Stiel set out at dawn. Stickle Pass wasn’t far from Windy Bridge, but the trail was rocky, twisted, and not suitable for a horse’s hooves. The green-haired Knight-in-Waiting didn’t want to risk his horse’s health for such a short trek, so he went by foot, the shield swung over his shoulder and the longsword in its scabbard by his side, helmet hanging by the belt.
“Beware the wise-woman,” was Falt’s parting words. “She is a witch and not to be trusted.”
The farmer had volunteered to accompany him, but Stiel had refused. “This is my task, and my battle,” he’d said, “and besides, I travel faster on my own.”
The chain-mail chafed, made him sweat. It felt heavier than usual.
The trek was uneventful, going first across the plains, with the supposedly giant-flung rocks and boulders, through Stickle Fields, where the grass was sharp and Stiel’s heavy boots saved his feet from cuts and scrapes. He climbed the Stickle Slide, falling to his knees twice due to treacherous rocks and slides, with small thorny bushes piercing his skin, finding their way in-between the rings of his chain-mail. He was glad he went by foot. The small mishaps didn’t bother him, in fact, Stiel was glad to actually spring to action. Melancholy wasn’t far away, thoughts of failing the Ceremonial Stand, accepting his fate as a Moranian foot soldier, crowded his mind during the trek. Every thorn and cut he got on the way was a welcome reminder that everything wasn’t over just yet.
He almost believed it.
* * *
The wise-woman’s hut was located in a copse of trees. Stiel ventured up the last slope cautiously, listening to the wind ruffling the trees. It was just past noon, and something didn’t feel right.
The Knight-in-Waiting saw tracks in the dirt, shuffling tracks all around actually. No sign of a struggle though, and there was a tiny trail of smoke coming from the hut in the shade of trees. The smoke bent and twirled as it found its way through the leaf-work, and into the wind, where it dissolved after a brief struggle.
“Enter, Knight!” croaked an old woman’s voice from inside the hut.
Stiel pushed the cloth covering the doorway aside and entered the gloomy hut. A thousand fragrances assaulted his mind, and a dampness at that. The hut was smoky, littered with books and kettles, dried spices and animals incased in bowls filled with liquid. There wasn’t a spot of the walls not covered by some trinket or dried fruit, branch, skin, twigs of some plant.
“Welcome,” croaked an old woman sitting by a small table. A mouse skittered across the floor, a spider creeping up her robed body. The hut felt infested with insects, bugs, parasites, and dirt.
“I am Stiel of the Uthrom highlands, Knight-in-Waiting,” said Stiel in a formal voice. “I have come to…”
“I know,” croaked the woman, and stood up with a snap of joints pained with old age. “I know why you have come and why you are here. Hush, fair knight.”
Stiel said nothing.
“I have been robbed,” said the woman slowly. “They stole a book. I want it back.”
“Who are they? And why did they steal a book?”
“Will you help me?” asked the woman, shuffling towards the Knight-in-Waiting. She barely reached his chest, and hadn’t even if her spine would have allowed her to stand straight, which it didn’t. The smell of sweat, blood and urine hit him then, hard and nauseating.
“I will,” said Stiel, and swallowed. “But you will have to tell me more.”
“Heh!” cackled the woman mirthlessly. “They stole my book. I want it back!”
“Who are they, lady?”
“Heh-heh! Lady indeed, lady I’m not, yet they stole it anyway. My book!” she cackled, tapped Stiel on his chest, sidestepped, and smiled a toothless smile. “They are the horrors of Spikerock, the robbers of the dark, the scum of Stickle Pass Beyond!”
Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Stiel. Finally, a task worthy of him, worthy a Knight-in-Waiting. A faint glimmer of hope of actually completing his Ceremonial Stand snuck up his spine, no matter how weird this woman may be, she is in distress, and robbed at that. “What more did they steal than this book?” he asked, almost containing his excitement of the prospects.
“Nothing!” the woman screamed shrilly. “Nothing that matters, nothing that matters!” she continued, calming down in an instant. “Get the book. They are hiding in Spikerock Schasm, just north of here.”
Stiel nodded. “I know where it is. Or about at least.”
The old woman half turned away, wrung her hands, and then lifted her gaze, for the first time meeting the Knight-in-Waiting’s eyes fully on. Stiel felt shaken by that look, warm and cold, aroused and sick all at once. The woman’s eyes were cloudy, the pupils floating with the yellowish whites. Dried blood and broken blood vessels warred with the eyelids, none able to subdue the unwavering powerful gaze.
“Find the book, and I will grant you your wish, as a reward. You will be a knight, Stiel of the Uthrom highlands”, she whispered in a voice not at all croaking and old. “Find the book, forget the rest, bring it to me, and I will make it happen.”
Stiel swallowed hard, squared his shoulders. “I will. How will I know it?”
“You will, it is the only book there,” the woman said, again with the croaking old voice. “Don’t open it! Don’t ever open the book! Best leave it if you cannot abhor to open it, fair knight. Do not open it!”
Stiel nodded. “Understood. I’ll go now,” he said and left the hut, glad to be out in the fresh air. Suddenly he felt how suffocating it had been in there. For some reason, he felt dirty and shaken, his knees suddenly weak. The green-haired Knight-in-Waiting shook it off with an effort, extending his stride away, finding his strength yet again.
“One more thing,” said the old woman, appearing in the doorway. Stiel turned to face her, standing by the edge of the copse of trees.
“Beware of the abominations of Spikerock Chasm,” she croaks in a voice that defies the fresh air, and almost doesn’t carry, barely high enough for Stiel to make out.
“They have been in the dark for too long.”