Fall of the Reaper

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Dark whispers hissed secrets, slithering up Brygida’s arm and to her ear like serpents. There is another, they whispered. Another has arrived.

Yet another. With a grimace, she set aside the pestle and bagged the red raspberry leaf, lemon balm, and chamomile tea for her latest patient, then removed her apron and rolled down her sleeves.

The black crescent mark on her palm throbbed, its darkness and whispers seeping from her skin like smoke. She curled a fist, a tight one, and strode across Anita’s small cottage to her altar, where the Scythe of the Mother rested on its two hooks. With a frustrated huff, she retrieved it.

Standing there before the altar, she listened—really listened—tightening her grip on the scythe’s snathe, closing her eyes. Speak to me.

Maybe this time she would feel something, anything…

But in her hand, there was nothing but dead wood and silence. The voices of Anita’s ancestors had not spoken to her, not yet, but she hadn’t given up hope. Maybe one more demon tamed would be enough. Maybe today she would calm the forest back to slumbering at last.

Outside, the sun had risen just beyond the tree line, and long shadows wove over the clearing between the cottage and the forest. Her patient would be here at midday, so she’d need to make this quick.

Crouched in the shade, Matoha waited for her, his red eyes gleaming. His body was goat like, but that was where any semblance of natural appearance ended; he had a ridge of spiky fur down his spine, bladed claw-like legs, and a long black tail, shifting ruminatively. He was always waiting, always watching her. As she approached the oaks, he rose to his full height, his menacing long horns scraping against low-hanging branches.

“Back again?” she asked him.

Matoha opened his mouth, baring rows of pointed teeth in a fearsome grin. We have a new arrival, he spoke into her mind.

“So I’ve heard.” She rested her hand against the trunk of a nearby oak, closing her eyes as she tried to listen for the voices of the wood. But all she could hear was the hiss of demons, those that watched from the shadows. Those that never quite left her for long.

I can take you to it, Matoha prompted. It was tempting to let him take the lead, guide her to the demon, but if she was ever going to reconnect with the forest, to truly heal it, she had to do this herself.

Hefting up her scythe, she gave a short shake of her head before venturing into the forest. Thank Mokosza, Mama had taught her how to track, and recent spring showers had left the ground muddy. Deep imprints in the mud led to the heart of the forest, and she followed them, Matoha accompanying her at a distance.

The canopy of trees had only just begun to fill out, and shafts of light pierced through, illuminating the soft forest floor, where fresh green stalks of ferns poked through dark soil. Months had passed since she’d made her home here, and although she’d defeated every demon that had arrived on these lands, they never stopped and the forest was still restless. She might not be able to hear its voice, but she could feel it as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

A tree branch snapped behind her.

She spun.

A bristly thick-horned creature threw its head back, roaring. Long claws and a cow’s tail—a lichyj.

It rushed toward her.

Her hand fumbled for the vial of lake water around her neck, but the words of the incantation dried on her tongue. She couldn’t use the wrath of the blood.

Leaping out of the way, she rolled into the new ferns. The lichyj skidded to a stop and turned, clawing at the ground, ready to charge once more. This was no lone little panek, but a true danger. And she’d made a foolish mistake, relying on instinct.

The crescent mark on her palm throbbed, the faintest trail of darkness seeping from it.

She held up her hand, summoning the power within the mark. Darkness billowed out, like thick black smoke spreading outward and toward the lichyj.

As it reared up, looming over her, their eyes met. With flared nostrils, it inhaled the black smoke and froze in place.

It was hers to command now.

As she held her hand up, it awaited her command, like a part of her. And with a downward motion, it lay down on the ground, eyes trained on her.

That was close, Matoha remarked.

She ignored his commentary; it was never helpful. Matoha had to know how to soothe the forest—why else had he been hovering around her for weeks?—but he had refused to answer her, despite numerous attempts to extract answers. She’d read Anita’s grimoire from cover to cover, given numerous offerings to demons and to Holy Mokosza, but no matter what she did, her water powers wouldn’t return.

Matoha raised his head, goat ears angling back and forth. The lichyj, too, lifted its head back in the direction of the cottage. It’s a human, its rumble of a voice announced in her head. A human. A human has arrived. A human’s come to your domain.

She balled her marked hand into a fist again. It’s not my domain, she wanted to scream back, but it never changed their minds. The demons understood only one thing: power. But their warnings—that a human was here—meant that her patient, Jadwiga, had likely come to retrieve her morning-sickness tea. Just in time, too. The witchlands were cleansed of chaotic demons, something all the more important with an expectant mother traveling to her cottage.

I await your call, the lichyj said, before it dissipated into the forest, a phantom once more.

Matoha pranced ahead of her, leaping through the forest, avoiding the occasional spots of sunlight. It wasn’t like him to stick around after a demon had been subdued. Was something amiss at the cottage?

Hastening her step, she arrived at the forest edge. Instead of finding Jadwiga, as she expected, a man with golden hair waited at the door. Wrapped in a well-tailored and luxurious poppy-red jacket and gleaming brown boots, he cut a lean but strong figure.

