The Bur's Curse

A foreword: this story was written by me a long time ago as a part of a dark fantasy series, yet stood out somehow, transforming into a standalone story. It participated in a fantasy story competition (a local one, called “The descendants of Tolkien”) and gained praise from the judges, winning the “Judges’ choice” award. Later on, it was accepted into the Russian horror-story magazine “Fantomas”; its artists have done a tremendous job illustrating the story. Hope you enjoy it!

A fair is not just a loud huddle of sellers and buyers. It’s big-time deals, top-notch entertainment, new acquaintances, political meetings, and besides all that — a hotbed of thieves, highwaymen and outlaws, recruiters and shady dealers with wares one could never find on a regular market. They sold such things that could send a clumsy and careless buyer straight to the king’s stockades, or even earn him some time on the rack. A fair embodied the laughter, the ruckus, the never-ending hubbub, as well as the screams of those unlucky ones who felt a murderer’s knife in their backs or a thief’s hand in their pockets. It was primal chaos made flesh in all its glory and filth. That’s why Franz always liked fairs. Witch hunters like himself always found everything they could wish for there, along with a couple of decently paid contracts. Despite the usual stereotype, witch hunters didn’t just exercise the affairs their name suggested, plunging themselves into the matters of justice as well; for example, they often served as judges in the divisions of property between farmers and other cabbage-heads. Sometimes people trusted witch hunters more than the king’s own guard. It was understandable; an unbiased stranger with certain experience in legal disputes could rule out any argument quite well, unlike a lapdog of some landlord, rotten from the ground up. Witch hunters had a variety of interests; they were searching for runaway outlaws, chasing them, and delivering justice on the spot. The only thing they didn’t do was gardening, perhaps.

Even if an entire village faced some trouble, the elder would rather travel to the closest fair if there were any around. A dozen of hard men would pop up from nowhere in no time to deal with whatever the village may face. They scuffled to the last nickel! Franz Stadlin paced past the rows of squealing traders, relishing in the scurry and clutter around. A wandering smile touched the witch hunter’s lips; he watched a swindler snatching cakes from a counter, he glared at the kids, who were running back and forth clutching their candy apples. Franz then turned his attention to the street fighters, who were breaking each other’s faces much to the crowd’s delight. Franz would like to participate in a fight himself, yet not that day; he was searching for something more serious. He didn’t come all this way to the fair for anything that wasn’t worth his sword. Franz had looked past dozens of “Wanted!” posters already; nothing, however, stilled his thirst for money and thrill. Finally, he grinned avidly: a fat mustached man, looking much like the steward of some prominent landlord, nailed another poster to a pole towering nearby.

“What happened?”

The steward flinched in surprise and turned around, dropping his hammer. The fear in his eyes turned into shock, and then — into curiosity. The fat man picked his tool up.

“Er, ye scared me to death, sir! As ye can see,” with a broad gesture the steward pointed at the piece of paper, hanging crooked on a nail, “the lord of a far land, the Pear Chine, is lookin’ for a witch hunter. Judging by the sword and ye garb… you’re the right man, eh?”

Franz donned a light padded jack, reinforced with metal plates, right over his blue and red garments. His red scarf — a mark of Franz’s special pride — poured its waves across the hunter’s shoulders. A wide hat rested on his head, adorned with a buckle.

“Exactly. What’s the payment?”

The steward squinted, smirking into his mustache.

“I see ye don’t even care what ye should do, huh, sir? One hundred chunks of pure silver to the man who figures out wha’ happened in the Ashen Estate. The landlord, called Olnssen, lived there, bu’ he stopped sending them crop shares a couple of months ago. Me lord had a deal with them! They don’t answer the letters either, mind you, sir… The messengers didn’t come back, too. Needs checking. Reckon ye can take it on?”

Stadlin’s eyes burned red. One hundred chunks of silver just for a routine check! The hunter rubbed his hands as though he had already snatched the prize.

“You can tear down your poster, friend. Tell your master you found a hunter.”

The crowd raged on around; the music thundered, as loud as the cracking blows of the fighters, yet Franz wandered through all this chaos deaf and blind. What luck! That’s why the hunter loved fairs, really. He grinned in anticipation, like a well-fed cat, imagining in how many ways he could spend such a colossal sum of money.

