The Ambush
The full moon crept slowly over the treetops, bathing the world in a pale pattern of light and shadows. Three figures crouched on the bluff, overlooking the old mine road. Wrapped in long hooded cloaks, they huddled motionless, almost indistinguishable from the numerous outcrops of volcanic rock dominating the landscape. Only their eyes gave them away, sparkling in the reflected moonlight—one pair of pale gray, one pair of amber, and one pair of piercing green.
The sun had set several hours ago, and the land fell asleep, soothed by the gentle rustling of leaves. An owl hooted in the distance. Awaiting their quarry with a semblance of patience, the three figures watched the winding road as it squeezed its way between the jagged cliffs and the dark forest marking the island’s eastern tip. Yet the calm was an illusion. Tension bristled like the surging charge in a thundercloud, yearning for a lightning bolt to strike.
“I’m cold!” Renya’s hiss broke the silence. All evening, her petty complaints had marked the passage of time with predictable frequency. Turning to her left, she glared at the figure beside her. “How much longer do we have to wait?”
Mae took a deep breath, clenching her fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. It wouldn’t do to snap back at Renya; it never did. Still, Mae struggled to ignore her companion’s constant whining, especially tonight. The three women had waited too long to execute their plan. Mae’s energy was running low, weakening her tenuous control over the anger that always boiled below the surface like molten lava, threatening to erupt. Thankfully, Sigri stepped in.
“The plan hasn’t changed since last you asked. We’ll wait until he arrives.”
“We might freeze to death before then,” Renya retorted, snapping her head to the right and sending her flaming-red hair flying.
“Perhaps,” Sigri replied, her voice even. “Then I should have said: until he arrives or we’ve died from exposure—whichever happens first.”
Mae could have kissed Sigri. Her dry tone was the perfect response to Renya’s mercurial temper. But then, Sigri was Renya’s older sister and had dealt with her moods for almost two decades. Sitting up straight, the tall woman reminded Mae of an elegant birch tree ignoring the impertinent yapping of a wolf pup. If Mae was honest, she felt cold, too. A capricious breeze stirred the night air, which still had a bite despite midsummer not being far off. But spring came late this year, adding to Mae’s general feeling of misery. She missed the warmth. Being the smallest of the three women, her slender body was almost boyish in appearance. Deep shadows ringed her green eyes, and her furrowed brow wrinkled an otherwise youthful face, leaving no doubt about her mood.
“Is he coming at all?” Renya challenged.
“Yes, Renya,” Mae sighed. “We know he dined with the mayor of Thorshofn, but the duke never stays overnight.”
Duke Erik Gunner Finsgúr, the lord of the southern province, was well known for his fondness for lavish evening entertainment. As the province’s largest settlement, the port town of Thorshofn provided the duke with income and amusement in equal measure. Returning to his fortified estate, his carriage had to travel along the lonely road upon which the three women spied.
“Forgive me for asking,” Renya taunted, not hiding her scorn. “Only, this wouldn’t be the first time one of your brilliant plans failed. I don’t get your obsession with the duke.”
“My plans fail?” Mae retorted, resenting the injustice. “When have you ever made any? Or Sigri, for that matter? Everything falls to me! Yet do I hear a word of appreciation?” Forcing herself to take deep, calming breaths, Mae squeezed her eyes shut before declaring, “He’ll come, and he’ll get what he deserves.”
Renya was about to argue further when Sigri raised her hand. The faint jingling of horses’ tack reached their ears, accompanied by the rattle of coach wheels on the dirt-packed road. Without another word, Mae crept along the cliff’s edge toward a ravine, where rugged basalt columns formed a natural staircase leading to the road. Reaching the bottom, she adjusted her hood to cover her short, silver-blond hair. Then, she crouched behind a rock where she could see without being seen.
Mae had plenty of very personal reasons for choosing tonight’s target. Still, even among aristocrats, Duke Finsgúr stood out as a deplorable human being. Not satisfied with squeezing every last krona out of his impoverished peasants, the lord of the province exulted in handing out harsh punishments for little or no reason. Moreover, any young woman lived in fear of catching the duke’s lustful eye. If someone needed killing, Duke Finsgúr topped the list. And a killing there must be. Too long had Mae gone without the rejuvenating life force her existence required.
