Rain hung in the air, though not a single drop had yet fallen. Grey clouds glided across the sky like packs of hungry wolves, ready to pounce on the world below. Sharon adjusted her hood and sighed quietly. After several hours of driving, she finally spotted a village on the horizon - the small, barely clinging settlement of Veltera. She was tired, frozen and, above all, hungry. Veltera was not a place she was happy to return to. Narrow, muddy roads, poor straw-covered huts and people who lived too close to the land to see beyond their own fields and daily hardships. Poverty had seeped into the country like a disease, and yet the inhabitants still persisted in their superstitions. Stepping inside was like hitting a wall - the stench of beer, sweat and mustiness immediately hit Sharon in the nostrils. The din of conversation mingled with shouts, the clink of tankards and the wailing of some old song performed by a drunken man.
Sharon approached the counter, removing her hood. The innkeeper, a stocky man with a nose resembling half a rotten potato, looked at her thoughtfully.
- "A room for the night and something warm to eat," she chuckled, sliding a few copper coins across the countertop.
- "What we have is warm in name only," he burbled, but took the coins and poured her a pint of beer. - A bed will be found for you. But get out in the morning.
- As long as there are no bugs, we won't have a problem.
The innkeeper snickered but replied nothing. Sharon took a pint and found a vacant seat at one of the tables.
Sharon sipped her beer, trying to get used to the taste, which was more like gutter water than any beverage. She watched the room - people were laughing too loudly, drinking too fast, as if each night could be the last. And perhaps that was indeed the case at Velter.
At a neighbouring table, three men were playing 'Rotten Dice' - a local version of the dice game that relied on skilful lying and bluff recognition in addition to luck. One of them, with a mangled face and three fingers missing, threw the dice on the table and cursed as he lost again.
- Fucking swamp rats, I have your blood on my hands! - he wailed, then gulped down the entire contents of the cup.
- It's not the rats you need to curse at, it's your bloody fingers! - laughed the other one, thin as a scarecrow. - You can't throw a good one because you don't have anything to throw it with!
- You have as much tongue as brains, Rat.
- And you have as many fingers as you have brains. Which is a whole lot of shit.
The laughter around the table rolled in like a storm. Sharon rolled her eyes. Veltera... Mud, beer and fools.
Suddenly an old man squatted at her table without asking. He smelled of smoke, sweat and something that resembled mouldy bread.
- 'You're not from around here... Are you a witch? - He asked, licking his chapped lips. - You can tell by your eyes. By the fact that you're sitting alone.
Sharon didn't look at him. Instead she refilled her pint and set it on the table with a bang.
- You're watching well. The question is - why?
- Because maybe you don't know yet that here.... people disappear. And only some come back. But not inches. - The man bared his teeth, which were missing more than they were.
- You sound like a drunken storyteller.
- I saw. A wet woman. In the fog. Sometimes you hear laughter. Sometimes a cry. Sometimes your own name. And if you go... You don't come back.
Sharon finally looked at him. There was something lurking in the old man's eyes.... real. Fear. Maybe madness. Or maybe both.
- And you? You're back.
- I came back. But since then... my dog doesn't recognise me. My daughter is scared. And I sometimes wake up... with mud in my mouth.
Sharon had just taken another sip of beer and didn't have time to answer the villager when the door of the inn opened with a slam. A young woman rushed in - her fog-wet red hair sticking to her forehead and anger smouldering in her eyes. Behind her, two guards walked in - barely able to stand, clad in pieces of rusty sheet metal that pretended to be armour.
- Tell me again you won't do anything, I'll bludgeon you with this pint, I swear on the rotten eggs of the Wet Mother! - growled the girl, walking up to one of them.
- 'It's none of our business, Brito!- replied the guard, taking a step back. - The boy waded into the swamp himself, we didn't tell him to! We don't go there. The swamp witch is not a job for people, it's for.... madmen. Or corpses.