***

“Whoa!” Stadlin halted at a small crooked road sign, drawing his reins.

“Ashen Estate”. The sign pointed at a footworn path, looping around the edge of a forest. Crawling among other trees, the spruces and pines pushed their green teeth up a little hill; behind it, the estate sheltered itself: a vast land that included hunting grounds, the owner’s manor, a little hamlet for the servants, a farm and wheat fields. The wind had been in the merriest of moods, blowing the dust clouds playfully right into the witch hunter’s face. Veiling it with his red scarf, Stadlin dug his spurs into his horse’s sides and rushed towards the forest, hoping to reach the Ashen Estate as fast as he could.

The burning desire to get the silver turned into a thick swarm of doubts — as usual, on every mission Stadlin embarked on. What if this case will not be as easy as it sounded? What if the landlord rebelled against his master, while the careless “judge” Franz Stadlin is riding right into the open embrace of a small peasant army? Franz heard such cases being talked about before; his comrades and acquaintances sometimes found themselves in dire straits. Not all of them made it out in one piece. However, Franz calmed himself down; if an army ever trotted these lands, it wouldn’t be so pretty and clean around. One could easily notice if soldiers had marched through: by the piles of trash, stomped down grass and by the other, less pleasant signs.

Reaching the hill’s ridge, the witch hunter lighted his horse off and whistled, taking off his hat. The wind trifled with his long greasy hair, black as coals. Suddenly, Stadlin realized that this time he would have to use his sword to actually fight off witches. The part of the ashen forest that besieged the estate adorned itself in golden and crimson colors — as a little autumn in the middle of a torrid summer day. The witch hunter wondered if such a sudden autumn could be the result of a malign spell. Franz wasn’t a big thinker when it came to Nature and its ways, but he didn’t have a fool’s reputation either; he chose not to jump to conclusions just yet. The farm stood deserted; not a single soul wandered the fields, not a silhouette stirred in the soothing shadows, nobody paced by the grand manor in the distance. The witch hunter covered his eyes from the sun and looked round once again. Finally, he shouted in joy: a lonely human figure romped around the closest house in the servants’ hamlet. Galloping down the hill, Franz bolted towards it, hoping to find out what happened to the estate and where did everybody vanish.

Franz Stadlin got off his horse. The hamlet welcomed him with grave silence and a tangled web of burs; squinting, the witch hunter pricked up his ears. The bur clumps appeared to be far too thick; the burs dribbled along towards Franz, stuck to his clothes. Grayish-purple thorns consumed the entire village and reached further, through the fields, slithering up to the manor. The witch hunter heard a knocking sound and a water splash; somebody was shuffling about and making noise in the house that he noticed from the hill’s ridge. Setting foot on its doorstep, Franz pulled the annoying burs off his clothes and knocked on the door demandingly. After a moment of tarry, the door opened with a creak. A bearded face with cautious fearful eyes showed up.

“Whom did the winds bring to our backwoods?”

“Name’s Franz Stadlin,” the witch hunter introduced himself, “I was sent by the steward of the Pear Chine’s owner. Your master…”

“Why, you were sent by lord Kinn himself!” the man opened the door wide and invited the witch hunter to step inside.

Ducking his head, Franz walked in, glancing over the house sharply. Nothing caught his attention, as everything appeared to be quite usual for a peasant house: clay pots on the shelves, simple utensils, crude wooden furniture. Something boiled hot over the fire and coals, watched sternly by a pleasant looking woman with a ladle in her hands. She was past her young years; a glimpse of silver struggled through her thick sandy braids. Her blue dress echoed nicely with her eyes of the same color.

“Welcome, sir, to the Ashen Estate… though I don’t know how we should be called now. The Bur’s Hut, I suppose. The damned thorns wither even the ash trees on the other side of the field!”

“Let’s put it straight,” Franz suspected that signing up for this task wasn’t his best idea, “I have been hired to collect your debt, hence I would rather not waste any time. I want to get this over with right away and return to the town. I need to see landlord Olnssen who lives here; he owes a part of his crops to the Pear Chine.”

“He surely lived here,” the bearded man glanced at his wife, “but he disappeared.”

