Witch of Fear [Mild horror, Isekai High Fantasy]

“There’s a lot more over at Orzon’s house!” 

Autumn shouted to her companion as they rushed across the way. 

With grim determination, Nethlia hit the door to the old man’s house like a battering ram. The thick, sturdy door couldn’t withstand the sheer force of nature that collided with it and exploded into a thousand pieces of wooden shrapnel. Behind the door, a redcap who’d been gleefully ransacking the humble abode was stunned by the splinters. Stumbling and blinded by the pain, it was unable to avoid the hammer’s head that met with its skull. 

For a moment, a headless redcap wandered about, still trying to pillage before it fell with a wet splat. 

From behind the dominating form of the one demonic woman army, Autumn unleashed her jinx upon the shocked redcap horde. Cascading fear fixed them in place as the focused rage of a pole-hammer crashed down upon them. Unable to dodge, they were simple targets for the brutal might of Nethlia. Like the easiest game of whack-a-mole she had ever seen, the pole-hammer rose and fell, coated in blood and gore. 

Then the redcaps were still forevermore.

Autumn rushed forward to the bedroom. Cresting the doorway, she stopped in shock. Nethlia silently approached from behind to look inside. A quietness encapsulated them at a point of grief.

They had been too late. 

There lay the ancient blacksmith. A deep red stain pooled on the cobbled floor, seeping through the cracks and ridges. In Orzon’s cracked and calloused hand lay his smithing hammer smeared in foul blood. The old man had put up a hell of a fight in his last moments. All about him lay the shattered forms of several redcaps. Yet the rigors of age had slowed the man and a lucky strike had opened him up. 

“...” Autumn’s voice choked up in her throat. 

She had only known the grumpy aged demon a day, yet she still felt a connection and his death hurt deep inside. Glancing to her side, Autumn took in the sight of Nethlia and the sadness that poured forth. The demoness had known Orzon her whole life. Autumn would like to say that didn’t know what losing someone that close felt like, but that would be a lie. 

A silence stretched on as the blood pooled at their feet. There was a lot Autumn wanted to say, to offer in comfort, but there was no time; the redcaps still lurked within the hamlet. They rushed forth from the fallen blacksmith’s home and Autumn felt a creeping dread inside. Within her heart, she had a grim feeling that a wicked fate had befallen the inhabitants of Duskmoore.  

As she had feared, slaughter painted the remaining homes. Upon an altar of evil, the redcaps had cast the families. The men, women, and children of the village lay dead. 

The fae creature’s enjoyment spared none.

It was only Autumn’s newfound powers that saved her and Nethlia from an equally gruesome fate. 

As they walked around the somber hamlet, Nethlia killed all the redcaps they came across with wrath. Her muscles tensed as she gripped the weapon tight as hot tears spilled forth that Autumn pretended not to see. 

They spoke no words in the night's silence.

With caution in her steps, she approached the grieving woman and placed her hand on her arm. The coolness of the prosthetic fingers felt soothing in their way, reminding the demoness that she wasn’t alone. 

How long had it even been since Autumn had arrived? A day? Two? 

Was she not allowed peace? 

Was she not allowed to live unassailed by fear?

Fine.

If the fae wanted fear, she’d give them fear. 

She’d burn their whole fucking forest to ash and dust.

---

 

For the rest of the blood-soaked night, the pair searched the surrounding farmlands. Like predators, they stalked through the waving gray stalks and across the grassy pastures, following tracks and traces. Of those trails that didn’t lead to the hamlet, all they found in the end were the crushed remains of redcaps foolish enough to bother the resting calves among the cattle. In their rage, the mother cows and bulls had absolutely destroyed them. 

Only red smears remained on the grasses.

Perhaps it was inappropriate given the circumstances, but Autumn felt vindicated of her caution towards the behemoth cattle, despite Nethlia’s assurances to their gentle nature. 

Wisely, she kept her thoughts to herself. 

The bellowing herds eyed the pair with mistrust as they skirted around. Even at the distance, their warning cries threatened to burst Autumn’s eardrums. 

A steely look had overtaken the powerful warrior that had Autumn worried. Even with her ability to see emotions, she had no idea what the demoness was thinking. While she was lost in thought, they soon arrived at the first of the outlying farmsteads. All seemed fine at first glance, but that meant little, given what they were up against. 

Fearful of finding more carnage inside, Autumn cast her sight towards the walls, but she saw nothing foul or otherwise. Turning to Nethlia, she shook her head. 

Stepping up, Nethlia pounded on the door heavily.

“Open up or I’ll open it for you!” she shouted. 

After a tense moment, Autumn heard movement inside and the faint sight of colored emotions. It swung the door open and through it stood a bleary-eyed gruff farmer who held a spear tense in his hand. 

“Nethlia? What are you banging on about this late for?” The farmer grumbled as he relaxed at the sight of the demoness. 

Seeing him unharmed, Nethlia’s broad shoulders loosened. 

“There’s been trouble. A goblin raiding party hit the hamlet. Everyone…everyone else is dead. There might be more on the loose.”

“Shit. Poor folks, I’ll wake my boys and head around the farms.” 

The farmer swore as he awoke fully at the news. 

“Stay safe. We’ll head around but I think we got them all, still keep alert. I’ll need help to clean up.”

“Right. We’ll be there.” The farmer replied grimly before bidding them farewell and turned to fetch his sons. 

“It looks like they only attacked the hamlet,” Nethlia said, stony-faced.

“Nethlia, I…” Autumn said with a guilt-laced voice.

