The Witch of Eisenwald

The north wind came down over the Crystal Lake like a great hand from the mountains to rake its frozen fingers across the valley. There, it swept unchallenged through the bare fields of Eisenwald, and shook the evergreens of the surrounding forest with a violence that felt wholly undeserved. Its presence heralded the deepening of winter, driving away the lingering joy of the Solstice celebrations and replacing it with despair.

There was a heaviness in the air that afternoon, as though the thickening sky was a harbinger not merely of another snowfall, but of something far worse. The wind was rising, whistling through the streets of Eisenwald, rattling shutters and sweeping the snow into swirling drifts. Perhaps it was the way the distant peaks had vanished behind a wall of approaching gray, or the sharp, needling bite of the cold against bare skin, that set the townsfolk on edge. They walked quickly, heads down, their breath curling in the brittle air, as though refusing to acknowledge that by nightfall, their world would be unrecognizable.

In the quiet of this frozen evening, leaning against the stone wall of his tower, Elias felt the weight of the wind and the deep, creeping ache it left in his chest. It had changed in the last hour—no longer a steady cold, but restless, shifting, filled with the promise of snow. Pursing his lips, he cast a long gaze upward at the slate-gray sky and furrowed his brow. The clouds were thickening, heavy and low, stretching across the heavens like a great woolen curtain. A storm was coming. A real one. He could feel it settling in his ribs, as certain as the turning of the stars. Whenever it snowed like this, his lungs ached, and every movement felt as if there was an iron collar encircling his neck.

He was, for better or worse, accustomed to the pain, and he’d been anticipating a storm for the better part of a week. Storms meant different things to wizards, after all. Where the unenlightened saw signs and portents, he saw a beautiful symphony of air, water, and lightning. Or, in the case of such frigid winter storms, the biting, snarling cavalcade of wind and snow.

The wind howled against the tower, rattling the shutters with sharp, staccato bursts. Elias twitched. For a moment, his contemplation of the natural world was stripped away, and he was brought back to reality with a cringe. There was a certain irony to the way that each violent gust made him flinch, like a frightened child, when the storm held not even a morsel of the power that he himself could wield.

There were many such incongruities that people wouldn’t have associated with him. Those who feared him behind his back called him the Witch of Eisenwald and used his existence to frighten their children into bed at night. People gossiped that his arrival three months ago had heralded the early frost, or that on the day he’d arrived, a pair of devils had been spotted dancing along the shores of the Crystal Lake.

None of this was true, of course. Elias had no control over the weather, nor any desire to consort with demons. Of the latter, Old Martha had all but beaten the idea out of him years ago.

“Not once, not ever, will you so much as think about following the path of diabolism,” she’d cautioned. “The Fallen may hold power, but their gifts carry a heavy price. None but fools take up a demon’s offer. Keep to the Old Ones, and leave the Fallen for the damned.”

As far as it went, that advice had been rather straightforward, yet the old woman had always liked her lessons that way. Demons were always, without exception, malevolent creatures, and consorting with them typically invited unpleasant consequences. That much was true. And while the Elder Gods were not without their own dangers, their worship did not inevitably lead to destruction. So Elias kept far away from demons.

Shaking his head and drawing his pipe from his satchel, the necromancer cast a suspicious glance toward the skyline.

“Soon,” he muttered. “Any minute now...”

He packed his pipe with minty, analgesic herbs and lit it with a snap of his fingers. A lovely, cerulean blue flame danced upon the bowl for a brief instant, and he smiled. Fidgeting against the side of the crumbling tower, Elias drew a long puff and let the soothing fumes fill his lungs. The pain began to ease, and he sighed, blowing a plume of thick, aromatic smoke into the air and shaping it to resemble a rose. An apprentice’s trick, perhaps, but one that always brought a smile to his face when his fits grew troublesome.