The carriage approached. Sigri and Renya got into position, loosened their shoulders, and flexed their fingers. As soon as the duke had passed, Renya would block the road behind the carriage with a rockslide while Mae raised a hidden chain in front and spooked the horses. Hemmed in between the dense forest and the sheer cliffs, the frightened animals could only rush forward. They’d trip over the chain, and the three witches would swoop in to collect their prize.
Mae’s nerves stretched to a breaking point, and Renya’s persistent nagging didn’t help. Wiping her sweaty hands on her trousers, she centered her energy. The magic that witches like Mae and her sisters wielded wasn’t as all-powerful as ordinary people believed. Tonight’s success depended on preparation, synchronization, and surprise. Any small mistake could ruin everything.
To soothe her racing heartbeat, Mae let her senses wander, absorbing all the minute details—the gravelly road, the fickle breeze, the rustling trees, the hidden chain. The moon had risen higher. Its cold light illuminated the road while deep shadows transformed the opposite forest into a solid wall of darkness, uniform and impenetrable. Still, Mae could sense life and movement among the trees. The forest was never fully asleep.
Only a handful of seconds had ticked by in agonizing sluggishness when the groan of tortured wood grabbed Mae’s attention. A mighty tree not far down the road started to tilt, and it toppled with loud grinding and snapping. There it lay, twenty paces shy of the prepared ambush, creating a formidable barrier that blocked Mae’s plans in the truest meaning of the word.
The rustling of leaves continued until three figures on horseback exited the thickets opposite the witch’s hiding place. Taking position in the middle of the road, they faced the fallen tree and the approaching carriage of Duke Finsgúr. Two hulking riders on either side carried torches, the one in the middle a loaded crossbow.
Highwaymen? Here? Mae thought. By all the Norns’ wicked sense of humor!
* * *
Mae’s thoughts ran wild. Should she abandon the ambush? Should she attack the highwaymen? Could they work together? Before she reached a conclusion, Duke Finsgúr’s entourage had closed the distance to the makeshift barrier. Four mounted soldiers surrounded the carriage. Moonlight glimmered on breastplates, helmets, bridles, and plenty of weapons. Whatever the highwaymen had planned, to Mae, it didn’t seem well thought out. Still, the robbers stood their ground.
“Hold!” the central figure shouted in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Surrender your wealth or forfeit your life.”
What a quaint demand, Mae thought, and that voice?
Without waiting for orders, the two additional soldiers riding atop the carriage raised crossbows and fired. One bolt struck the left highwayman, and he toppled off his horse like a flour sack. Astonished, Mae watched how true the metaphor rang; the hulking figure turned out to be some kind of scarecrow propped up to hold a torch. The central robber returned fire, yet his shot went wide. No longer threatened, the mounted guards drew their swords and prepared to jump the barrier. Facing inevitable defeat, the failed marksman turned and fled in the opposite direction.
“After him!” the lead soldier yelled. The guards spurred their horses, cleared the obstacle without much effort, and reached the third robber. A swift sword stroke exposed another scarecrow. Still hiding behind the stone, Mae watched in disbelief. What a disgrace of a robbery.
Suddenly, the fallen tree erupted in flames. Renya must have adjusted the plan, seeing the duke separated from his guards. Roused from bewilderment, Mae cast her spells. A shout and a clap caused a ball of blinding light to explode in midair. Her second incantation faltered, and she needed three attempts to raise the hidden chain. The failed robber had already disappeared down the road. The soldiers giving chase didn’t fare as well. Disoriented, three horses in full tilt collided with the chain, sending men and beasts tumbling onto the bed of sharp stones beyond. The fourth horse reared up, nearly throwing off the rider. Hanging on with all his might, the man lost his helmet, and the firelight illuminated his face.
“It can’t be him.” Mae gasped, rooted to the spot. “How can he be here?”
But it had to be him. The distinctive scar over one eye left no doubt. His hair had gone gray, yet Mae would never forget that face. Bile rose in her throat. And something else, raw and powerful, clawed its way up from deep inside her, blocking out all other thoughts. Finally, she would have her revenge.
Mae started toward him. However, the guard regained control before she could get near. Spurring his beast on, he followed the robber into the night.
