the hut. Maric looked at him as if he must be mad, but said nothing.
As they walked down the path, the shadows seemed to deepen. The trees towered more ominously overhead, and the mist twisted and danced around them. A trick of the light? In front of the hut sat a small rickety rocking chair as well as an old fire pit that had not seen use for many days. Small moldy bones surrounded the pit in neat piles.
“Is that . . . ?” Maric’s voice trailed off in horror, and Loghain followed his gaze up into the trees. There hung a corpse, a human man with clammy white skin like a fish. He was strung up by his neck and arms, dangling like a broken marionette, with flies and the smell of turning meat hovering in the air. There was no sign of injury, but he had been dead long enough to discolor, the skin glistening slightly as if sweating. The doughy, swollen face and bulging eyes were not enough to hide this corpse’s identity. Loghain knew exactly who he was.
“Dannon?” Maric whispered.
Loghain nodded. There were other bodies hanging farther in, just a few that he could see, hidden in the mist and shadows. Most of them were skeletons with nothing more than tattered cloth and scraps of wispy hair clinging to them.
“I see you’re already acquainted with my newest trophy,” came a new voice. A decrepit woman hobbled into view from among the trees. She was the very picture of a witch, wild white hair and a robe formed mostly of thick black furs and dark leather. Hanging down her back was a heavy cloak trimmed in fox fur, quite striking and delicately stitched. She carried a basket filled with large acorns and other items wrapped in red cloth, and she waved it absently in Dannon’s direction. “He never did introduce himself, foolish lad. I warned him after he started with the bellowing.” She stopped and appraised Loghain and Maric carefully, both of whom stared at her agape. “Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like either of you has the same problem. Good! That will make this easier.”
Her voice was cackling with easy amusement, which made the situation all the more surreal. Loghain wished the elves had left him with at least his blade. The old woman walked toward the hut without waiting for them and sat herself down in the rocking chair with a belabored sigh.
“Well, come on, then,” she grumped at them, putting down her basket.
Loghain approached grudgingly, Maric a step behind him.
“You killed Dannon?” Maric asked incredulously.
“Did I say that?” she chuckled. “I don’t believe I did, in fact. If you wish to know the truth, the lad killed himself.”
“Magic,” Loghain swore.
The woman cackled with renewed amusement but said nothing more.
“Who are you?” Maric asked.
“I don’t care who she is,” Loghain asserted. “I don’t like being played with.” He stepped threateningly toward her. She responded by narrowing her small eyes, but nothing else. “I demand that you let us go.”
“You demand?” she seemed impressed by the notion.
“Err . . . Loghain,” Maric cautioned.
Loghain held up a hand, warning Maric back. He stepped closer to the witch, looming over her as she remained seated in her chair. “Yes, I demand,” he repeated slowly. “Casting spells does not impress me. You need time to cast, and I can break your neck before you lift a finger.”
She smiled at him, a broad grin full of teeth. “Now, who said that I would be the one to do anything?”
Loghain heard Maric’s sharp intake of breath behind him but turned only in time to see one of the giant trees reaching toward him with lightning speed. Great branches wrapped around him like giant hands, pulling him up into the air. Leaves fluttered all around while flies buzzed angrily through the air. He struggled and shouted, but it was useless. The tree stepped back into line with its brothers, and Loghain became another dangling trophy only a few feet away from Dannon’s bloated corpse. Panicking, he tried to shout to Maric, only to have smaller branches wrap around his mouth and hold his head still.
Maric crouched, eyes wide and heart pounding as he watched Loghain get snatched. It happened so quickly— how could a giant tree have moved so fast? Frightened, he glanced back at the witch, but she only rocked quietly in her chair, regarding him with vague annoyance.
“Are you to be next, then?” she asked.
“I’m . . . hoping not.”
“An excellent choice.”
Sweat trickling down his brow, Maric cleared his throat and carefully lowered himself to one knee. “I beg your pardon on behalf of my companion, good lady.” His voice was quiet, but the old woman appeared to be listening, fascinated. “We have been running for days now, and after the Dalish attacked us . . . we expected more of the same, despite the fact that you have offered no provocation. I apologize.” He bowed his head, trying his best to remember the courtly manners so painstakingly taught to him over the years by his mother. To think he had rolled his eyes at those lessons, assuming that he would never have an actual use for them.
The witch laughed shrilly. “Manners? My, but that is unexpected.” When Maric looked up, she grinned at him. “But the truth is that you don’t know what I intend for you and your friend, young man. I might intend to give you both to the sylvans, just as I did your friend, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Yes,” she repeated slowly, “it is.” She waved a withered hand toward the tree holding Loghain, causing its branches to unwind. He was dumped to the ground, where he immediately jumped up and turned to face the old woman, enraged. Maric held up a hand warning him to stay back, and Loghain snorted as if to tell Maric he was angry, not
“So you are he,” the witch said, nodding with approval as she studied Maric. “I knew you would come, and the manner in which you would come, but not the when.” She let out a sharp guffaw and slapped her knees. “Isn’t it marvelous how very capricious magic can be with its information? It’s like asking a cat for directions—consider yourself lucky if it only tells you where to go!” She howled with laughter at her own joke.
