Adventure of Davis of Carmathen 1

You arrive beneath a sky choked with green witchfire. In the enchanted grove, a bog witch stands within a ring of freshly risen dead, her antlered staff sunk into the black soil.

One corpse, a gaunt adult man with waxy gray skin, sunken eyes, and a torn brown tunic has crossed the ring and hauls a bloodied figure by the arm toward the witch. The remaining dead, a shambling cluster of gaunt adult men and women with gray skin, tattered earth-colored clothes, and exposed bones pivot together, joints creaking, their empty gazes settling on you.

The witch lifts one gnarled hand. Green fire ripples across the ring, and every corpse jerks toward the same command, surrounding the clearing in a slow tightening arc.

The dragging corpse reaches the witch's circle and drops the bloodied figure at its edge. The figure stirs faintly, while the dead nearest you raise rusted blades and broken hands.

Davis lunges toward the bloodied figure, one hand dropping toward his daggers. He reaches the tightening arc, but the dead close ranks before he can break through.

A rusted blade sweeps across Davis’s path, forcing him sideways. His boots skid in the mud, and the dead’s tightening ring separates him from the fallen man.

Yet the stumble reveals a narrow break behind the witch, where exposed roots arch over a shallow, green-lit channel leading toward the bloodied figure.

The corpses advance again, blades scraping bark and bone. The revealed channel remains open for only a breath before the ring shifts to seal it.

Davis springs toward the narrow break, clearing one rusted blade and twisting between two reaching corpses. Their movements are stiff, but the ring shifts with practiced, unnatural unity.

He spots the weakness: exposed knees, loose shoulders, joints that cannot turn quickly. Before he can exploit it, the corpse on the left folds low and catches his cloak.

The sudden drag steals his landing. Davis crashes against the root arch instead of reaching the fallen man, while the second corpse bars the channel with its broken body.

Green fire crawls along the trapped cloak, not burning cloth but stiffening it like bark. The dead close around Davis, forcing him down beside the shallow channel.

From the mud, Davis can still see the bloodied figure’s fingers twitch beyond the corpse blocking him. The open route is gone, and his cloak holds him fast to the root.

Davis tears open the cloak clasp. The stiffened wool remains nailed to the root, but he slips free, draws both daggers, and settles into the mud beside the channel.

The corpse on the left lunges first. Davis turns beneath its rusted blade and drives one dagger into its knee, then snaps the other through the loosened shoulder joint.

The dead thing collapses sideways, its arm dragging uselessly through the mud. Davis pivots on one knee and cuts into the corpse on the right where hip meets leg.

The second corpse buckles and falls across the first. Their broken bodies no longer seal the channel, leaving the green-lit passage open toward the bloodied figure.

The bog witch thrusts her staff toward the fallen pair. Green fire gathers at its roots, while the channel remains clear beneath the arch.

Green fire surges from the staff’s roots. Davis throws himself sideways, rolling beneath the root arch as the flames sweep over the mud where he knelt.

He comes up on one knee with his short dagger already in hand. The witch’s staff stands exposed beyond the channel, its green-lit roots drawing power from the soil.

Davis hurls the dagger. It strikes the staff just below the gnarled head, punching through the wood and pinning it hard against the black earth.

The green fire gutters out at once. Across the clearing, the risen dead freeze mid-step, their rusted weapons hanging silent beneath the witchfire sky.

Davis plants one boot against the channel’s edge and springs over the green-lit water. His dagger rises toward the bog witch’s exposed throat.

He reaches her before the staff can answer. The dagger cuts cleanly through her neck, and the bog witch’s head separates as her body crumples beside the pinned staff.

The severed staff gives a final green pulse, then goes dark. The witchfire above the grove thins, and the risen dead collapse wherever they stand.

Silence settles over the mud. Beyond the fallen dead, the bloodied figure lies motionless at the channel’s edge, no longer surrounded by grasping hands.

Davis slices through the bog witch’s glowing roots. Their green light gutters into the mud, and he pulls his dagger free from the dead staff.

He walks across the quiet clearing to the bloodied figure. The man stirs at the sound of approaching boots, blinking up through dirt and pain.

The man props himself on one elbow, testing his limbs carefully. His torn clothes are mud-stained, and a dark bruise shadows one side of his face, but he remains conscious.

Elian plants a trembling hand in the mud and rises to one knee. He pauses there, breathing hard, then reaches for the nearest root to steady himself.

Davis grips Elian’s forearm and hauls him upright. Elian’s weight pulls hard against his shoulder, scraping Davis’s palm against the rough root, but the injured man gains his feet.

Elian steadies himself against Davis, breathing through the pain. Behind them, the dead lie scattered across the mud, and the bog witch’s dark staff smolders without its green light.

A fresh ache tightens through Davis’s strained shoulder, and his scraped palm begins to bead with blood. Elian turns toward the dark trees, suddenly alert to a faint stirring beyond the clearing.

Davis crosses to the fallen corpse on the left and grips its rusted sword. The weapon holds fast beneath the corpse’s weight, and his injured shoulder protests as he wrenches it free.

The hilt tears loose, but the corroded blade stays buried in the mud. Davis is left with a jagged length of metal, too short and brittle to serve as a proper sword.

He turns for his cloak. It remains nailed beneath the root arch, stiffened wool fused to the dead wood where the witch’s magic caught it.

Davis presses his bleeding palm against the torn edge of his shirt instead, then helps Elian toward the dark trees. Beyond the clearing, a narrow stone-lined trail slopes away from the green-lit mud.

Reach shelter ahead