Looking up along his tower, its vine-choked stones gleaming in the dim light of an overcast dusk, Elias’ expression softened. He wasn’t overly fond of Eisenwald itself, nor its residents, but this old stone sentinel was rather beautiful. Built on the north side of town, close enough to the outskirts that he could walk into the wilderness when he wished, yet near enough to make travel into the markets simple, the structure had provided Elias the perfect, lonely home. Snow had gathered in the crevices of the roof, weighing heavy upon the crumbling stone, and icicles hung like silent sentinels from the ramparts.

Bigger than a house, yet not quite so large as a proper wizard’s tower, it had once been occupied by the Imperial Army as a watch post. Such was Eisenwald’s insignificant status that the garrison had withdrawn fifty years ago, and the villagers had since forgotten it entirely, save for the occasional ruffian who broke in to cause mischief. Now, after many weeks of hard labor, it was beginning to show a hint of its former glory.

Already, Elias had cleared the cobwebs and mice, repaired the floorboards and window shutters, and restored the long-dormant hearth. The crumbled remnants of its once-fearsome defensive wall were overgrown with weeds and rosebushes, and no longer protected anything, merely demarcating the boundary between his property and the neighbors’ to the south. Still, he considered it progress, given the short timeframe, and more than sufficient for a lone necromancer and his admittedly lowly ambitions.

What pleased him the most about his little home was the garden. Gardens were essential for any respectable alchemist. Not merely content with having food on the table, Elias had a deep-seated love for growing things. All throughout his youth, Old Martha had maintained a lovely, thriving plot of flowers, herbs, and vegetables behind their small, cramped cottage. He’d grown to love it and, much to the witch’s annoyance, would spend hours observing the small things that inhabited it.

Now his own garden easily rivaled that of his mentor, stretching for almost four acres around the tower and reaching all the way to the wall. Even now, in the heart of winter, it remained impossibly alive. The air around the plants shimmered faintly, a sign of the enchantments woven into the soil. Various shades of emerald, each darker and more vibrant than the last, signaled a fertile healthiness that should have been impossible. Would have been, were he not a wizard. There had been some early struggles, of course. Elias had exhausted himself on multiple occasions, charging the frozen earth with magic, yet he’d persevered. The rewards were plain to see—while the rest of Eisenwald remained buried under ice and frost, life still clung stubbornly to this place.

Because of that, even in the face of encroaching winter, life was thriving here. Despite the chill in the air, the butterflies and bumblebees had not yet disappeared. They remained, dancing amidst the oddly blooming rosebushes, and the sight warmed his soul. It was a secret, unspoken rebellion against death itself and filled him with a deep contentment that was difficult to find in these turbulent times.

Another blast of wind howled through the valley, drawing his attention to the northwest, towards the mountains. Towards Eredon. Without realizing it, Elias grimaced, drawing another puff from his pipe and staring in silent consternation across the frozen expanse of the lake.

Civil war. And not some half-hearted peasant’s revolt, but a legitimate schism within the Holy Empire. King Alaric of Eredon had, only a few weeks ago, refused to renew his oath of fealty to the Emperor. Why, precisely, none were sure. His declaration had not included a list of grievances, but rumor spoke of Alaric’s covetous gaze toward the fertile valleys of western Caliban, as well as the long-simmering disputes surrounding the Church of Heru.

To make matters worse, when the Empire had sent a delegation of magistrates to negotiate, Alaric had them drawn and quartered and sent their heads back to Rosenheim in a barrel of brine.

Such an execution was nearly unheard of these days, especially against members of the aristocracy. The very notion made Elias shudder. Eighteen men had been butchered like cattle, for no crime save the fact that they were appointed agents of the Emperor. To be killed so gruesomely, and as punishment for the mere delivery of a message...

A snowflake, dry and weightless, settled on his cheek, banishing the ugly thoughts from the young wizard’s mind. Then another, and another, spiraling down in decidedly vicious flurries. The wizard scowled and retreated into the tower, throwing the door open just in time to escape the first gust of whirling snow.

He ran a hand through his hair, brushing damp strands away from his face. It was getting long again—perhaps too long. He made a note to trim it, though he knew he likely wouldn’t. It fell past his shoulders in dark waves, stubbornly unruly no matter how often he smoothed it back. The villagers probably thought it made him look all the more like some haunted specter, creeping about in his tower.

