Witch of Fear [Mild horror, Isekai High Fantasy]

Autumn yawned as she gazed out over the Restless Mire. Her place upon the ruined walls surrounding the dead fort offered her an unparalleled view. The waterlogged bog crested up upon the crumbling walls and stretched off into the distance. Gravestones of calcified trees dotted the fetid waters as far as the eye could see. 

High above in the inky expanse of black and red, twin full moons hung. Their bright moon glows reflecting in the bog waters. 

Autumn resisted the temptation to howl. 

A deep chill rolled across the landscape and drove the low-lying fog into furious action. Autumn shivered as it bit into her; three layers of clothing proving to be a layer too few. Hot breath soothed frigid fingers before they tucked back beneath her armpits. 

Out in the mire, bright lights appeared. They ducked and danced in a mesmerizing display over the murky pools. Autumn watched, entranced.

“Wills-o’-the-wisp. Be careful not to lose yourself to their sway.”

Autumn turned to the speaker. Just cresting the weathered stone steps was one of the Lepus spearmen from Les Lames Du Crépuscule. Dressed in a silken padded gambeson, they looked far warmer than Autumn felt, but she didn’t envy the metal chainmail and bone chestplate they had to lug through the swampy terrain. 

She nodded politely as they joined her to watch out over the mire. 

“Harold de Vere, at your service.” 

He stretched out a hand in greeting that Autumn met.

“Witch Autumn.”

A silence descended over the pair. Other than playing a few games of Adventurer's Gambit and getting help from their captain in Everwatch, Autumn had little interaction with the larger group. To that point, she should probably thank them and apologize for her drunkenness.

“U-um, I haven’t thanked your captain yet for their aid back in Everwatch. I don’t know what might’ve happened if they hadn’t stepped in. C-could you pass on my thanks?”

“There’s no need for thanks mon ami, adventurers stick together, but I’ll let him know.”

Autumn ducked a grateful smile beneath the brim of her hat. As the chill of the night swept past them she spoke up once more. 

“Does your party operate around here much?” 

“Around Bogward or the Barony?”

Autumn shrugged. “Either.”

“Well, we’ve only been in the Barony for about a year or two. But this is our first time in the Restless Mire. The Duchy of Blonhofn has its own fair share of wetlands along the Dark Tide, so we are not too far out of our element.” 

“Is Blonhofn far from the Barony?”

Harold shook his head. 

“Not far at all. The Duchy of Blonhofn borders the Echea Empire to the east, just a few provinces over. We’re a vassal state, among a few others.” 

“Is it mainly Lepus folk in Blonhofn?” 

“Mostly, but there are quite a few Inferni in the cities along the border. How about yourself? Where do you hail from?”

“Me?...I’m just a wanderer really. Was born on the road, and my feet have carried me since.” 

Autumn shuffled nervously, clutching herself as the bitter winds and pouring rain cut into her. If Harold noticed her lies he didn’t say. The pair cast their eyes over the marshes brightly lit by the twin moons. 

“What…What about your captain? Was he in your army or something? I’ve noticed you guys seem more like a small army. Do you do much training?”

Harold puffed up in pride. 

“Captain Arsit Blontir once captained the Royal Guard of the Duchy. He protected the current ruling line for years before retiring to lead a force around the Empire to aid the people. He’s the pride of our nation, and I’m honored to be a part of his vanguard of righteousness. When it comes to training, we received the top-notch regimen that even trained the royal guard."

“T-that’s Impressive!” 

“Heh, That’s not all we—” 

An unholy scream cut off Harold’s words as it ripped through the night. Autumn was driven to her knees, clutching at her ears, by the painful resonance. Blood spotted her hands when she drew them away and the world grew muffled around her. She felt sick, her equilibrium ruptured. Looking up, she spotted Harold resting against the wall, blood trickling down his ears. He turned towards her to speak. His mouth opened and closed, but Autumn heard nothing. 

Pointing a finger at him she spoke in his mind. 

[Are you ok?! What was that?!]

Harold flinched as the creeping whispers invaded his mind. However, his shock only lasted a moment before he calmed. 

