II: The Myrding

Filla

“Filla was the light and life of this old house.”

Thadgeir grabbed a smoking torch from a soot-stained sconce on the wall and preceded me down the damp stone stairs. He led me down into the narrow cellar passages beneath the old mansion’s foundations. The fungal scent of moisture and mold was heavy in the clammy air, but beneath it I could sense the sickly stench of a trapped and mistended animal. Berit followed behind us, one hand nervously toying with the head of the axe at his hip. I wondered if he watched me or the gaping mouths of the tunnels we passed.

“After her mother died giving birth to her, she became Dengeir’s whole world,” Thadgeir said. His words were strangely muted, as if the wet stone walls swallowed the sound. “When she shut him out, it wounded my brother. Much more than losing his title, though that is all you’ll hear him speak about.” His creaky old voice dropped into a murmur. “Truth be told, I fear he is going mad from his grief, going on about plots and spies.”

We stopped at a heavy wooden door in a corridor where the dust-hung cobwebs spoke plainly of disuse. Thadgeir paused.

“One morning, the house was quiet,” he said somberly. “Filla was a wild, free spirit; her presence could never be mistaken. Wherever she went, color and sound went with her. She was a whirlwind of laughter, always flitting from one fancy to the next. She would fill every corner of the house with flower arrangements in the morning, and have them replaced with bright tapestries and lace hangings by the afternoon.” He sighed heavily. “Then she was gone. We spent a whole day turning the house upside down. Dengeir tore his beard out. Finally, we found this door locked, and sobs and whimpers beyond it.”

I heard much the same now, and had since we entered the cellars. Quiet, dry sobs and wheezing breaths. The sounds of a dying animal. The smell was not pleasant.

“And she hasn’t come out since?” I asked. I found it hard to believe. “How is that possible?”

“She refused to let anyone in.” Thadgeir gave me a shameful look and flinched. I suppose my eyes were unpleasant in the dim light. “Dengeir put his axe to the door, but the girl started shrieking frantically. We feared she would harm herself, or even drop dead from the panic.” 

Thadgeir still hadn’t opened the door. His hand was hovering over the wrought-iron handle, shaking slightly. His breathing was tense and I could hear his heart thundering. “That was more than a year ago, witcher. We didn’t see a glimpse of her in all that time. Only in the past few weeks has she let us enter the chamber, and by then…” 

I could imagine. Thadgeir closed his eyes and released a shaky breath through his nose. “There is some evil besetting her, witcher,” he said. “Something unnatural and outside the light of the Divines torments her night and day, and I fear she can’t survive it much longer.”

Such statements can never be trusted. Dorakh’s wisdom. Trust only your own senses and my teaching. Well. I had my silver sword. I nodded to Thadgeir to open the door.

I had half expected her to lunge at me, fangs bared. Instead, the girl gave a panicked shriek and fled into the furthest corner of the room. There, she cowered, clawing at the walls and screaming with her ragged voice. Her clothes were unrecognizable rags, covered in filth and tattered to hanging shreds, exposing the paleness of her grimy flesh beneath. Her dark hair was matted and caked with dirt and hung in oily coils to her waist. Even so, I could tell that she was a rare beauty – and even younger than I had imagined.

“She won’t let anyone near her, even to bathe her or offer her new clothes.” Thadgeir’s voice was subdued. He carefully followed me into the small chamber, as if entering the cage of a wild animal.

“Clearly,” I grunted. I made a quick motion of my hand, fingers arranged in the Sign of Axii. The girl’s shrieks pooled into a drawn-out wail that poured out into the damp air, like wine escaping a punctured skin. The sudden silence was deafening.

“What did you do?” Thadgeir was amazed. “She’s never been this calm!”

“You’d call it witcher’s magic,” I said and crouched down beside the girl. Her pale eyes, beautiful as they were, were unfocused and staring blindly off into the dark corner. Up close, I could see the scratches, both fresh and scarred-over, where she had clawed herself. Some were infected.

“Filla?” I said quietly, keeping my voice soft and unthreatening. Axii creates a temporary bond between the caster and the subject, a thin thread of awareness between the minds along which I could push whatever emotion I wished to color the girl’s thoughts with. Despite the calm and safety I sent towards her, I felt the thread tighten and threaten to snap as I prodded her attention. I would gain little insight from her. I motioned Thadgeir back before he tried to question the poor waif.

“Her mind is too fragile,” I said, rising to my feet. “Her cell will have to speak in her place.”

I swept my gaze over the stone walls. They spoke volumes. There were scribbles, symbols and images, on every surface. Some were formed in smears of filth or blood, and some had been scratched into the rough stone with some crude instrument, perhaps a belt-knife. I could make out some plain words – “protect” and “help” recurred often in the written susurrus. I recognized a number of symbols, predominantly from Nordic folklore but also from the beliefs of other races such as the Dark Elves and even the Argonian lizard folk. Most seemed to be warding runes, though few were drawn correctly. Likely the girl had dredged them from her memories of childhood ghost stories.

“She’s looking for protection,” Thadgeir summarized unnecessarily. I grunted my assent with his educated assessment.

“From that,” I said and pointed at the wall. There was a myriad of images that jutted like battered rocks from the unquiet sea of symbols, and one figure in particular appeared over and over. It was a small, twisted humanoid shape, with a grotesquely oversized head and short, misshapen limbs. Sometimes it had hateful, staring eyes, in other places the face was empty except for a gaping, ravenous maw.

“What is it?” Thadgeir whispered, as if the thing might turn its head to the sound of his voice. “A baby?”

“Almost,” I said and rubbed my silent witcher’s medallion between my fingers. “It’s a myrding.” I was sure he knew the word; it comes from the Nordic traditions. He may well be the one who told the girl the stories when she was little. “She hasn’t been alone in here all this time.”