Not that he cared what they thought. He knew well enough what they whispered—that he was some wretched, skeletal phantom, or else a withered old corpse kept animate by unholy rites. The truth was far less dramatic. He was thin, yes—perhaps more than he should be—but hardly sickly. His frame, though lean, carried the wiry strength of a man accustomed to long hours of study and travel. His face, sharp-boned and angular, might have been called handsome were it not for the ever-present air of weariness that settled over him like an old cloak. The kind that made a man look older than his years.

Perhaps it was the eyes. Gray, like tempered steel, cold as the storm-heavy skies over the lake. They were the first thing most people noticed about him, and the last thing that made them comfortable. He had seen the way they looked at him—uneasy, wary, avoiding his gaze as if they feared he might see into their very souls. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction. People did not enjoy being scrutinized by a necromancer.

Elias exhaled softly, shaking his head as he reached for his pipe. It was funny, in a way. By all accounts, he was unremarkable. Not monstrous, not striking—just another man with long black hair, weary eyes, and a face a little too sharp for comfort. And yet, people still feared him.

Perhaps it was not his face they feared, but the weight of the unseen things that lingered behind his gaze.

With a shiver, the necromancer descended the stone stairs and felt the temperature begin to plummet. With a wave of his hand, the hearth stirred, and the fire he’d laid that morning sparked to life with a soft roar. The warmth rushed over him in waves, chasing the last bite of the cold from his limbs. Sighing contentedly, he stepped into the light and knelt, stoking it into a large, blazing conflagration that set his shadow dancing across the rounded walls of the tower.

Most of the main floor was a single, open room. In the center was a crude table, littered with alchemist’s tools and books. Against the north wall was a cot with a simple straw mattress, and opposite was a wooden chest containing Elias’ meager collection of clothes and supplies. Along the edges of the chamber were rows upon rows of glass jars, flasks, and bottles, each carefully filled with liquids, potions, powders, and the various accoutrements of his craft. All of these were suspended at eye level upon a slightly uneven shelf.

It was an impressive collection, and had taken the wizard months to assemble. As he walked closer, still trailing ribbons of fragrant smoke from the corner of his mouth, he observed the assortment with a practiced eye. Flasks of thick, silvery mercury glinted in the firelight. Bundles of dried flowers hung from the rafters. Beakers of purified oils reflected the red and orange glow of the hearth, as if illuminated by a tiny spark from within. Amid the myriad glassware, bits of metal and wire, and bundles of exotic flora, there were two objects that stood out from the rest.

One was a rod of yew wood, about the length of his forearm and sharpened to a point. It was perfectly smooth and completely white, with the color and texture of fresh-cut ivory. Such was the ease and precision with which it had been crafted that it might have been carved from a bar of soap. Or sculpted from a lump of butter. It was unadorned, except for a scrap of parchment affixed to its haft.

Elias glanced at the wand, as he often did, before his eyes came to rest on the second object. A human skull, bereft of its lower jawbone and cracked on the left side where it had been struck by a heavy blow. It was an ancient thing, found alone in the woods within a jumble of bones and rusted chainmail. A forgotten memory, belonging to a forgotten person and lost to a forgotten age. How long had it laid there, invisible beneath the windfalls and moss? Long enough for all flesh to have faded away, and for the bleaching effects of rain and sun to turn it to a crisp, alabaster white.

“It’s snowing again, my friend” he said. With a deft motion, Elias drew his pipe from his mouth and tapped out the smoldering herbs into his palm. “Just as well. Gives me the chance to continue our discussion.”

Taking the artifact delicately in both hands, Elias rose, took a seat at the table, and placed the skull atop the closest stack of books. The eye sockets stared back at him, black and hollow, but it almost seemed as if a wry glint of amusement still resided within that lifeless gaze. Or perhaps his own reflection merely played tricks on the eyes.

