[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

[LCP]

Sickly lights danced around Illiiya as she cried her words, crawling like worms around her calves and through her bristling hair. At any other time, such a display might have terrified the superstitious Hohlesbruckers, but her spell had done its subtle work – the villagers were turning back towards the dreadful tree, a sudden resolve kindled in their hearts.

It was a good thing it had worked. Illiiya felt as if she was choking, the strength of her power fleeing her. There was a hunger in the sick air, yearning to swallow her up into the black soil of this tainted place. She forced the hungry darkness out, but it had cost her – she felt weaker, older, as if the insidious decay that had eaten away the long-rotted bodies of the beastmen was leaching into her bones.

On the crest of the barrow, Lothar fought his way out of the tree’s clinging grip, swinging his sword high as a rallying point. There was a crackling crunch of bone behind him, Mathias’ scream cut short as the torch-wielding villager failed to make the same escape. At some level, Lothar felt he should look away, but the hammering fear in his chest had melted into a serene, icy calm. He could see it in the faces of the villagers around him, too, the shadow of terror lifting from their eyes. There wasn’t going to be another chance.

“Get that stuff up here!” he bellowed, gesturing to the growing stack of straw that had been built at the foot of the mound. “Pieter!” he cried. “Bring fire!”

Hearing Lothar’s command, Pieter looked up at the writhing silhouette of the blasted oak. He felt none of the cool serenity that had washed out from Illiiya – and right now what he saw was the bloody, broken body of Mathias, spine folding through disquietingly acute angles with noises like snapping firewood as it was dragged beneath the twitching root mass of the tree. The man’s fallen torch was still lying on the earth between the writhing roots – as he watched, it guttered and went out.

"This is insane," he muttered, under his breath. Turning to Gerolf, who still held a burning brand aloft, he motioned back in the direction of the pitch barrel. “Come on!”

~

Slithering half-upright in the mud, Sigurd groped for his crossbow. Using his cramped arm as a brace, he fumbled awkwardly to aim at the swaying thing on the barrow, and pulled the trigger. The bolt hissed away into the damp air, vanishing into the rustling branches – whether it had hit or not, he could hardly even tell.

Illiiya cried an incantation again, marshalling her magic against the tree - her traceless, slicing spell did nothing more than score its bark. Around her, the villagers were hauling their bundles of straw into place, forming a line at the outermost limit of the tree’s deadly reach. Ricard was among them, hefting a bale of straw with a young farmer; at the bottom of the line, Ithelus was dragging the fifth bale single-handed, the elf’s marksmanship forgotten. Running up from where the horses reared and whinnied, Leopold caught up the other end, helping Ithelus the last few steps up the slope.

They stood ready. Thickening rain blowing in their faces, Pieter and Gerolf were running back with lit torches held high - looking out over the heads of the men around him, Lothar could see Mils returning to the field, reining in his horse to stare in awe at the torchlit scene...