“Disappeared? How?”

“Just like that. Into thin air. As did everybody else. My wife and I woke up a week ago, stepped outside, and the estate was empty. At first, I reckoned we overslept something, but nobody came back. Then all the horror started. First, my little garden got covered in thorns, then — the hamlet’s road, other houses and the fields… everything. The people, as I told you already, just vanished. All their belongings are there, in their homes, but the owners are gone, with the landlord himself. The ashen forest grew yellow — that’s why I didn’t open the door at first. I’m scared!”

“What’s so scary?” the witch hunter peeked at the leaves through the window, yellow and scarlet despite the summer.

“That her monsters will come for me. That she’ll send some beast our way, to cut down the last peasants!”

Franz gripped his sword. That’s it then — sorcery after all!

“Tell me more, kern. Whose monsters? What horrors are you talking about?”

“Oh, you’re a witch hunter too!” a sparkle of hope and joy kindled in the villager’s eyes, “What luck, Gods bless master Kinn! It’s good he sent you to us! I assume you have a silver sword too?”

“Covered in silver, yes. It’s right here,” the witch hunter nodded at his sheath.

“I’ll tell you this: not a long time ago our landlord got himself a new wife. Found a young one somewhere, despite him having several children; he brought her here about a month ago, and bad luck followed her. It all started with a stingy harvest. It’s horrible even now if you will ride through the field — the wheat ears are growing rotten already! Obviously, the young Olnssen’s wife was a witch. It was her to desolate the estate…”

Suddenly the peasant’s wife cut him off, setting aside her ladle.

“And something is howling terrifyingly in the night! It walks hither and thither, even shifted its feet under our door once, we didn’t dare to make a peep! After a couple of horrible nights we peeked in the window — there was light in the manor, the shadows were swaying in the windows. Thrashing about, flailing their arms, suddenly stopping and waiting for something. I’m scared to go outside even in daylight, and there’s always those annoying burs! We try to keep them off, we cut them down every morning, but they’re already making their way into the house…”

Franz frowned. A serious matter! If it came down to using his sword and hunting down witches and witchers, the entire journey could cost the lord of the Pear Chine a pretty coin; it wasn’t in the initial contract! Stadlin finished off three witches and one witcher in his life, and every time it turned out to be an exhausting trial.

“Why won’t you leave this horrible place?” asked Franz suddenly.

“Where could we go? There’s countless miles between us and the closest village or town. Besides, all the horses are gone. The farm animals vanished, our neighbors’ and ours too: pigs, chickens, all of them… We won’t make it. So we just waited and prayed that somebody would find us. Here you are finally! Could you help us?”

Franz shook his head.

“Fine, I will. Your masters — old or new — better prepare a proper reward.”

Baring his sword, Franz stepped outside; the villager hurried to follow and pointed at a shortcut in the fields, leading to the manor. Franz could barely hold his sword in surprise: his horse was gone. The witch hunter faced about. No hoof prints, no nickering, no clattering; as though he traveled to the Ashen Estate on foot! Franz tethered his horse himself! It couldn’t possibly just break free and run off. Rashly, Franz hurled his hat on the ground but picked it right up, dusting it off. Darker than a thundercloud, he made his way to the manor, chopping down the burs’ gnarls, while the peasant hid in his house and locked up his door. His bearded face appeared in the window as the shutters clanged open.

The sun leaned towards the horizon, when the witch hunter broke free from the thicket, trying to shake off the annoying burs, frenzied. The manor, where the landlord once resided, seemed dead. Even the insects dared not to swirl around the rotten wheat ears nearby. The harvest had been destroyed by this unnamed plague; Franz, being the son of a simple peasant, flinched inside: if his father’s farm had been poisoned by the same evil spell, he would probably have hanged himself from grief. An unbearable stench emanated from the field, in which the burs had strangely found their home. Opening a creaky door carefully, Franz entered the manor. Little time went by after the house owner’s disappearance, yet the house’s finery looked incredibly old, decayed and smoldered away, while the manor itself — desolated and pillaged. The carpet turned to dust under the witch hunter’s boots, the paintings lost their colors, the malign thorns wriggled in, dragging themselves across the ceiling.

