Witch of Fear [Mild horror, Isekai High Fantasy]

 

Nethlia, Inferni 

Solid iron met a leonine skull at the apex of a brutal swing. 

Nethlia ignored the beast-man’s howl of agony as she swung again. With tremendous force powered by her all-encompassing fury, she crashed her weapon into her foe’s head again. The blow swept him off his feet to crash down into a pile of tangled limbs and pained whimpering on the rocky ground. 

As the bestial man tried to rise, his blood-shot eyes looked up, only to be confronted by a furious pole-hammer and a deafening roar. 

A splatter. A crunch. Then silence. 

Nethlia heaved her weapon free of the skull with a grunt. Her hot breath steamed in the cold, stale air of the cavern as her body radiated a hearth’s worth of rage’s heat. 

It felt like she’d been fighting for hours by now. 

At first, the lion-headed men had come open-armed and friendly. With silvered tongues that spoke fluent Infernal, they offered the gift of aid, of sanctity and guidance in these dark, lost tunnels. Their words were soft and placid, but spoken in a strange melancholy that set Nethlia’s instincts alight with caution.

Their aid was rejected. 

It was then that the beast-men revealed their true colors. 

They became aggressive. 

With unbelievable strength and sharp claws, they fought like the beasts they took after. By the time the last of them fell to blade and hammer, many adventurers and guardsmen lay wounded or dead. 

Nethlia grimaced as she stretched out her aching limbs; her joints cracking and muscles seizing as she did so. A particularly stiff muscle in her neck locked up, sending a lance of pain skittering down her arm as it pinched on a nerve. 

Hissing in pain, she turned her back on the rapidly cooling corpse at her feet and took in the dark surroundings, only highlighted by the flicker of torchlight that betrayed their camp. 

Spread out before her was a dark lake, glittering like a field of diamonds as it reflected the watch fires. It sat imposingly large within the cavern, like a great sea hidden away. Even if one could see in this darkness, they’d fail to spot an end to it. It was as if the lake was the edge of the world. 

It very well could be for all anyone knew.

Somewhere high above was a pinprick of fading light: the place they’d fallen. 

Or that could just be an illusion cast by the warping dark. 

Who could tell?

Nethlia’s eyes were naturally drawn to a dark shape, enormous in size, lying half submerged in the black lake. The Tyrant lay dead in the surf, bleeding out into the waters, dyeing them red with the sheer weight of blood. All across its bulk ran lengths of ropes and nets, as adventurers scurried across like ants as they hacked apart the great bounty of hides and meat. 

Even from her position at the ‘gates’ of their camp, Nethlia could smell the intoxicating scent of roasting meats. The scent filled the air, most likely adding to the intensity and frequency of attacks by the local population, but it was a necessary risk; they needed all the preserved meat they could get. 

The longer they could go without resorting to eating the lion-men, the better. 

Was it still considered cannibalism if they were of different races?

Nethlia shook off the errant thought.

A pair of guardsmen gave Nethlia a look of wary respect as they passed her, heading to clear the corpses she’d left behind. Other members of the Duskguard who’d survived stood watch atop a hastily constructed and ramshackle barricade of roots, branches, and driftwood. As she passed through the gate–really just a gap in the walls–she nodded to them and they nodded back, if a tad cautiously.

There was still tension in the air, born of their late captain's actions.

Actions that the adventurers nor herself had forgotten, but in light–hah–of their current predicament, they shelved the grudge. At least for now.

Nethlia ignored their looks as she allowed her aching feet to take her through a meandering path of tents and rocks. Despite stumbling over three tent lines, she made it to her destination without issue.

The center of camp was dominated by a relatively clear area, only a large tent occupied this space. From it emitted the sour stretch of blood and death alongside the cries and howls of those in pain as the few healers still standing tended to them. Occasionally, a pair of somber and grim faced adventurers would carry out an unmoving body to be placed alongside others in condemningly silent rows. 

Nethlia’s gaze lingered on the dead for a moment before she turned back to the tent. 

