Sacrificial Lamb

[Zook Murnig]

Blackened oak cut through the crude earth as the witch scraped her staff across its surface in a wide arc. Circle drawn, Alma Waterstone set into the long-since familiar dance of sigils. She carved a five-pointed star into the earthen ring, and scratched out a name at each point: Anat for air, with a crude drawing of a spear; Nikkal for earth, sprinkled with fresh green leaves; Asclepius for water, crushing a waterstone into the soil to quench its thirst; Shapash for fire, with a simple sundisk drawn; and Qadeshtu for spirit, blessed with a kiss, her lips tasting of coppery clay.

Setting her staff aside, beyond the bounds of her circle, the flame-haired witch set herself to the working. She lay out the fodder for her fire in a small pile of sticks, and with a practiced strike of flint and stone, sparked an ember in the circle's center. Withdrawing a pewter mortar and pestle from her satchel, she set it down beside the newborn blaze. She filled the vessel with a prepared mixture of mint leaves, cinnamon shavings, and a gnarled root of ginger. Grasping the cold, smooth tools, she ground the ingredients together and muttered a prayer.

"Tun lih chezuhn, Kotharat, shani yikuhl laashut ahabudut shalek. Heritsun shali hua shalek, uath heritsun shalek hua shali. Ani ahabuduk henamun." The words flowed from her rolling tongue, and with each syllable she poured herself into the prayer, heart, mind, and soul. She bound herself to the collective will of her gods, the Daughters of Bull El. With a sweeping motion, Alma poured the powdered mixture over the fire.

Sizzling and leaping, the fire consumed her offering, and returned a choking black smoke that filled her nose and lungs. She breathed deep, cool mint tickling her nostrils, cinnamon warming her chest, and ginger setting her throat aflame. The witch cast her mind outward, finding the barest thread of the goddesses' guidance. The coolness of mint changed to the sweetness of wildflowers and roses. The heat in her chest pressed outward, and she coughed wildly, her mouth filling with the savory and gamey flavors of mutton, growing sweeter by the second, into tender lamb's meat. Finally, a word, a name, crossed her lips unbidden. "Sissem." Rosewood.

Alma Waterstone, witch of the Kotharat, priestess of the Old Gods of Q'Dosh, doused the flames with a fistful of clay. Sputtering and coughing, eyes overflowing with water, crawled from the ashes of her oblation. Gasping in the clay, she lay only a few days' flight from Rosewood, across the dead fields and into northern Raiaera.

[Zook Murnig]

Cloak drawn tight against the late snow, and the wind that threatened to steal it away, Alma slogged along the road to Sissem. Her boots sucked and popped in the mud as she made her way through the thunderous snowstorm. The witch would have preferred to visit in the guise of the traveling crone, to slip into town almost unnoticed and judge the temperament of its people before revealing herself. The Storm God, however, had other ideas. Baal Hadad knew best how to keep her honest, and there was no chance her glamours would hold in this foul weather. Nor could she fly in, lest the umber-skinned witch find herself plummeting, charred and thunderstruck, into the center of town. So she trudged miserably between the fields of barren earth and frostbitten grass, slowly dusted with snow.

Her trek wore on, and she reached the barest edge of the village, taking shelter under the eaves of the first stone-cobbled house. Under the thatched roof, she pulled back her hood, shaking out her long, curling locks. From across the dirt-paved road, a sharp knocking on glass echoed in the silence. She searched for the source, and found it: a black-feathered crow pecking at the window of the house across the way. She watched the curious bird with interest as she warmed her frozen palms. Knock-knock-knocking on the frosted window, the bird was peculiar to say the least. Then the crow cocked its head to the side, as if sensing her thoughts, and stared directly at her. Into her russet eyes it peered, with its own dark beady eyes, and she could almost sense some inquisitive intelligence lurking within. It almost seemed to question her with those eyes, and it snapped its black bill at her once before resuming its knock-knock-knocking, with renewed urgency.

A rustling from her satchel broke the trance that had taken her, and she wrapped the cloak about herself once more. As she stepped back out from the cottage's shelter, her boots crunched through the now thick-fallen snow. She heard a window creak open and closed behind her with a sharp crack, silencing the tapping crow, and she dashed through the meager square to the taller building at its center. Surely the magister, or whatever manner of authority which resided there, could shelter her for the night from Hadad's overzealous exuberance.