“The coach is gone!” Sigri yelled, running toward Mae. “They turned in haste and fled like the devil chased them.”
“Where are the soldiers?” Renya wheezed, following behind her sister.
“Three have fallen over there. One got away,” Mae replied, her eyes fixed on the retreating rider. Her face had gone pale as curdled milk. “I’m going after him,” she declared.
“Is it worth it?” Sigri asked. “When the duke reaches the next village, he’ll raise the alarm. He must have recognized our use of magic. The hunters will be after us like wolfhounds.”
“Actually, they might use wolfhounds,” Renya added.
“I don’t care!” Mae’s temper flared, her eyes glowing red. “You harvest what you can and get away. Take one horse and go home. I’ll follow later.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Renya asked.
Mae ignored her and rushed to one of the robbers’ spooked horses. Close up, the beast looked more like a draft horse than a swift ride. But even a dull blade was better than bare hands in a knife fight. Touching the horse’s mind, she soothed the frightened animal.
“Why go after him?” Renya insisted, her voice rising. “Who is that soldier?”
“No time to explain. Get to the soldiers before it’s too late, or everything was for nothing.”
“What about you?” Sigri sounded confused. “Don’t you want any?”
In place of an answer, Mae jumped on the horse’s back and urged the beast forward. The one-eyed soldier had quite a head start. Still, Mae was an excellent tracker. Without a backward glance, she left her sisters and the bounty behind.
* * *
“Idiot,” Jarne scolded himself. “You are such an utter fool.”
The failed robber had galloped away as fast as his stolen mount could carry him. Entering the dark forest, he dismounted to avoid low-hanging branches cracking his skull. He led the animal along a deer trail through the dense brush. Only sparse moonlight filtered through the canopy, leaving wide swaths of darkness on the treacherous path.
Jarne pondered if he should leave the horse behind. Farmer Holgrim would skin him alive for abandoning the mare in the forest as a feast for the wolves. However, that might not make a difference, since Jarne had stolen all three of the farmer’s prized animals and already left two behind at the ambush site.
“Ambush” was a grand word for this night’s fiasco. How could he be so foolish as to believe he would succeed? In the stories, the daring highwayman always got the bounty and sometimes even won the girl. Stories—am I a child? He was almost a man grown and still as stupid as a bairn in swaddling clothes. But he had no choice; he needed the money. His mother was sick. Now what?
Jarne heard noises. At least one of the duke’s guards must have followed. It was no good; he wasn’t fast enough with the horse in tow. With a sad glance back, Jarne let go of the reins and took off alone. He knew the forest well, having grown up in its shadow. If he crossed the ridge, he would come to a clearing where a majestic oak stood. Jarne loved climbing trees and could take cover high up in its branches. No soldier would be able to find him there.
* * *
Herleif Ungrin, captain of the duke’s personal guards, pursued the fleeing robber with haste. He had made a snap decision. The vile attack on the duke’s life came from at least two different directions. Suspecting witchcraft was involved, the captain left his injured men behind and followed the lone rider. He would bring his lord the head of that foolish criminal.
Nobody can be in two places at the same time, Herleif thought, finding it prudent to follow the more promising line of investigation. Who would dare to accuse him of alternative motives?
Among the trees, the path was almost pitch black. Still, Herleif had little difficulty tracking the robber’s trail. Long years of service had brought him some unusual benefits. After losing his left eye during a raid several years ago, the king’s black sorceress had enhanced his remaining one as a reward. Herleif was grateful for the gift.
Of course, he hadn’t dared to question the king’s right to retain a sorceress, even though witchcraft was outlawed in Heillaður. Still, when she’d touched him, he’d felt like a mouse in the claws of a malicious cat, or worse, like a beetle she could crush with no more effort than taking a breath. Thus, Herleif was even more grateful to be far away from any woman of her kind.
These days, prey could seldom escape him, especially in this forest. Thorn thickets lurked everywhere, capable of tearing the clothes of even the most careful sneak thief. Herleif almost chuckled. It reminded him of the child’s game, where one player hid, yet left clues along the way.
Hawking up phlegm, he spat on the floor. He’d never played that game. Herleif hadn’t been popular as a child. That’s why he’d become a soldier. And being a captain, he didn’t need popularity; he had obedience.