“So if memory serves, you were a crusader, and participated in the suppression of the Children of the Blood some fifty years ago?” He smeared ashes across the skull’s forehead and set the pipe aside. “Care to elaborate on the particulars?”

Lighting a trio of small candles, arranged in a triangle, the wizard took his seat, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. Softly, scarcely loud enough to be audible, even to his own ears, he began to whisper. Words flowed from his lips, as calming and incomprehensible as the crashing of waves against the shoreline. In time, his hand fell into his lap, and he relaxed, muscles losing all tension as the incantation reached its conclusion.

<It is cloudy. There are screams. Why is there ever so much screaming when the end comes?>

Elias opened his eyes and smiled. “That’s the problem with ghosts,” he explained. Reaching out, he prodded the skull until it faced him squarely. “You’ve all got the memory of a fish. If I want to get any sort of conversation out of you, we’ve got to keep things moving forward.”

<Virgil! It is the middle of the day, yet there is darkness. Shadows smother everything.>

“Yes, yes, the Children of the Blood.” Leaning back in his chair, Elias reclined and frowned thoughtfully. “Curious how they seem to cause so much fear, even after their defeat.”

<Destruction, yes! Many a brave soul has gone to be with Heru of late, Virgil! Those accursed nightstalkers. They could be the very riders coming over the rise, and we’d not know until they are upon us! Red skies and black stars. Where is the sun? Why is the Worm chewing a hole in my side? Have I been slain already?>

The wizard sighed, resting a hand on the bridge of his nose as the candlelight danced across his fingers. “Virgil? A friend of yours I take it?”

<Never had friends like him since we took up the sword together. Never shirked his duties. Been an anchor around my neck since boyhood! Where are you, Virgil? Demons in the courtyard. Witches too. Can’t trust any of them. The grass is red.>

“I’m afraid he isn’t here,” Elias said gently. “But that’s all right. There are better places. And in time, I’m sure you’ll see him again.”

<The voices, Virgil. Can you hear them? Around the camp? Screaming, cursing, damning us, mocking Heru. How do they speak through me without my consent? What dreadful elixir have the heathens slipped into the food?>

“Something is wrong...”

The necromancer reached out with one finger and slowly traced the contours of the skull’s brow and eye sockets. His movements were gentle, delicate, like a mother caressing the forehead of her sickly child.

<Why is the sky red, Virgil? Why is it so cold? Was I not faithful enough? Why has Heru abandoned me?>

“What are you seeing, old soldier?” Elias breathed. “I am having a hard time making sense of it.”

<The Worm is hungry, Virgil. She slithers and writhes, within my head. Heru above, why is the sky red?>

Elias frowned. It was the third time, in as many days, that he’d communed with the spirit. Each time, the impressions from the realm beyond had been distorted, broken, and indistinct. He’d spoken before with souls of Herunians. While the faith of the Empire was not especially welcoming to necromancers and other magic users, the faithful departed often carried such warmth and serenity within their spirits that it brought an immense joy to experience. Not so this time. This soldier’s soul was as tormented as one consigned to Hell. But this was no hell. Even amidst the garbled and jumbled nonsense, he could make out some semblance of structure.

The Worm. He knew that name. The Devourer of Souls, the Hungry Mother. Yzalb.

The Children worshipped this thing. Fed this thing. But what was she? How could he hold her at arm’s length?

<It hurts, Virgil. The Worm is everywhere. She burrows deep inside the earth, behind the red stars and shadows. And the cold is worse than fire. She wants us. Demands us. I have done Heru’s will. Why did He abandon me?>

This was not the first time Elias had drawn forth a soul in torment. But until now, every such soul had belonged to those damned by their actions in life. Sinners whose acts were so foul that their fate in the afterlife was never in question. Why then did he perceive a similar energy from this virtuous crusader? What did the Children do to him?

The wind slammed the shutters again, breaking the wizard’s reverie and bringing him back to reality. For a moment, the candles seemed to dim, and Elias blinked a few times. Leaning forward, he placed the end of his fingertips on the skull and spoke very gently.