- Or maybe just for someone with the balls you lack! - Brito spat at the guard's feet. - One boy has disappeared, tomorrow another will disappear. What then? Are you still going to sit here and warm your cowardly asses over a beer, fretting about stupid things because you don't want to move your ass!
The other guard tried to push her away, but Brito grabbed him by the front of his armour and pulled him towards her.
- You touch me again and I'll knock your teeth out. All of them. Even the millipedes you have left from your mother.
The inn grew quiet. Sharon raised an eyebrow, watching the scene with interest. She liked people who didn't put up with stupidity - and the girl just gave the impression that she was allergic to idiots.
- Let him melt, if he's so stupid! - burbled one of the guards, shrugging. - Let's go, Walder. No one will thank you for the favour in fucking Muddery anyway.
They both left, leaving silence and uncomfortable stares behind them.
Brito stood still for a moment, clenching her fists. Finally, she walked up to the bar and slammed her fist on the counter.
- Beers. And something that doesn't smell like bootleg soup.
Sharon waited a moment, then approached the redheaded girl.
- 'You've got quite a character. An even better tongue.
Brito looked at her out of the corner of her eye.
- 'And who are you? New to the village?
- A passer-by. Or maybe dragged in. I don't know yet. I heard about the boy. - Sharon nodded towards the door. - The witch of the swamp? That doesn't sound like a bedtime story.
Brito looked at her closely.
- 'You're a sorceress... I can see it from your eyes... And your style. Nobody wears that kind of jewellery in the middle of nowhere.
- You have a keen eye.
Brito squatted on the bench and sat down heavily, as if suddenly everything had gone out of her - the rage, the adrenaline, the tension. She was silent for a while, staring at the foaming beer. Finally, she spoke up quietly.
- His name is Elrik. He's eight years old. He went to get brushwood this morning and didn't come back. The whole village thought he might have fallen asleep somewhere in the forest. He knew the area. But...
- Maybe he was just dragged into the swamp?
- Maybe. Or maybe something that lives in these swamps. You hear all sorts of things as you live here. About screams in the mist, about women without faces, about a shadow that walks on water and leaves no trace.
- And the guards nothing?
Brito spat on the floor.
- The guards are cowards with sticks. They're afraid of their own shadows, and as soon as they hear the word "witch" they shit their pants before they even grab a sword. Fucking heroes on legs of clay.
Sharon sipped her drink, furrowing her brow.
- Witch of the swamp. I've heard that line before today.
- It's no joke. She's been seen. White eyes, hair like wet moss, a voice that sounds like a funeral bell. They say she takes women, men, grandmothers.... Children. And then... they come back. Empty.
Sharon leaned back more comfortably, letting Brito's words hang between them like a fog drifting through a swamp. There was a glint in her eyes - a mixture of amusement, challenge and something that almost resembled curiosity.
- So... will you help?
- I don't know yet,' she replied calmly. - I don't like to throw myself into rescuing someone just because the village is full of idiots and cowards. But... - she looked towards the window, beyond which the night was beginning to thicken - I like solving riddles. And this all sounds like a riddle with a very dirty bottom. Also, I know a bit about curses and witches.
Brito stared at her for a moment with distrust. Then she shook her head with a bitter smile.
- "If this swamp doesn't suck you in, maybe the Witch herself will choke on you," she muttered.
Sharon smiled crookedly.
- 'I'm often bitten on the tongue by those who meet me.
From the inn came another wild laugh, the clink of a spilled pint and the screech of a shifting stool. An ordinary night in Blotnica.
Except that somewhere out there, in the darkness beyond the village, something was waiting. Something that was taking people away. Something that might not have been just a tale of drunken peasants.
Sharon stood up, throwing her hood over her head.
- 'Show me the place where Elric was last seen.
Brito looked at her in mild amazement. Then she nodded.
- 'You're crazy.
- It's better to be mad ... Than dead and dull.
And the night outside the windows of the inn seemed to listen to their words. Quiet. Hungry.