Caewen awoke with a start.
It was dark.
Night still.
She had meant to stay awake until Fetch returned, but exhaustion claimed her sometime after the fire had burnt down to smoulderings and Seath had retired to his own bed in the little side room he kept for his private use.
The door rattled and thumped. A dim voice hissed outside.
She stood, groggy, and went to the door, unlatching it and opening it enough to let Fetch in. He shot in like a frightened cat, and Caewen could have sworn his tail was all puffed up just like a cat too.
“Tssch. Close it! Close it! Shut the door!”
“What?” she said, but her fingers responded and she shut the door with a clunk, then dropped the latch.
“Can you put a warding on the door? Tsh. Tsch. Do it! Ward it against–against–things.” Fetch ran to the far end of the room and hid under the cot. He poked his soft nose out and his eyes shone like wet black chips of jet.
Caewen crouched and looked under the bed, puzzled. “What has got into you?”
“Tsch. There’s a thing in this valley! I felt it when I was in the woods, and it saw me, and then grew, and it grew, and eventually it had its eyes all on me, big, evil dead eyes. It’s big. Tsh. I don’t know what it is, but it’s big and it doesn’t like me at all.”
“A thing?”
“A vast mind. A presence. An ancient spirit. No a god. Not a goddess. I mean, there’s a godling also, sleeping somewhere in the woods I think… but this is different. A different presence. Utterly malign. It’s different.”
“How so?”
A flutter of noise and agitation followed. Finally, Fetched hissed and gave a reply. “It feels more like the ghost of a dead god. Angry. Resentful. Tsh. Tscch. A nasty death-thing. A thing! Ward the door now! Tsch. Quickly!”
Caewen fumbled about with her bag and took out a piece of raw, natural chalk and a beeswax candle. She lit the candle off an ember she was able to blow back to life in the hearth, and then, in the light of the candle, she drew out long curling marks and sigils across the door, flowing down like the drooping shadows of ferns, over the threshold, a little bit onto the floor too. Once this was done, she dribbled wax in circular patterns as well, put a few marks around the dinows, above the chimney, and at last she whispered some words of old power. The spell was minor and would only last until dawn, but in her exhausted, sickened condition it still taxed her. She felt her skin prick coldly. She felt the warmth of her life’s blood drain out of her. Trembling with cold now, freezing at the tips of her fingers, she stumbled back to the bed and sat down. Fetch came up onto the bed and nuzzled her. His magic and power eked into her. She felt some warmth returning, much like sitting beside a fire after having been out in a snowstorm.
“Why was that so important?” she murmured, but as she finished the sentence a high wind rose outside. Howling and rattling noises ran down the street, and far above, somewhere in the skies, a soft roll of thunder echoed. The door creaked inwards, suddenly and without warning. It strained at the bolts and hinges as if something were pressing at it from the outside.The thatch above them stirred and the beams of the roof groaned and moved. For a moment, Caewen thought the roof might lift off, but it didn’t. She should have thought to put some marks on the roof-beams and rafters perhaps.
The storm winds grew, and a squally blast of air shook the whole house. The thunder rose in intensity, until flashes of silver light were visible at intervals through the cracks in the door, lighting up the whole interior of the house with their intensity.
She had a strong feeling of something vast and intelligent gazing down at her, studying her, and working out how best to squish her under a heel.
Then there was a new noise. Tapping and scratching sounds began to appear all over the house. It sounded as if a thousand soft, dead hands were trying to pry their way into the house from outside the walls, but the hands were weak. Perhaps… hopefully… Caewen’s ward-spell was enough to stop them. Or maybe–at a more distant remove of hope–an old herbman like Seath had other, stronger precautions in place against feral spirits and wandering night-walkers. There might well be charms hanging in the chimney or bones of a loyal dog buried under the threshold stone. She considered waking the old man, but as she sat on the cot with Fetch, the noises diminished, faded, departed. The storm remained for a time, blowing and thundering, but after an hour or so it moved off also. Either the presence had lost interest or something else more urgent had drawn its attention. Or it had simply decided to bide its time and wait until Caewen and her little familiar were less well protected.
Regardless, Caewen found herself wide awake until dawn, listening to the rise and fall of the wind outside the house, rubbing Fetch on the nape of his soft, warm neck while he cowed down next to her and shivered in fear.