasping for air. “I’m sorry, Sir

Willem. I followed you. Wanted to prove I was ready. Are you okay? I thought

you were dead for sure.”

Willem Meade wrenched the spear tip from her back. Cradling her in his

arms, he would not look at the boy as he spoke, “Go home, Peter.”

“But, Sir Willem, I mean, I just. The Deep Woods Witch.”

“LEAVE ME!”

The boy took a few steps back before running off into the Great Wood.

It was evening by the time he had readied the pyre. In the clearing, amidst

the ruins, the flames licked the sky as her body burned to ash. He whispered,

“Lord, your humble servant asks you absolve this woman of her sins.”

With the fire still burning, Willem Meade walked into the Great Wood.

Three years later, a package arrived at the brotherhood’s headquarters in

Karass. On a piece of vellum, scratched in a dark red ink, was written the words

For Peter Boothe. It was wrapped in cloth unlike anything they had seen. White,

shimmering cloth with odd decorations, marred by reddish brown stains. Inside,

they saw the insignia of the Order of Saint Michael emblazoned on battered

armor.