“We’d best get back; I need to clean up and prepare the bodies for their last rites.” 

Autumn trailed behind the broad back of the red-skinned demoness. She cast her eyes low as she lamented her actions; her mere presence here had brought only death, she was sure of it, but where was she to go? This world was foreign to her. She knew nothing and nobody. Not what gods people worshiped, if at all. No laws, rites, or even customs.

She was so lost and alone that it hurt.

Perhaps it was time to learn, she thought. Her eyes rose back up to that broad back and cleared her throat. 

“Umm, I…I know little about…um, about this empire or your people’s beliefs. Ah, what I’m trying to ask is…what do your people do for funerals and stuff? I want to do something for Orzon…Is that ok?”

For the longest time, Nethlia didn’t speak as they marched back to the now-empty hamlet. Downcast, Autumn was thinking she wouldn’t get a reply when Nethlia’s voice broke the night.

“Cremation.” 

The demoness turned her gaze back to Autumn’s.

“There’s a story amongst my people, passed down from mother to child. It recalls our origin. Once, long ago, we were slaves to devils within the burning hells. We suffered under their torments as warriors in endless wars or playthings within their depraved kingdoms and halls, but one fateful day a mortal rebelled.”

Nethlia paused for a moment, allowing the silence to linger. 

“With chains broken, that mortal offered us a chance, one last war, and we’d be free. So we took it and fought. Fought until the last arch-devil and their murderous underlings lay dead and in our victory, we gained freedom.” 

“The fire goddess Nusraura, known as the mother of war and daughter of rebellion, took pity upon us and ushered us into the mortal planes. We were born of her blood and fire, or so the story goes.”

Nethlia stretched her hand out to where the morning sun would rise. 

“So when we die we return to the flame, to be her fuel in thanks, so that day might come once more.”

The silence of a story ended grasped the atmosphere. 

“What were they called?” Autumn asked.

“Hmm?” 

“The mortal who rebelled and broke their chains.”

Nethlia hummed.

“No one knows, the stories just call them the Devil in Red.”

Nethlia turned her sad smile back to Autumn.

“What about you?”

“Me?” Autumn asked.

“Yeah, you got to hear my tall tale. Who do you follow?” 

Nethlia peeked at Autumn’s shadowed face. 

“Umm, I’ve never truly thought about it… I don’t have a god or anything like that.”

Autumn glanced up at the night sky, at the two moons that had greeted her upon crawling into this foreign world.

“I suppose I’ve always liked the moons.”

Nethlia gazed at the twins above. “Sounds lonely.”

“Lonely? Don’t you see, they always have one another? When I look up, I don’t feel so alone either.”

“What about when it’s a new moon?” Nethlia asked. 

In response, Autumn scowled at the demoness teasing her.

“Then I’ll just look at the other one.” 

“What about a double new moon?” Nethlia teased with a faint smile on her lips.

Autumn threw her hands up in the air as the demoness laughed. The sound was melodious amongst the solemness; it certainly beat the doom and gloom.

On the horizon, the faintest rays of morning heat began illuminating the night’s evil deeds. 

Under the morning light, the work of cleaning up the village began in earnest. The farmers of the surrounding fields gathered within the stricken hamlet. Nethlia led the adults to collect and honor the dead while Autumn led the younger demon folk in gathering the redcaps. 

Autumn’s guilt burned within her chest, so she decided to try to protect the hamlet from further harm. Maybe too little too late, but she had to do something. Most of the redcaps were headless, Nethlia’s wrath made apparent. With a sharp knife and a small copper cooking pot liberated from the inn, Autumn stripped the flesh from bone. The foul creatures smelt utterly rancid, far beyond what they should have. 

If evil had a smell, this might be it. 

Not even pigs would want the corrupted offal that spilled from their guts, staining Autumn’s hands.  

The gross scent of boiling meats and gristle sent many of the young demonkind scurrying off to puke. When they returned, they looked at Autumn differently, with a little fear tinged with respect. Perhaps being arm-deep in a goblin’s guts impressed demonfolk, or I might have just been a child’s thinking that it was gross in that cool sort of way.

Either way, Autumn made some of the grossest soup in existence.

She then weaved imagination and blackcraft together to create a series of bone totems out of the boiled-clean redcap bones and her twilight hair. She would place each at the boundaries of the hamlet as a ward and warning. 

Hopefully, that’d be enough to repeal any more goblin attacks.

By the time she was done, the funeral was ready to start.

Out the back of the tavern in a comparatively clear field, the farmers and Nethlia had built three pyres of firewood, one for each household of the hamlet. These solemn shrines stood ready to receive a promised flame. They had wrapped the bodies of the fallen up in cloth. Gently, they were placed upon the pyres alongside trinkets of treasured memory; a dress well-worn, a pipe well-smoked, and a doll well-loved were meticulously arranged. 

Autumn cautiously approached Orzon’s lonely rest. 

While she hadn’t known him long, she got a glimpse of who he was, that hidden care under a gruff demeanor. From her coat, Autumn retrieved one of her anti-hex charms and placed it upon the blacksmith’s chest, right beside his hammer. 

Maybe he could use it in the next life, whatever that was. 

Nobody spoke in the silent morning; there were no honeyed words or melodious chants. 

Nethlia, with a burning torch in hand, approached in silence. The flickering flames spun off into the sky and illuminated her ruby face of unshed tears. With nary a word, she lit the pyres one after another till all three blazed with the glory of their goddess. 

In the far distance, a cruel pair of eyes watched with delight and resentment.