“Damn sorcery!” the witch hunter hissed between his teeth.

He smelled the corruption that soaked the lands around; the menacing aura that engulfed him since he entered the estate scared him to the teeth clatter. The most trouble Franz ever had with witches was plagued cattle and cursed chickens, while these fields promised something far more horrifying that Franz had never encountered before. Letting his own intuition lead him, Franz shuffled through the rooms and halls in an attempt to discover the source of such wild magic; witches always left some kind of item, an offering or a sign that served as a magic conductor. That’s how they had earned their name: not strong enough to be called sorcerers or magi, yet quite different in their ways from simple folk. Fortune smiled at Franz in the cellar. Amidst disgusting piles of rotten food, on one of the meat hooks, a bur wreath hanged, and in its center — beads made of tiny bones. Shadows dripped from it, stuffing the cellar’s air with a strange hum that scratched through the skull, dazed the mind and scrambled the thoughts. With a single swing of his sword, Franz slashed the wreath; falling apart, the beads howled quietly, as if somebody’s soul evaporated with them. In the same moment, something rattled up in the kitchen, where the witch hunter just stood. Turning around in an instant and raising his sword, Franz slowly walked up the stairs.

With every stair, the witch hunter’s heart missed a beat. Franz heard hushed noises; somebody was mumbling, walking back and forth, touching stools and whining. The witch hunter concealed himself right near the door and glanced at his shaking hands. Drawing a deep breath, he braced himself and burst out from the cellar. What rose to his view made Franz lose the last crumbs of his confidence. The creature — Franz couldn’t think of any name for it — turned its back to the cellar door, rummaging through the heaps of rotting waste on one of the tables. It appeared to have been human once; at least, its movements resembled ones of a human being, along with its body neck down that surely belonged to a fat man. Sniffing loudly, the creature faced around, sticking its one-eyed gaze into the witch hunter — a dog head with one of its eyes gouged out rested on a dirty neck. A crude seam knitted the creature’s flesh where humans have their hearts, while another one stretched itself across its belly. The creature was drooling froth mixed with rot that it gorged from the table.

Standing still for just a moment, the dog-headed man belched out something between a human cry and a bark, and threw himself forward, reaching his hands with dirty fingernails forth. With a shout, Franz dived back into the cellar, but soon got his wits about him and clenched his sword firmly. The monster narrowed him back, flailing its claws clumsily and splashing froth around; it snapped its jaws right next to Franz’s face. The witch hunter swung his sword blindly; a squeal sounded, while blood sprinkled the walls from a wound on the creature’s arm. Franz tackled the dog-headed man, and they both fell down on the floor, scrambling to get up. The monster’s claw slashed through, but it only grazed the gambeson. Stadlin managed to get back on his feet; he kicked the creature to back it off. Franz lunged forward. His blade impaled the monster’s belly, yet the dog-headed man didn’t even slow down. Barking, smearing everything around with his blood and fat, he rushed out of the manor, busting the door out. Painting the rotten wheat ears red, he hurried to the edge of the autumn-colored forest.

Franz darted out, not even thinking about scouring the rest of the halls. He broke into chase; the witch hunter couldn’t let the creature get away! The dog-headed man ran faster and faster, despite the huge open wound on his belly that pumped out lots of blood. Franz, however, slowed down, his chest heaving up and down, breathing in the stench of the wheat ears.

“Run, run…” he exhaled, “Let’s see where you will lead me.”

The witch hunter reasoned that the wounded monster could bring him to the source of the manor’s curse, to the heart of the corruption that descended upon the land; Franz fancied that if he became such an abomination, he would surely flee to his master. Even with its mind in tatters, the creature evidently tried to hide and lick its wounds where it could feel safe. Olnssen’s new wife, too, could be hiding there. Franz still shuddered in an adrenaline rush; never had he met a creature of such ugliness. Catching his breath back, the witch hunter followed the blood trace. The monster’s barking died down in the yellowish-crimson ashen crowns.