Climbing a steep slope, Herleif came upon the robber’s abandoned horse. The fugitive must have realized that someone was chasing him. The captain quickened his stride. He had to catch the would-be robber before the night was out. The duke would expect swift results, and Herleif did not dare to disappoint the duke—long years of service or not.
* * *
Reaching the spot where the robber and the guard had disturbed the forest’s slumber, Mae jumped off the animal’s back and entered on foot. Nimble as a cat, she wove through the foliage, her feet barely touching the ground. Several minutes later, Mae reached a clearing where a giant oak stood and crouched behind a fallen log. She had spotted the guard gathering dry wood as if to build a bonfire. Where was the robber? The hooded figure hid high up among the branches. So, the hound has treed his prey but can’t follow him up. Does he want to smoke him out or burn the tree down? Regardless, the soldier’s actions gave Mae an excellent opportunity to finish them both.
Mae was a black witch. She needed to kill humans in order to stay alive. Yearning to retain her humanity amidst the darkness of her powers, the witch targeted only people who “deserved” to die, like Duke Finsgúr. This was her obsession, as Renya had called it. Still, there were always casualties. Mae had few reservations about harming the duke’s men-at-arms in tonight’s ambush. She didn’t know whether those men were evil. But then, “evil” was such a vague word. The soldiers undoubtedly worked for a despicable person, and Mae needed their life force.
However, the moment she recognized the one-eyed guard, that man had eclipsed all other thoughts. What irony caused our paths to cross years after I stopped looking for him? Mae thought with sinister satisfaction. It’s been ten long years since he killed my family and destroyed my life. At the time, she’d only been able to take his eye. Tonight, she would take his life—and for once, she would enjoy it.
And the robber? Should I kill him as well? Renya wouldn’t hesitate. His ill-timed disruption had destroyed tonight’s plan. She would make him pay for all the wasted effort.
Why do I even care? Mae thought. Does the wolf care whether the stag is evil? But she did. A small voice in her head, planted there by her dying mother’s wish, urged her to try to be good, regardless of what she had become.
Observing the movement of the two men, Mae prepared her attack. This time, she wouldn’t allow anything to get in her way. As soon as the soldier returned with another armload of wood, Mae muttered her spell. A loud crack reverberated through the night air. The enormous branch on which the robber hid broke, knocking the unsuspecting guard captain to the ground. Judging by the high-pitched yell and dull thud, the robber had fallen, too. Yet the heavy limb hadn’t been completely severed. Mae’s low energy weakened her magic. With a snarl of frustration, she exploded the last stubborn strands tethering the branch to the trunk. Before the wood hit the ground, Mae was sprinting. Her target didn’t deserve a single extra breath.
Scratched and bruised, the one-eyed guard scrambled back to his feet. Stepping free from the tangle of twigs and leaves, he planted his feet and drew his sword. He seemed to have little difficulty spotting the approaching witch. Not breaking her stride, Mae pulled a throwing knife from her belt and propelled it toward him. He ducked. Still, the distraction gave Mae enough time to close the distance. She slid on the dewy grass and kicked his legs out from under him. Toppling over, the soldier buried his sword almost to the hilt in the soft ground.
Mae pushed herself to all fours. She scrambled onto him, clawing her way to his face. He was ready. His elbow struck her temple, snapping the witch’s head sideways. Mae’s vision blurred. Then, he was on her. Large hands grabbed her throat and squeezed. Dazed, Mae tried to pry his hands away. She needed to burn him or drain his life. But he wore thick leather gloves, blocking her from skin-to-skin contact.
“What’s this!” the soldier snarled. “Don’t I know you? Ah, yes… I remember,” Herleif lifted one hand to rub his eyepatch. “Missing Mommy and Daddy?” He backhanded Mae. “I’ll send you their way. Maybe you’ll meet your useless brother, too,” he spat. Squeezing her throat harder, he loomed over her, his face inches from Mae’s.
Mae had been on the brink of passing out when his cruel taunts cleared the haze, replacing it with undiluted rage. Letting go of his hands, she grabbed his ears. Her nails bit deep, drawing blood.
