A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

himself
in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a
trail. Who knows who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more
circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading
back to Gareth.
    “I’m
sorry,” Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.
    Gareth
ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.
    “What
you did was foolish, and weak,” Gareth said. “You never should have glanced my
way.”
    “I
didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do when he demanded more money.”
    Firth
was right: it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig who
changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over
him. He only prayed no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed was
a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father’s
assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to
follow.
    At
least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in
here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It
matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the
meandering trail, following the dead man’s directions. He hoped the man had
told the truth and was not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie.
Or it could be he led them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them
of more money.
    Gareth
chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this
all himself. Like he always did.
    “You
better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch,” Gareth quipped, “and
that she has the poison.”
    They
continued down trail after trail until they reached a fork, just as the man
said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed
it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were
true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood Gareth had ever
seen. The trees were impossibly thick and mangled.
    Gareth
entered the wood and felt an immediate chill up his spine, could feel the evil
hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.
    Just
as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended
in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke
through the wood. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s cottage.
    Gareth’s
heart quickened. He entered the clearing looking around to make sure no one was
watching, to make sure it was not a trap.
    “You
see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.
    “That
means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside and stand guard. Knock if
anyone approaches. And keep your mouth shut.”
    Gareth
didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he
grabbed the iron handle, pushed open the two-inch-thick door, and ducked his
head as he entered, closing it behind him.
    It
was dark inside, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a
single-room cottage, devoid of windows, enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood
there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could
feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.
    From
the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.
    Hobbling
towards him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, with a hunchback. She
raised a candle, which lit up a face covered in warts and lines. She looked
ancient, older than the gnarled trees that blanketed her cottage.
    “You
wear a hood, even in blackness,” she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice
sounding like crackling wood. “Your mission is not innocent.”
    “I’ve
come for a vial,” Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but
hearing the quivering in his voice. “Sheldrake Root. I’m told you have it.”
    There
was a long silence, followed by a horrific cackle. It echoed in the small room.
    “Whether
or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?”
    Gareth’s
heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.
    “Why
should you care?” he finally asked.
    “It
amuses me to know who you are killing,” she said.
    “That’s
no business of yours. I’ve brought money for you.”
    Gareth
reached into his waistband, took out a bag of gold, in addition to the bag of
gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden
table. The sound of metallic