“Poor tormented soul, what exactly is the Worm?”

The response was swift and brought an unbidden shiver up the necromancer’s spine. He already knew the answer. He just didn’t want to hear it.

<The Worm is Legion. The Worm is Hunger. Don’t listen to her, Virgil! Don’t let her see inside of you. Keep the words away. The Worm is searching, Virgil. The Worm is growing. Growing! Stay here! Don’t look at the sky! Why is everything red? So many, Virgil! Countless millions, devouring each other from inside! Heru help us. What is the Worm?>

Elias pushed aside his questions and reached out to the distressed spirit. This soul did not belong where the Worm was. Even Hell would have been more merciful than this.

“Worry not, brave soldier. I cannot undo the evil of your enemies, but you can rest now. You’ve suffered too much.”

<Faithful until death. Why do the heavens bleed? I want to go home, Virgil...>

“A name,” Elias pressed. “I must know your name in order to release you.”

<Who am I? My name? I am... Anton? Anton... Raachmann... But wait, who is speaking? Am I dead? Where is Virgil?>

“Hear me, Anton Raachmann,” Elias murmured. “I know not who Virgil is, and I am not he. I am Elias Schwarzhardt. I am a man, alive, here upon the earth, and I call to you from beyond the wall of death.”

<It hurts, Virgil... So cold... Who are you? Do not call to me. Don’t look. There’s only shadows. Empty and red and the earth is still and hollow and the Worm...>

“Listen to me, Anton. Hear my voice. Look at me through my eyes. Know that you are dead, but that it was not in vain. Those whom you fought, they were vanquished. They are no more, and all their wickedness could not triumph over you. The darkness in which you wander cannot hold you. Anton, can you hear me?”

<Not vanquished. Still searching. Fading. You cannot be Virgil. Too much life, too much breath. Where are we? Who are you? Where is Virgil?>

“His soul waits for you in another place. If you so choose, I can send you there, to wait with him, until the day of Heru’s judgment. From thence onward, you will rest. Are you ready, Anton Raachmann?”

<So many voices. Whispers. Don’t look at them. Blood in the shadows. Yes. Take me to Virgil. I want to go home.>

“I am Elias Schwarzhardt,” intoned the necromancer, “and by the writ of the Old Gods, I claim your soul from the darkness. The Worm has no power over the Old Gods. I speak the names of Shath-Addah and Shadranosh, and their children Hadditha, Adazath, Sha-Bethagg, and Sha-Haderath. I speak the name of Gloiganath, who holds the power of life and death. By the Old Gods, I tear you from the Worm. And I release you to your creator.”

No sooner had Elias spoken than the fire turned black. Smoke billowed from every candle and lantern, turning the room into an inky hell as all light faded away. The cold seemed to grow into a force unto itself, wrapping its tendrils around the necromancer’s face and chest and enveloping him like a second skin. Though he shuddered, the wizard did not move but stood resolute against the probing chill.

<Sunlight. Yes. That’s what it must be. His sword is as bright and welcome as the dawn. Look, Virgil! Do you see Him? Have you ever beheld such a thing?>

Slowly, the fire returned to its natural color, and the candles sparkled with the golden radiance of the heavens. Elias sank back into his chair with a soft groan, trembling with exertion.

“That,” he muttered, “was thoroughly unpleasant.”

Pushing himself upright, the wizard took up the skull. Weighing the thing carefully in his hands, he nodded in satisfaction, then allowed a small, happy smile to creep upon his features. He carried the artifact back to its place on the shelf and set it down gently.

“Thank you, Anton,” he said. “And goodbye. I doubt that we shall meet again. Hopefully, wherever you are now, there is sunlight enough to drive out all memory of the evil that tormented you.”

With that, he shuffled over to the cot and collapsed onto the straw mattress. His muscles ached from the cold and felt weak as water. Curling into the thin blanket and nest of worn-out pillows, he was asleep in moments, as the wind howled beyond the stone walls of his home, carrying with it the quiet whisper of falling snow.