[I’m fine. That was a banshee’s scream. Be careful; when they wail it means death.]

Standing up on nauseous feet, Autumn steadied herself against a portion of the ruined wall. The world around her took on a treacherous tilt and her stomach rebelled. Autumn hurriedly lent over the side of the wall and puked down on the mire below. The wind shifted and with it came, not her own sick, but the stench of rotting meat and foul magic.

As Autumn watched the swamps, pinpricks of malicious intent awoke beneath the boggy water. 

Hands of decayed flesh and bone breached the fetid waters, soon followed by grinning skulls that oozed putrefied flesh. In droves, the rust-clad dead clawed their way to an unlife. Skeletal knights and soldiers who’d once called this fort home now arose with the very foes that murdered them. The drowned dead, bloated and lifeless, moved forward in a staggering or crawling march. A horde of death wielded unholy enmity in hollowed eyes and blades of rust in broken hands as they marched upon the living. 

Autumn watched on in horror as they carpeted the mire, stumbling through bogs and pools in an unrelenting march. 

Behind the crumbling walls, the adventurers and guardsmen scrambled about like an agitated hive of wasps; the banshee’s wail having unceremoniously awoken them. One of the Duskguards rushed up the stone steps while Autumn watched over the growing horde. 

The lone guardsman now stood in front of Harold, trying in vain to talk to him. 

The scent of death and rot was stronger than ever. 

Harold stood with his back to Autumn, blocking her line of sight to the newly arrived guardsman. She couldn’t see either’s face, but her instincts were screaming at her that something was wrong. She couldn’t explain it; perhaps it was the smell, the body language, or the deep well of hunger that didn’t belong in him. Maybe it was a combination of all three. Either way she was learning to trust her gut. 

Autumn drew her wand, pointing it out to the guardsman, but she was too late.  

A blade sprouted from Harold’s back in a spray of crimson, punched through the gaps in the armor. Harold attempted to fight back, but the guardsman was surprisingly strong. In a flash, the guardsman’s face twisted to a horrifying visage of a rotting face with far too many needle-like teeth. The ghoul bit down on Harold’s exposed throat and ripped a chunk free. Swallowing the gore, the ghoul’s face twisted once more and changed into Harold’s face. 

The ghoul grinned at her with evil intent. Its foul stench remained in the air. A lifeless corpse dropped to the stones with a soundless clatter before beginning to twitch with unlife. 

Autumn lashed out with a Jinx of Fear. It splashed harmlessly across the false-form of Harold, for what did the dead have to fear? 

The ghoul grinned in triumph, stalking ever closer. 

Autumn hurriedly scrambled back, but in her nausea and disorientation, she slipped on the rain-slick stones and went tumbling over the edge of the wall. To her fortune, it was the camp’s side. In a soundless scream she fell, gazing up at the surprised face of the False-Harold. Her back met with the spongy loam soil and the air was driven from her lungs. Gasping, she rolled over till she gazed out towards the camp. Through hazy eyes, she spotted Captain Arsit as he rallied the defenses. 

Luckily, she didn’t need air to send a whisper into his mind.

[Shapeshifter! Harold’s Dead!]

Captain Arsit gaze snapped over to her before gazing up at the wall where False-Harold stood. A hard look crossed his face and all she got back over her magic was a single hard word. 

[Alright.]

As she was lying there, trying to recapture her breath, she remembered a titbit of folklore about the banshees: they are the predictors and herald of death. Autumn was just wondering whether the wailing was for Harold or her.

Autumn’s morbid musings halted as she was grasped by her coat and hauled up. She thrashed about, attempting to free herself of the iron grasp until her eyes landed upon her captor. Nethlia held the witch up like a wet kitten. She mouthed something at her, but Autumn only heard a buzz of static. She pointed to her ears while shaking her head.

[I can’t hear. There’s an undead horde outside the walls and some sort of shapeshifters inside.]

Nethlia frowned.

[Well shit. Wait, can she hear this?! Quick, Nethlia, don’t think about how cute she is…FUCK!]