A menacing presence seethed through the tree bark, the same one that emanates with the gaze of a murderer, as they look at their victim’s back, wondering how heavy their purse might be. The ash trees leaned over Franz, stretching their greedy leaves. The yellowest of leaves swayed in the air, swirling down, yet the tree crowns refused to thin out; Franz spat down on the ground watching the cursed dance of crooked nature. The burs braided the tree trunks, chocking them; the grey thorns replaced ash-keys, dangling from the tree branches. Baleful, green-gleaming little flies swarmed some of the trunks. They piled in heaps, turning the trees into buzzing pillars. The field’s stench loomed outside of the forest, and the witch hunter lowered his scarf with relief. Another foul smell struck his nostrils, however not as strong: the dog-headed man’s blood stunk on his blade.

The deeper into the forest Franz plodded, chasing the wounded creature, the thicker the forest grew. The leaves turned brighter, the flies grew in numbers, and the same hum that pounded Franz’s skull in the cellar poisoned the air; the witch hunter approached his prey. Stadlin crouched, listening to the forest’s rustle. A curious noise stood out of the humming that one could not comprehend. Soon it transformed into a cacophony; a hundred of different noises, squeals and screams smelted together, shaking the woods.

Finally, something appeared, blurred, between the trees. Hiding behind the closest ash tree that wasn’t occupied by flies, the witch hunter looked closer and licked his lips hesitantly: monsters stood around a large pit. Franz realized where all the servants, peasants and farm animals vanished; mutilated human bodies twitched, groaned and wailed, praising a giant symbol of bones and burs that towered over the pit on a steel pole. Some of the lost servants got their arms and legs replaced by horse ones, some were blessed with a dog, chicken or pig head. Each creature had seams on their bellies and hearts, stitched crudely; the wounded dog-headed man stood among the others, shifting from one foot to another and cradling his pierced gut. The creatures’ murmur, terrifyingly rhythmical, forced an eerie light from the altar’s bones to pulse.

“Oh, damn…” uttered Franz, “there’s so many of them! I could use Mannsville’s militia!”

The witch hunter threw himself on the forest’s soil, watching the beastmen’s grotesque passes and grimaces. Their dance sped up along with their prayer; no matter how long Franz waited and watched it, he couldn’t spot the witch herself. It could only mean one thing; the witch was so powerful that she controlled the entire throng just with the altar alone. Suddenly, Franz heard grunting sounds behind him. The witch hunter turned around, yet it was already too late.

Three lackeys in liveries, distorted by the witch’s spell beyond recognition, spotted the unwanted guest. One of them, with a cow’s head on its brittle shoulders, started mooing anxiously, while the others charged Franz. The beastmen near the pit paid little attention to the commotion. Feeding on the power of their prayer, a clump of burs crawled up the pit. The flies whirled over it, drawing unsettling symbols in the air. Dodging the Dog Paws and the Chicken Head, Franz rushed the Cow Muzzle and hit it in the nose with the pummel of his sword. Squealing in pain, the monster sat down on the ground, but the others grabbed Stadlin from behind. The paws and hands gripped his clothes, clenched his arms, knocked the hat off his head, but Franz resisted with all it was worth, finally breaking free. With a swing of his sword, the chicken head rolled down with an open beak. The body of the monster crumbled down like a sack of potatoes; then it was Dog Paws’ turn — the creature fell down, stabbed in the place where normally a heart would sit. The neverending clouds of flies buzzed out of the open wound. Holding back vomit, Franz sliced open the monster’s stomach — it was full of bur barbs.

The pit regurgitated a low noise, so powerful that Franz’s ribs shook in pain. As one, the monsters of all kinds charged the witch hunter and encircled him in the blink of an eye. Horse Legs, Dog Heads, Swine Bodies and other creatures threw themselves at Franz, who was scared to death; he desperately flailed his sword, wasting his strength. Sometimes the blade met only the foul air of the witch’s lair, sometimes it slashed through the soft bodies of former peasants and servants. A desperate cry followed such strike, and another monster dropped dead.

“No! Away! Away!” Franz was almost blinded by fear.

The crowd stepped back, as though understanding the words of the witch hunter. The hum grew stronger and stronger, turning into gritting. The monsters formed a large circle. Franz glanced about; nobody tried to rush him anymore, some creatures were left lying breathless at his feet. A sloshing sound thundered from the pit, making the bur clumps shake. Barely feeling his hands, Stadlin raised his sword, readying to face whatever shows up from the pit.

