Before Winter's End

VI: WHO YOU SERVE

"The woods are no longer safe. Remember: we are not the most fearsome thing here."

The leaf-bare, snow-laden branches were dizzying and kaleidoscopic above our heads as we traveled through the wood, torches in hand. We wore white cloaks and hoods, so that when we were still, we were no different from the snow. No birds sang. There were no rabbits, no deer, not a single sign of life beneath those trees except us.

"Zibarath will be drawn to our presence. We must be swift, and careful. Within the burrow we are safe. But the woods are his domain."

Woven branches and brush were laid across the burrow's entry, so when the snows came one needed to only dig beneath and seize hold of the thick old rope, and heave back the barrier. Roots and webs dangled within, but I only needed to crouch a short distance as the burrow sloped sharply downward and then leveled, and I could stand upright. As we traveled further down, Witch Mother lit the ancient wax candles that were set in sconces along the walls. The wax had piled and dripped over the years as candles were continually burned down and replaced. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and mold. Small fungal clusters had burst through the walls, and roots hung overhead like hair, brushing against my face. It was nearly as cold as the snowy air above, and I was thankful for the warmth of my cloak.

The deeper we went, down ancient narrow stairways carved in the dirt and dark chambers nearly overgrown with roots, the more I began to feel that we were being watched. My hairs stood on end, and my lungs felt oppressed by the closeness of the earth. As we passed by a dark tangle of thick, serpentine roots, the light of my lantern fell upon something white, something that . . . moved.

It was a hand, that quickly jerked itself back beneath the roots and out of my sight. I said nothing, certain that I must have imagined it, and we pressed on. But in the light as Witch Mother lit the next candle, I saw a figure dash across the tunnel ahead.

"We are not alone Mother," I whispered urgently. She was wearier than ever today, I could see it. The cold and the long journey had exhausted her, and she was stooped heavily.

"Indeed we are not," she said, pressing on. "We are accompanied by the spirits of every sacrifice made here. Those offered to Zibarath will never truly find rest."

After that, I made it a point to ignore the footsteps that scurried behind us, and the dark figures that lurked ahead and vanished before our light struck them. I did not look at the pale faces that appeared out of the darkness in the corners of my vision, or the hands that reached out for me. They were only memories, only visions of the past.

We came at last to a tall, rounded chamber. Thick roots lined the walls like crooked pillars, and innumerable candles lined the walls. As Witch Mother and I lit them, the center of the room was revealed: a raised dais of stone, upon which was a thick stone table. Its surface was covered in stains in varying dark shades of brown and deep red. Its edges were carved with runes, and there were four manacles clamped upon it: two at the lower end, and two at the middle on either side. At the top was a peculiar round wire cage bolted to the stone, which could swing open and closed upon a hinge. Witch Mother ascended the dais, and set the Black Book upon it.

"Come Netalie," she said. "It is time."

With every step toward the dais, I was assaulted with visions of the past, my Sight nearly overwhelming me. The air reeked of blood, like the barn on slaughter day. Within two blinks of my eyes, figures would appear laid prone upon the table, and then vanish just as quickly. They were naked, struggling against their bounds, covered in rivulets of blood. The manacles bound their ankles and arms. The wire cage was clamped over their faces. They could barely struggle as death descended.