Chapter 2: Run, Witch, Run

Discarded leaves and fallen branches crunching viciously underfoot, they betrayed every hurried step as Tilla ran through the forest. Her heart pounding against the confines of her chest and lungs burning from the strain, they beseeched her to stop. However, Tilla knew she could not as the shouts of men could still be distinguished some seventy paces behind her. Unsure for how much longer she would be able to evade the relentless pursuit, she crashed through thick limbs of foliage in the dark wood. Their barbs and sharp thorns scraping against Tilla as she rushed past, she thought back to the events which had brought her here.

“I’m telling you! I have a bad feeling about this Rogan.” a voice erupted from inside the humble but moderately sized home. Recognizing the high-pitched premonition to have been issued by the headstrong and resilient young woman who was known to be Rogan’s wife. Tilla heard an irritated reply to follow shortly after, “Do not fret over these matters, Merda. Strathmede has never seen a war and likely never will!” The dismissal, evidently coming from a room just off of the entryway, Tilla found that her fist hovered over the surface of the door. Unsure of whether to knock and expose the fact that she had mistakenly encountered the end of their conversation or if she should linger longer under the little awning above the entry so as to feign ignorance. 

Tilla finally concluded that she was not one to conform to this sort of social discretion. Announcing herself with a curt knock on the door, the noise caused those inside to fall silent for a moment. Imagining there to be some mimed debate towards who amongst them was to open the door in the brief pause that occurred afterward, Tilla eventually heard the sound of footsteps therein. This, succeeded by a rattling of the lock on the other side of entry, a thin gap was made in the doorway. A pair of brown eyes poking out from behind the wooden barrier, they blinked at her quizzically for an instant before identifying Tilla as their guest. Permitting the opening to become wider, the light from the gaslamp Merda held spilled out onto the step as she asked, “Tilla? What brings you back here?” 

The woman’s head, tilting in the curious little way that a bird might inspect a freshly tilled field, she continued to regard Tilla from her position in the doorway. Smiling mildly at the trivial question that was meant to distract her from the discussion she had been a reluctant eavesdropper to earlier, Tilla replied congenially, “I’m just checking in on you and Rogan.” Feeling the explanation an unnecessary ruse as Merda’s recent bouts of severe morning sickness and Rogan’s iron deficiency had stipulated that frequent visits be made to the residence over the last week. Tilla nonetheless played along in order to fulfill her quota for the amount of pointless smalltalk that would grant her access to the home. 

  

Caring little for the couple’s personal squabbles, let alone the current hearsay from the capital that fuelled it, she was content to claim ignorance towards the matter. Already subjected to the seemingly endless retellings of the Red Witch’s latest antics by the other patients she had visited that day, Tilla wished to avoid another rendition of how the sorceress had returned only the heads of the Antheon emissaries back from Vinhalla. The incident, a clear provocation from the neighboring country, had brought the fear of war closer to a reality for the people of Strathmede. The development, an unsightly interruption to her otherwise tranquil provincial life, Tilla hoped to ignore the concern of confrontation until it could be usurped by some other frivolous gossip.

“It’s really kind of you to look in on us like this.” Merda said, stepping aside for her to enter. The door closing behind Tilla, she replied, “It’s what I’m here for, Merda.” Pragmatism rather than modesty tainting her tone, the woman returned a nod with only a fraction of the polite smile that had existed previously. Merda ushering her into a separate room off of the entryway, Tilla glanced around at its familiar rustic furnishings. The dining table, already set with cutlery and dishes positioned across from one another, and a matching pair of upholstered chairs placed on a rug near the burning hearth. Tilla eyed Rogan attentively as she removed the shawl from her head. Noting the improvements in his complexion, whilst he sat in one of the chairs next to the fire. Rogan continued to bounce an infant on his knee as he repeated the same uninspired greeting, “Tilla, back again already?” 

Unwilling to participate in the charade of pleasantries another time, Tilla’s eyes rolled towards the table. Barely regarding the contented picture beside the fireplace, she slipped a cloth satchel from her shoulder and plonked it down between the two plates on the table. The vials inside clinking slightly as she riffled through them, Tilla redirected the conversation, “I spoke with your neighbors, Rogan. They are all willing to lend you a hand for the sowing season.” Her speech interspersed with the faint noise of the items she summoned from the bag, Tilla began to orient the sachets of medicine and glass containers in accordance with their labels in the empty surface between the place settings.

“You didn’t need to do that, Tilla.” Replied Rogan from his seat. A vague crease forming on his brow, it was evident he remained moderately unwilling to accept the aid offered to him. Tilla’s lips puckering together minutely upon reviewing his response, she answered, “Rogan, you have a child that needs you and another on the way. This is not the time to run yourself into the ground for the sake of your ego.” 

Rogan’s objections towards the proposal curtailed mildly by Tilla’s chastisement, any further remarks he might have held towards the notion were promptly interrupted by a frantic pounding on the door. The agitated noise, generating a collective confusion amongst the occupants of the house, each looked at one another in varying degrees of bewilderment. The likely suspects already present, all within seemed disinclined to discover who it was that remained on the opposite side of the door at such a late hour of the day. However, Rogan’s eyebrows joining together to form a stern look, he was the first to make a motion. The child emitting a brief whine as he stood from his seat, he was handed over to his mother. Another knock issued rapidly from the doorstep, Rogan signaled for the two women to stay in the room before going to answer the door. 