“Bitch!” he cursed, seizing one of her hands before his graying hair erupted in flames. Shrieking, her tormentor tried to get away. Mae held on, rejoicing in his suffering. The awful smell of burning hair filled her nostrils. The witch forced a sneer onto her face. Then, she rammed a mental spike into the vessel holding the soldier’s life force. In the blink of an eye, Mae yanked his rotten soul out of his charred body.
The soldier’s energy gushed into the furious witch, accompanied by a soft glow. Warmth flooded her being, and her body shuddered in delight. Strength returned, hardship and pain were forgotten, and joyful satisfaction filled her mind. All her angst and anger vanished. This moment of pure bliss was the true perversion of her existence—the most pleasurable reward for the most heinous act.
As always, it took Mae a few heartbeats to return to her surroundings. She had done it; she had avenged her parents. Rolling the soldier’s lifeless body into the dirt, Mae got to her feet. The night felt warmer, the moonlight brighter, and the wind played a soft melody with the rustling leaves. Mae breathed deep, basking in her satisfaction.
* * *
A nearby whimper pulled Mae from her reverie. She’d almost forgotten about the robber. Mae spotted him near the trunk, struggling to free his trapped arm from under the fallen branch.
He’s scared. He saw what I did to the soldier. Mae couldn’t muster any empathy. The memories of her dying parents fouled her mood. Striding toward him, the witch decided to end him quickly. Then she saw his face. For the second time that night, Mae stood rooted to the spot in shock.
He’s a boy, still a child! Pale-blue eyes stared out of a dirt-smeared face. He couldn’t be much older than twelve, fourteen at most. The full moon overhead revealed the unmistakable signs of panic—his clenched jaw, his quivering lips. But there was more: a determination not to show weakness, a desire to meet whatever may come like a true Northman. Mae had learned the hard way how fear and greed caused the actions of men far more often than bravery and honor. Perhaps this boy still believes in these fabled virtues.
“What are you doing here, boy?” she blurted, her agitation subdued by surprise.
“Get away from me, witch!”
So, he also exhibits the stupidity of most men.
“Don’t you think it wiser to guard your tongue now that you have deduced my nature?” Mae opted for a softer but even more frightening tone. “I won’t ask again. What are you doing here?”
“Lying on the forest floor, trapped by a giant branch.”
Feisty—Mae had to give him that. Still, several seconds of the witch’s icy stare broke the façade, and a floodgate of information opened.
“I need money. My mother is sick, and nobody will help.” He swallowed and continued in a deflated voice. “My brothers are dead, and my father left. The neighbors close their doors. The medicine is expensive, and the duke has money. More than he can ever spend.” Raising his voice, he challenged her. “I needed to do something. She has only me. I am the man in the house.”
“You thought you could rob the duke alone? How old are you, boy?”
“I’m not a boy,” he spat. “I’m almost fourteen, and I had a plan.”
“Your scarecrows? Clever idea, but utterly pointless. The guards fear the duke more than any foe.”
“What is it to you, witch? What do you care for the plans of humans?”
“I am human,” Mae replied, trying that same soft and silky voice. But his comment stung worse than this child could imagine. Mae yearned for nothing more than to be an ordinary human, a woman without a curse. By then, she might have had children of her own, a good husband, a small house by the sea, and friendly neighbors. Ice crept back into her voice. “But if you insist,” she hissed, “I can give you another—a final demonstration of my witchiness.”
In a heartbeat, the panic was back, painted all over his face. All the bold bravery disappeared. A small and frightened child lay there, helpless, facing his worst nightmare in the flesh. Mae might have done many evil things in her life, in her cursed existence. But she could not—would not—harm this boy.
“Listen carefully!” Mae loomed over him. “I’ll put a hex on you. Then I’ll let you go. Your horse is where you left it. Get away from here as fast as you can.” Returning to the menacing whisper, Mae added, “If you tell anyone what happened tonight or what you think happened tonight—anything at all—you will die.”
Mae stepped back, widened her stance, and traced intricate patterns in the air. With a clap, another bright light appeared. The heavy branch flew away like a leaf in a breeze.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut; his whole body shook. Mae knew that his skin would feel like he was bathed in ice, and his world would spin for a time, inducing vertigo. When his eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness again, the witch would be long gone.
