Fate's Conscripts by Nick Labonté

Author:Nick Labonté [Labonté, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2023-12-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

Folk called the place “Hag’s Rest.” More than a few mouths had spoken of a cult of young women in sheer dresses who prostrated themselves before stone pillars carved in the likeness of twisted demons and of the old witch who moved among them, picking out virgins and draining their blood for her baths. Baths that granted her eternal youth and magicks to curse her enemies and turned green fields to dry, cracked earth. It was said she lived in a stone castle rising out of twisted black trees bearing poisonous fruit, surrounded by a moat of bubbling tar.

In truth, the castle looked nothing like some dark fortress from a story. The lands around it were overgrown, to be sure, but the trees were maple, oak, and birch, not twisted abominations. And to the disappointment of Wymar’s soldiers, there was no cult of young women in sheer dresses.

The land grew grim on the way to Hag’s Rest. The countryside villages grew rarer and rarer. Fields edging ever closer to harvest were replaced with patches of land where thorny vines worked to reclaim lost ground. Even the sky seemed to darken, the sun fleeing behind a curtain of dark storm clouds. In the distance, Wymar could see the ‘Wood encroaching on the land. And rising above it, the Teeth. A mountain range that would make any commander shudder.

Some of his men raced for that mountain range now, chasing the crumbs of a boy who’d bring the Bleakwood to its knees given the chance. His most skilled trackers, riding the best horses they had. If Edmund truly was in the ‘Wood, they’d find him.

But Wymar wasn’t about to bet everything on Vitrohl’s words. Besides, no man could take an entire war band into such a cursed place. That was the sort of blunder that ended wars.

Wymar’s forces made camp in the lands outside the castle, an arrowflight from the main gate. The last thing the general wanted to do was impose on “the Hag,” Baroness Stalway. He took two of his captains with him, strong men who still shined their armor every morning.

They rode for the keep, reaching a rope bridge that looked like it had just survived a hit from a catapult. A single man stood at the bridge, leaning on his spear. He didn’t wear helm or mail. A patch of cloth with Baroness Stalway’s sigil—a snarling possum on yellow—had been sown onto the man’s rough-spun tunic. He wore rope for a belt. There wasn’t even a dagger on it.

“State your business,” the spearman mumbled, his eyes not even rising to meet Wymar’s.

“I am General Wymar, here to see the baroness.”

“Go on then,” the man replied.

Wymar briefly thought of bringing the man into his legion, but thought better of it. He had the sense the ground could open beneath them and the man wouldn’t even notice.

They crossed the bridge one at a time, and even then it strained under the weight of horse and rider. The moat surrounding the

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