Unable to see the entry from where she remained, there was a tense pause as they listened to the slow turn of the lock. Tilla’s fingers reaching for the knife at one of the place settings instinctively, they curled around its handle firmly. The cool metal felt against her palm, it was released immediately upon hearing a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Is she here?” said Wren, her words disjointed by gasps of air as she tried to regain her breath. It was not difficult to distinguish the urgency of her question despite the girl being out of her sight. However, the meaning of her speech still seemed somewhat ambiguous to Rogan, who was prompted to ask, “Who?” The simple query, ignored by Wren in her haste as she stomped past him and over the threshold. She quickly rounded the corner into the room.

The lanky teen’s eyes widening once they had identified the very person she sought. Wren sped towards her, exclaiming, “Tilla, they’re looking for you.” Streaks of sweat making lines in the dirt on the girl’s face and panic in her eyes, it was apparent that the girl had been searching for the Village Witch for quite some time before she had managed to find her. The young huntress, clasping onto her shoulders whilst she attempted to recover from the efforts of her chase. Tilla held out her arms to steady the girl before venturing to retrieve answers from her, “Calm down, Wren. What happened?” The other members of their small audience, growing curious towards the reason for the girl’s distress, they also came closer. Watching expectantly, they awaited her response in silence.

“The Crown,” Said Wren, her breathing still interrupting the fluidity of her speech, “they sent Hunters.” All glancing towards Tilla now at the mention of this particular division of knights, they were aware that their presence within Strathmede could not come as good news to her. The Hunters, specifically equipped to track and apprehend magical beings, had become renowned for their coldhearted methodologies. This group, not one that Tilla had ever had the occasion to cross paths with before, nor had she ever wished to, the edges of her lips turned downward. The grim expression noted by Merda,   

she drew the child in her arms close to her chest before asking, “Whatever have they come here for?” Her speech, marked by a mixture of anxiety and dread for the likely outcome of their futures, these feelings permeated the room as Wren finally released Tilla’s shoulders. 

The girl, straightening her worn out posture slightly, her eyes did not leave Tilla as she replied, “They have come to enlist anyone with magic for the war.” The outcome everyone within the village had been frightened of announced with solemn certainty, it incited a screech from Merda, “War?!” The exclamation followed by a fierce gaze that was thrown vehemently towards her husband, it was only held there for a few moments, so as to communicate its meaning before her attention was returned to Wren. Evidently deciding that it was not the time to boast her correctness, she listened to the girl explain the situation further.

“Antheon has officially declared war on Venhalla.” Wren said. Clarifying her earlier statement with a somberness about her eyes that Tilla had never seen in her before, she went on to say, “But they need power to fight the sorceress of the North.” 

Clear that Antheon anticipated the war to be one fought and won on the capabilities of their magic users, the information did not sit well with Tilla. The implications of this development, beginning to twist into a tense knot in her stomach, her eyebrows created a visible note of discomfort about her expression. However, the gravity not entirely understood by all in the room, Rogan asked, “That’s why they sent the Hunters, to recruit magical beings?” The question, although seeming reasonable considering the facts that Wren had disclosed so far, she nonetheless shook her head in disagreement. The gesture, causing the contents of Tilla’s stomach to churn a little more, the girl submitted a correction.

“It’s a Royal Proclamation, they don’t have any choice but to fight or be hunted as deserters.” She said, her eyes veering sympathetically towards Tilla. 

Although, indeed a being that could wield magic, the announcement was essentially a death sentence for Tilla, whose abilities had not proven to go beyond the extent of simple healing spells. These skills, whilst maybe useful for the odd wound on the battlefield, provided very little assurance for her chances in a combat situation against beings more immortal than herself. However, she was also painfully aware that defecting from an order decreed by the Crown would require her to become a fugitive of the law, thus demanding that she flee the country immediately. Evidently seeing that Tilla’s mind was teetering between the two unfavorable options, Wren offered her one last fact, “They are already at your cabin, Tilla. What do you want to do?”

It was shortly after that Tilla had found herself running away from the once peaceful village she had inhabited. Following behind Wren, who knew where best to avoid, Tilla was guided into the cover of the forest. Separating from the young huntress just along the boundary of the wood. She had navigated the unfamiliar and dark trees alone for sometime before hearing the calls of the Hunters that had picked up her trail. The sound inspiring Tilla into a frantic run, she brushed past branches barring her way. Urging her heavy legs to carry her forward, she glanced back hastily to review the distance between herself and her pursuers. 

However, the diversion turned out to be a grave error on her part. Rendering her blind to the obstacles in front of her, she tripped over a large decaying log that had been resting across her path. Catching hold of her tired feet easily, Tilla tumbled onto the leaves and dirt on the forest floor. Helpless in her trajectory as she continued to roll downward, until the ground appeared to open up beneath her. Left with only enough time to take in a surprised inhalation, Tilla could not recover before being swallowed into a deep hole.