Standing just outside of the entrance in deep conversation with one of the healers was an exhausted-looking Captain Arsit. Despite her blood-covered arms, the older Lepus woman stood with crossed arms, either oblivious or indifferent.

Facing the captain, she gruffly spoke. 

“No matter how many times you ask, my answer won't change: I can’t heal them any faster.” 

Captain Arsit’s voice cracked with tiredness and wear. “What exactly is the problem?”

“It’s this place, somehow it’s blocking our connection to the Goddess’ light. It’s as if we are walking in the domain of another deity, but if we are, it’s not one I recognize.” 

The captain rubbed at his tired eyes. “That is troubling. At least tell me we have enough supplies. I know we lost a lot of gear in the fall.”

The healer’s gruff demeanor softened as she took in the captain’s exhausted state. He, like Nethlia, had been pushing himself to the limit for hours. However, unlike her, who just hit things really hard, had to manage the defense of the camp, retrieval of supplies and personnel from the lake, organize the butchering of the Tyrant, and keep people’s morale from falling too low. 

So many of their friends were either missing or dead, Nethlia’s included. Keeping busy was the only thing staving off the panic and grief.

The healer spoke softer now. “We’ve enough supplies for now and the Goddess isn’t cut off fully. Thankfully, that healer-bard of Gilralei’s team survived and we’ve collected up as many healing potions as we could. For now, the worst of the wounded are stable, but we might have to decide who to prioritize soon.”

The weight of command settled itself over the poor man’s features, aging him a few decades in an instant. His eyes flickered over to Nethlia as he noticed her approach. Drawing in a solemn breath that filled his form, he spoke quietly but with a finality. 

“Do it. Try to keep as many alive as possible, but focus on getting as many people on their feet as you can.” 

The older woman nodded sharply before turning to leave. She gave Nethlia a curt nod as she entered the triage tent, disappearing into the blood-soaked gloom. 

Nethlia’s eyes lingered on her disappearing back before she wretched them to the other captain. “Problems?” she asked. 

Captain Arsit grunted tiredly. “Healing’s shot. Or so they said. So, don’t get hurt.” 

The captain’s words were filled with a sardonic heat that wasn’t lost on Nethlia. Already she could feel the aches and pains creeping up on her, making her slower and slower. 

Her arm still tingled with fuzzy pain. 

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Nethlia didn’t know if she believed her own words, let alone if the other captain did. Thankfully, he didn’t call her out on it. Eager to change the conversation, she latched onto a tidbit of information she’d overheard. 

“What’s this about another deity?”

Captain Arsit shifted in place as his eyes sought to pierce the black lingering at the edge of the torch light. He grunted. 

“No idea. Supposably the darkness is blocking out their connections. It’s too ‘thick’, too clingy. In their words, not mine.” His eyes shifted back to Nethlia. “Best keep this to ourselves. No need to cause a panic right now.” 

Nethlia nodded. 

Silence like a drumbeat lingered in between them as Nethlia chewed on her next words. It was like there was a lump in her throat, a boulder of anxiety and fear that she could not move no matter how hard she pushed. With a pure force of will she dragged them up and they tumbled out. 

“And Pyre? Is she…?” 

Even so she could not finish. Nethlia felt like she’d jumped feet first off a cliff and left her consciousness behind. 

Captain Arsit gave her a complicated, hesitant look as if he was balancing hope with expectation. A look that settled onto the veteran’s face with unwelcome familiarity. 

“She's alive, for now, but her prognosis isn’t good. The healers extracted the wood from her skull and healed her the best they could, but the fall and cold have complicated matters. They don’t know if she’ll ever wake up. I’m sorry.” 

Something broke inside Nethlia. It shattered like a rock through a pane of glass. A tense jaw was all that belied that fact as she stared a hole in the leather of the tent. 

Once more she’d failed. 

It was only the guidance of luck that led her to spot the dying ember of flaming hair in the dark water. 

“And the others?”

Captain Arsit sighed. He’d been doing that a lot lately. 