“Horse God! Horse God!” the monsters chanted strangely clearly.

Franz backed away, witnessing what climbed the pit’s walls. Dropping his sword, he fell down but continued to crawl, until he pressed his back against the living wall of beastmen. A massive amalgamation of flesh and limbs — cow, horse and chicken ones layered with pig flesh-–somehow walked on short legs. Franz vomited; a horse head with an open mouth crowned the hulking body. Unspoken terror shadowed the eyes of the horse, as though it feared Franz more than he feared it. The mouth of the abomination moved. The Horse God mumbled, tried to say something, but the horse teeth and tongue wouldn’t let him; the massive monster drew closer, murmuring, sighing and sobbing. Franz gazed at the Horse God for a couple of short moments, until his consciousness left him.

***

Through the noise, the darkness and the ringing in his ears Franz heard voices ravel. His head was cracking up with a nasty ache, and the witch hunter grimaced, his eyes still closed tight; his right arm hurt so much as if horses trampled all over it. From nowhere came sounds that horrified Franz — as though the Horse God stood just near and grunted something, sobbed and whined.

“It’s probably just a bad dream,” the witch hunter thought.

He fancied to still be at the fair site, sleeping in a haystack aside from the main ruckus, loaded with cheap booze. Everything — monsters, bur-infested Ashen Estate, missing people — was just a mirage. All for the best!

The witch hunter grinned and slowly opened his eyes. When the world around him stopped revolving, shaking and twitching, Franz’s courage fumed away; he was tied to a stone obelisk deep into the forest. In front of him, just a dozen yards away, the Horse God towered. The monstrosity, however, paid no attention to the captive. It stood aimlessly, waving back and forth and peering around.

“Huh, I see our witch hunter friend is finally awake…” a woman’s voice sounded behind the obelisk.

“Could it be Olnssen’s new wife? The monsters took me to her?” the thought dashed in Franz’s head.

The witch hunter struggled to see the face of the woman talking; he couldn’t catch a glimpse of her, no matter how hard he was squinting his eyes. Rustling through the fallen leaves, she circled behind the obelisk, passing her hand over its rugged surface.

“Don’t worry. Although I wish you could just keep sleeping… Now you will have a much more exciting fate than just being a dull witch hunter… why would you hunt us, witches, down, if you can just join our side? You will become one of my beast-toys. I think of a horse. Like the idea?”

“Wait,” uttered Franz with faltering tongue, “hold on! Who are you? Where am I?”

“Where? Exactly where you were before. The Ashen Estate. To be precise, it’s my estate now, and I didn’t come up with a proper name just yet. That’s not important, though. Soon the entire town of Mannsville will bow down before me, and all its denizens will become my loyal dogs! Did you like my Horse God? I knew you would.”

The woman passed Franz by, and the witch hunter lost his breath: he recognized her blue dress and her sandy hair. This was the wife of the villager that welcomed him. The witch turned around with a gleaming grin.

“You look surprised! He-he-he! Sure, the wife of a simple peasant cannot look suspicious! There’s my husband with his friends, too…”

“You are very easy to trick, witch hunter,” the bearded man approached his wife; burs vined up his arms, while two dog-headed men followed him grovelingly, “Not to lie, I was afraid you could blow our cover in a click of fingers. Seems like you did not have good teachers then, at the place where they taught you to be a hunter. It’s way too easy: to blame Olnssen’s young wife! What a shame — Olnssen never had a wife… You could have asked around about the place you’re going to visit before parading in!”

Franz struggled, vainly trying to escape; he noticed his sword laying on another stone, flat and set up like a table. Bone amulets, colorful threads and a bloodied knife rested on it near the sword; wretched symbols of the witch and the witcher stained the ground and the withered grass. Franz sensed a magic aura around the obelisk, an aura of fear; the horror inside Franz grew stronger, making it hard to breathe.

“Now-now, don’t be such a wimp,” the witch grabbed the knife and slowly approached the witch hunter, “we’re almost finished! Look at your right hand. Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

With his heart missing beats, Franz glanced at his hand. He screamed. A horse hoof throbbed instead of a human palm.

“And you feared you lost your horse,” chuckled the woman, “here she is! Forever with you!”

