hit my witchmark, and a shockwave of golden light raced up her, or him, or whatever it was, terminating by setting its hair on fire with a muffled whoomp .
“Now it’s a fight,” I muttered, then saved my breath for another spell. To keep my opponent busy, I stomped on its foot with my heel, and heard a satisfying squeal like an enraged piglet. In that brief second, my next spell was ready.
“Cnámh clack!” I shouted, loud enough that my ears were ringing, and the beastie began to stiffen, but not before catching me with another one of those damned hard punches. This one clipped my elbow and my whole arm went dead, a chill running up into my shoulder like I’d lain in the grave for a week. My silence spell had failed, and, with it, the additional bubble of magical protection. I was now open to all manner of attack, and apparently loud enough to blow my own eardrums out. I was hit again, a thunderous punch to the side of my nose. Stars shot through my vision in a brilliant spray, and I felt the cartilage shift. Blood flew from my nostril and I spun, halfway, thinking that I might not win this one.
I staggered, then righted myself like a floundering ship. My spell was currently turning the skeleton of the creature before me into something like stone; it wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, and I could ask a few questions while I shook off the chill—
— Aha! I’d been touched by a wight. The cold, the numbness—it all added up to a rather nasty variety of undead who almost never came after people in their own homes. Wights are antisocial by nature, and this one appeared to be relatively fresh, if I’m any judge of magical hooligans. She still had vestiges of makeup on her face, and could not have been dead for more than a few days at most.
The wight collapsed to one side and folded conveniently for me to kneel next to her without moving my feet. That was good, because I was already sore. I couldn’t imagine how crappy I’d feel in the morning. I sensed a healing tea in my future, preferably after a few hours’ sleep. With a grunt, I settled next to the creature, who was trying to hiss at me and having more than a little trouble. My spell had some punch.
“Who sent you?” I asked, getting right to the point. Wights tend to eat people; they don’t necessarily go on excursions in town without someone else calling the tune.
She turned her head from me, and a gray tongue lolled to one side. I felt a wave of uneasy anger. This woman had once been quite pretty. She still looked young, maybe late teens.
I placed a hand near her eyes and began a low, complex chant. Wights, being dead, generally have fairly low cognitive capacity. I like to think of them as exceptionally nasty teenagers who like to bite people. There was confusion in her eyes, and I sensed a geas upon her. Someone had pointed this poor, dead woman at Brendan for reasons unknown, then placed a spell of silence upon her. If there was any spark of the girl left in this wight, I could only imagine the howling frustration at being turned into a repulsive, dead tool, incapable of speaking the truth. My spell concluded, and I waved my fingers near her mouth, which hung slack from my earlier magic that slowed her so badly.
A shower of carmine sparks rained into her mouth, and the area they touched became free of both my magic and the geas holding her prisoner. Whoever I was up against knew nothing about keeping a wight silent; the magic had been badly formed and was easy to circumvent.
She turned her head to me incrementally as my spell allowed her body to regain some degree of control. I wasn’t afraid of her attacking me again, so I leaned close when she tried to speak.
Her voice was a gravel whisper. “Nurse.” Two eyes bore into mine, begging me to understand.
I let my eyes roam over her body, but there was nothing indicting she was referring to herself. “You were a nurse?” That was unlikely, given the apparent youth under her deathly
“Now it’s a fight,” I muttered, then saved my breath for another spell. To keep my opponent busy, I stomped on its foot with my heel, and heard a satisfying squeal like an enraged piglet. In that brief second, my next spell was ready.
“Cnámh clack!” I shouted, loud enough that my ears were ringing, and the beastie began to stiffen, but not before catching me with another one of those damned hard punches. This one clipped my elbow and my whole arm went dead, a chill running up into my shoulder like I’d lain in the grave for a week. My silence spell had failed, and, with it, the additional bubble of magical protection. I was now open to all manner of attack, and apparently loud enough to blow my own eardrums out. I was hit again, a thunderous punch to the side of my nose. Stars shot through my vision in a brilliant spray, and I felt the cartilage shift. Blood flew from my nostril and I spun, halfway, thinking that I might not win this one.
I staggered, then righted myself like a floundering ship. My spell was currently turning the skeleton of the creature before me into something like stone; it wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, and I could ask a few questions while I shook off the chill—
— Aha! I’d been touched by a wight. The cold, the numbness—it all added up to a rather nasty variety of undead who almost never came after people in their own homes. Wights are antisocial by nature, and this one appeared to be relatively fresh, if I’m any judge of magical hooligans. She still had vestiges of makeup on her face, and could not have been dead for more than a few days at most.
The wight collapsed to one side and folded conveniently for me to kneel next to her without moving my feet. That was good, because I was already sore. I couldn’t imagine how crappy I’d feel in the morning. I sensed a healing tea in my future, preferably after a few hours’ sleep. With a grunt, I settled next to the creature, who was trying to hiss at me and having more than a little trouble. My spell had some punch.
“Who sent you?” I asked, getting right to the point. Wights tend to eat people; they don’t necessarily go on excursions in town without someone else calling the tune.
She turned her head from me, and a gray tongue lolled to one side. I felt a wave of uneasy anger. This woman had once been quite pretty. She still looked young, maybe late teens.
I placed a hand near her eyes and began a low, complex chant. Wights, being dead, generally have fairly low cognitive capacity. I like to think of them as exceptionally nasty teenagers who like to bite people. There was confusion in her eyes, and I sensed a geas upon her. Someone had pointed this poor, dead woman at Brendan for reasons unknown, then placed a spell of silence upon her. If there was any spark of the girl left in this wight, I could only imagine the howling frustration at being turned into a repulsive, dead tool, incapable of speaking the truth. My spell concluded, and I waved my fingers near her mouth, which hung slack from my earlier magic that slowed her so badly.
A shower of carmine sparks rained into her mouth, and the area they touched became free of both my magic and the geas holding her prisoner. Whoever I was up against knew nothing about keeping a wight silent; the magic had been badly formed and was easy to circumvent.
She turned her head to me incrementally as my spell allowed her body to regain some degree of control. I wasn’t afraid of her attacking me again, so I leaned close when she tried to speak.
Her voice was a gravel whisper. “Nurse.” Two eyes bore into mine, begging me to understand.
I let my eyes roam over her body, but there was nothing indicting she was referring to herself. “You were a nurse?” That was unlikely, given the apparent youth under her deathly
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