Autumn fought down the inappropriate blush and the quirk on her lips. 

Nethlia carried Autumn like precious, if a tad muddy, cargo over to a frazzled-looking Pyre. The alchemist quickly applied a few drops of healing potion into her ears and prevalent fuzziness was replaced by the symphony of the dead: a rattling of ten-thousand bones mixed with a thousand putrid voices rising in concordant discord.

Her warning about the horde seemed redundant now.

“Did you get cut?” Pyre asked insistently, drawing Autumn’s attention back. “Ghouls have toxic claws. If you get clawed, I need to get you an antidote as soon as possible.”

Autumn shook her head.

“No, no cuts. Just a bit sore from the fall.”

Pyre breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Alright. Here, take an Alchemist Fire with you. Shake, then throw, and be careful with it.” Pyre thrust a bright orange potion in Autumn’s hands, which she took gingerly; she’d seen what they could do. 

With her hearing healed, Autumn focused back on the battle ongoing. A shield wall formed between each of the crumbling gaps in the wall. The horde of mangled flesh and bone crashed against braced shields like a wave of grasping limbs. Over the heads of the defenders, spears and halberds lanced and felled a score of undead with each sweep or blow. 

Yet more and more dead came. 

Captain Arsit bellowed commands across the battlefield. 

“Dig in on those bloody flanks! Captain Ekrus, take over the left; it’s buckling under the dead-ogres! Archers, I want you on those walls now! Hold lads, the clerics will have us buffed in no time!”

Spotting Autumn and Nethlia approaching, he paused in his shouting to address her. 

“Witch Autumn, can you pick out those shapeshifters?”

Autumn nodded; she remembered the smell, the bottomless hunger. 

“Good. Take one of my clerics with you; they can burn away any disguise they hold. I’m trusting you with a commissarial command: the authority to execute anyone you deem a ghoul.” He gave Autumn a hard look. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Autumn gulped. 

“Undead Giant!” A call came up from the lines as something heavy boomed in the distance. Captain Arsit swore as he turned back the breaking lines. 

“Don’t you dare step back! Hold that line!”

From the back ranks stepped forth fiery retribution in the form of a familiar cleric; the very same that’d healed Autumn before. She smiled grimly at the pair. Not a drop of foul ichor marred her white and gold vestiges. 

“Witch Autumn, I didn’t introduce myself last time. My name is Yvanne de Seguzzo. We are going Ghoul hunting, yes?” 

In her eyes was the wrath of a goddess. 

The trio quickly scoured the camp for the lurking ghouls. They found three with ease, lurking in the middle of the camp, hoping to feast upon the wounded. Hunger gave away while holy flame and heavy hammer sent them back to their bog-graves. The fourth was no more difficult to find: the beast yet to shed its Harold guise. With a roar of anguish, Yvanne unleashed her holy wrath upon the creature wearing her friend’s face. As the ash danced upon the wind, she bid them thanks and headed back to the lines. 

Autumn rushed towards the walls, holding the Alchemist’s Fire carefully. 

Standing on top of the ruined walls was Edwyn, alongside the other ranged fighters: casters, archers, bards and rogues. They cast down runes, arrows, and magic on the teeming horde below. Their aid proved invaluable for the ease they gave the spear-walls for a few moments of breath amidst the carnage. 

Autumn held her Alchemist’s Fire high and waited for the prime opportunity. Too soon and she’d catch her own in the conflagration, too late, and she’d spend 15 gold on a glorified campfire. She waited a beat until a cluster of zombies approached. With a heave, she chucked it hard. It spiraled end over end until it cracked off a zombie’s head and splashed unquenchable fire. 

The smell was horrendous.

Autumn gagged. 

It took two more hours of fighting before the horde fell once more. Autumn’s arms shook with exhaustion as she released a bone-white grip on the spear she’d borrowed, its end coated in tainted gore. Sucking in a deep breath of befouled air, she staggered over to the ruined wall and slid down it, drawing her knees to her chest.

In the quiet dead of night, she wept and wished she was home.