Franz squirmed as hard as he could, and the obelisk began to tremble with him, but the witcher only scoffed at his efforts.

“Quit shuddering. Let’s start the ritual.”

Something tickled the witch hunter’s ear. He shook his head — a bur’s sprout crawled past his cheek. The burs’ net entangled the obelisk, reaching Franz’s belly. The witch’s knife aimed at the same place. Franz struggled until he felt the ropes ensnaring him giving out. It either grinded itself out against the obelisk’s surface or it was already rotten through like everything in the Ashen Estate.

“One quick cut,” the witcher whispered in bloodlust, “and the burs will replace the entrails. They’re everexpanding, unyielding, undying; they feel so free inside the warm bodies!”

“No… no!”

The rope that tied Franz’s legs snapped. Flinging out his heels like a horse, the witch hunter kicked the witcher in the chest; the bearded man lost his balance and stumbled down. The witch flinched in surprise; Franz got back on his feet, squirming out of the ties like a leech. Following the witcher down heavily, pressuring him against the ground, he started bashing the bearded man’s face with his hoof. The Horse God roared and faced its master’s opponent. With the slightest move of the hulking mass of flesh, the stench of rot fumed about. The dog-headed men, terrified by the Horse God’s wrath, fled.

The witcher did not move anymore, while Franz kept flailing and pounding, splattering blood all around, barely understanding what he was doing. The witch cried and swung her knife. Franz managed to roll aside and, as soon as he could, crawled away. The witch caught up to him, finally raising her knife over the witch hunter. Franz covered himself with his healthy hand, and the blade sunk into his forearm. His blood sprinkled out; pain shot through Franz’s body, as if the knife was melting hot. The witch’s magic gushed into Franz’s veins, and a cloud of voices burst into the witch hunter’s head — the same one that thundered in the head of the Horse God. The abomination drew closer. Losing one of its masters, it also lost control; one of the spells, shackling the monstrosity, broke like glass. The Horse God flailed its arms, howled and turned its head maddeningly.

Franz pushed the witch away and rushed to his sword.

“You will not get away!” shouted the witch and raised her hands.

Two black stings darted towards the witch hunter through the foul air like spears, aiming for the heart. Franz grabbed his sword and faced around. The Horse God got the witch in its sights. Frenzied, unable to understand who is who, it knocked the witch down with its ugly claw. Mumbling and sobbing, the monster got down on its knees, digging into the witch’s flesh with its dulled teeth. The sting-spells turned into smoke. The burs’ web began to wither, turning into ash. The yellow and crimson leaves slowly changed their colors to green, while the ones that already fell down disappeared without a trace.

Franz stood, terrified, his sword raised, watching the cursed abomination devouring its masters. The Horse God straightened up and dashed to Franz, shaking the land with its roar. The witch hunter sat down on the ground, unable to take his eyes off the bloodied horse’s muzzle. Yet, making one more rushing step, the Horse God slowed down. First, its running turned into walking, then it barely moved its legs. The witch and the witcher died; their curse had been lifted, shimmered away with the wind and the fallen leaves. The monstrosity was their creation. With a crack, a piece of meat fell off the Horse God’s body. Then — the second one, and the next one, and the next after it. Roaring for one last time, the monster made several steps towards Franz and crumbled down as a pile of bones and limbs. The horse head closed its eyes.

***

“Eh? Whatta ya mean — nobody there? Everybody got turned into them monsters? Olnssen vanished as well? Oh Gods,” the steward muttered, “what will I tell me master? So the Ashen Estate died out. Well, thanks fer that at least, I reckon, sir hunter.”

Franz nodded, covered in dirt, shivering, almost all his hair gone silver. He hid his right arm under a coat, so that nobody could see it. Hastily gripping his reward, Stadlin took his new horse, provided from the Pear Chine’s stables, for a gallop. Away from the Pear Chine and Mannsville, away from the fairs and laughing revelers. Crying over his hoof, Franz fled aimlessly. He threw his sword as far away as he could. The witch hunter didn’t want to touch it anymore. Like a whirlwind, he galloped past a tired bald servant, who was dragging along a bag to the closest fair. A hammer and the posters gone yellow stuck out of it. “Wanted! Witch,” the poster said.