Kaspian?

He turned, and what she’d mistaken as golden hair beneath the bright afternoon sun was in fact a darker blond. Not Kaspian. And not Jadwiga either, but her husband, Nikodem, the future lord of Granat.

Shading his hands against the sun, he stared in her direction. Had something happened to Jadwiga? Had she gone into labor early? It was unusual for a first pregnancy but not unheard of.

There is only one reason a man comes to a witch’s cottage, and you still have no successor, Matoha remarked.

Snapping her gaze in Matoha’s direction, she flushed at the insinuation. You dare, goat-demon?

An entertained chuckle lilted to the corners of her mind, echoing.

He’d never attacked her, nor anyone, and didn’t give an aura of ill intent, so she’d never tried to tame him… Although now, it was tempting.

Nikodem was a married man, and his wife was her patient. And as Matoha well knew, there would be no successor for her. These were not her witchlands, and until she redeemed herself in the eyes of Mokosza, and for herself, there was no room in her heart for anyone else.

After Kaspian, she wasn’t sure she even wanted anyone else. That had gone about as swimmingly as a rock in the Skawa River. She left Matoha at the edge of the forest and jogged over to greet Nikodem. “What brings you here? Is Jadwiga well?”

His mouth dropped open, but he quickly closed it. “Yes, she’s well.”

If Jadwiga wasn’t ill, then perhaps this was just a visit? Nikodem and his sister, Urszula, came here from time to time to share news and keep her company. They didn’t say as much, but their regularity had washed away any doubt. Besides, it would be rude not to serve tea now, when he’d come all this way. “Will you come in while I finish Jadwiga’s morning-sickness herbs?”

He nodded his head in response.

She led him inside, offered him a plate of rabbit sausage and freshly baked bread, and put the kettle on the fire, the same way Mamusia had always done. The feeling of homesickness was like a punch to the gut, strong but quickly stifled, to reflect on when she was alone.

While the water started to boil, she cleared the table of her mortar and pestle, the herbs, and the other things she had been preparing for Jadwiga. She put them into a jar to give to Nikodem.

Jadwiga’s constant morning sickness, even this late in the pregnancy, worried her. She could hardly keep anything down, and when the baby came, she would need her strength.

“Was Jadwiga too tired to make the journey herself?” Brygida asked as she worked. It would not be entirely surprising, given the lateness of her pregnancy. A good husband like Nikodem would gladly make the trip, but she hoped it wasn’t something more serious.

“No.” Nikodem sat at the table, hands folded in front of him, as he surveyed the cottage. The kettle started to whistle, and Brygida filled a cup and set one before him. He looked deeply into it as the tendrils of steam rose, a slight frown on his brow.

He was a man of few words, and when he visited, he usually just brought some provisions from town, did some work on the cottage or the barn, and listened to her talk. But he’d only just come two days ago. Surely he hadn’t come all this way again so soon just to drink tea with her.

“Something on your mind?” she prompted gently.

“There is.” He sighed, his shoulders tight and raised toward his neck.

“If there is something wrong with Jadwiga, tell me straight away. I can go to her if necessary.”

He shook his head. “She is well.”

“Then what’s troubling you?” Clearly, something was.

He cleared his throat. “I came because I need your help.”

She drummed her fingers on the table, trying to hide her curiosity.

Nikodem met her eyes and held her gaze, as grave as a ghost. “A man calling himself the Prophet of Weles has arrived and is recruiting people to join the Cult of Weles.”

Her fingers froze in their drumming. The cult was back? “I thought you and your sister chased the cult out of Granat.”

“We did, but he has an ally here, a vassal of my father’s, who is protecting him. A wealthy man is housing him. We cannot risk physically removing him without endangering the people of Granat. This vassal would use our intervention as an excuse to start a war with my father.”

The crescent on her palm throbbed. The last time she’d gone up against the Cult of Weles, she’d still had Mokosza’s favor, and even that hadn’t been enough. It had been the blackmark that had killed them. She couldn’t risk it, not again.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” She stood, pushed in her chair, and stepped behind it.

Nikodem stood as well. “You have the power to stop them, the Mark of Weles.” He gestured toward her palm.

She concealed the mark with her other hand. “I know how the Cult of Weles works. They use women to defend themselves against witches. I won’t hurt a woman. It goes against everything I believe in.”

He took a slow step forward, reaching out to touch her arm, then let his hand fall. “I would not ask you if we were not desperate.”

Brygida regarded him with caution and curiosity, her fingers curled over the cursed mark. Normally solemn and quiet, he had to be truly afraid of this Prophet of Weles to make such an emotional appeal to her.

Perhaps there was a way she could defeat this Prophet of Weles that didn’t involve killing? After all, she’d found ways to soothe the forest without Mokosza’s favor. The people of Granat knew her, and they were starting to trust her; maybe she could find a way to turn their feelings against this prophet before it was too late, before all turned to violence. They needed a time and place for the truth to defeat this so-called prophet.

She inhaled deeply. “I won’t harm any women, but I will help you. I think I know just how.”