“No sign of anyone else. The last headcount put us at just under half our original number. Captain Gilralei is down to just herself and Ralkik, her healer. Two of the Red Scorpions are unaccounted for, however, given their skill-set I don’t think they’ve perished. Captain Xiltuil is currently out searching the underwater tunnels.”

“What of the Duskguard and Rain Knights? I’ve seen a few at the perimeter, but I’ve not got a good count.” Nethlia asked. 

“They suffered the worst of it.” Captain Arsit’s eyes shifted to the rows of silent dead. “Most of the Rain Knights are dead; drowned under the weight of their armor. Of the Duskguard who survived, they did so by abandoning most of their gear, so we’ve got more bodies than weapons.”

“On a more positive note, we won’t be hurting for meat in a while.” He nodded toward the Tyrant being butchered. “We’ve got enough to feed a city. If we can smoke enough of it before the locals catch on, we’ll be set on that front.”

“For those of us less carnivorously inclined, we’ll need to ration carefully. I don’t know what kind of flora grows in this place. Less so what is edible.”

A rush of air escaped the captain. It took Nethlia a moment to realize it was a laugh—a huff of some dark amusement. 

At her raised brow the other captain sought to explain his amused exhalation. 

“Dragon-blood meat is worth twice its weight in gold. If we’d killed it on the surface, all this meat would be bound for the capital at a premium price. Now we’ll be eating away at our profits, but dining better than even the empress herself. I just found that amusing. Forgive me. I’m rather tired, it seems.”

Nethlia snorted.

“That is funny. Any other time, I’d be down there too, salivating over what to cook first.”

The silence descended on them once more, lingering like a bad smell. Nethlia’s heartbeat sounded louder than war-drums in her ears as she stared out into the gloom that drank the light. She tried to swallow down the anxiety stuck in her throat to little avail. 

Clearing her throat, Nethlia gestured to the medical tent. “Do you mind if I check on my girl? I won’t get in the way, will I?” 

Captain Arsit shook his head. 

“Go ahead. They moved her to the side as soon as she was stable, so you won’t get in the way much. Do try not to get on Josseline’s nerves too much; she’s already under a lot of stress as it is.”

Nethlia thanked the captain before entering the tent, ducking habitually under the low–at least for her–ceiling. 

A cramped interior greeted her, just as she expected. To each side of the tent ran rows of wounded men and women in varying states of injury. Bandages wrapped hastily around grievous, ragged wounds had turned scarlet. The acrid smell of medicine and blood filled the air in a miasmic haze alongside the moans and cries of the wounded, begging and crying for aid or relief. 

Even the most stoic of them could not simply bite their teeth as they clutched at the horrid, oozing wounds.

Nethlia pushed past the sights with practiced ease, all the while searching for her teammate. She found the young alchemist nestled within the non-critical wounded—those too injured to fight, but not injured enough to require extra healing.

As Nethlia knelt she took in the wounded girl. 

Pyre looked tiny, swallowed up by the bandages and blankets. The girl’s pale face was wrapped up tight in red-stained bandages. Not a scrap of the horrid injury could be seen, but Nethlia could remember the brief glimpse she’d seen as she rescued the young Ingis Lutum.

The shaft of splintered wood had entered just below the right eye-socket into her cheek, shattering the bone there and near ripping her nose clean off. 

Even if the natural hot-running girl survived the cold that ravaged her body, she’d likely never recover properly from this wound; she’d bear the scars forever. Nethlia was unaware of any spells or potions that could fix such scars. 

Maybe Autumn could do it? Or even Pyre herself could whip something up?

Nethlia held Pyre’s hand tight. The smaller hand disappeared into her larger ones. 

“Hey. Enough sleeping girl. We’ve a group to find, they’re out there waiting on us.” 

Only soft, shallow breathing was her reply. 

A whisper so quiet that even ghosts wouldn’t hear it escaped a pair of red, bitten lips. 

“Come on Pyre, wake up. I can’t do this alone.”

Silence.