Chapter 1 - cursing the witch hunter

Michael had been too long, Freya realised, standing amongst the trees of the forest. She peeked at the rotting wooden house from her safe position, but could still see no sign of life. Michael was inside, and possibly in terrible danger were their suspicions correct. She crept, low down to the ground, ensuring that she was unlikely to be seen from the few windows of the house; her heart beating furiously. She never usually had to get too involved, working with Michael. He would sweep into her life from time-to-time, requesting her assistance with whatever evil he was battling. And whilst they had defeated many fearsome creatures in the past, it was Michael who was usually both the brains and brawn of their operation; saving Freya’s skin on countless occasions.

Becoming an occasional apprentice to a world renowned witch-hunter was dangerous work. Freya’s mother had certainly not approved; she could kiss goodbye to any chance of a suitable marriage! But Michael had clearly seen something inside her; a lust for adventure and a fearlessness that was required for such a nomadic lifestyle, travelling from village to village, wherever they were needed. But this was the farthest north Freya had ever been, and the unfamiliarity of it all was putting her on edge.

Freya put her ear to the thin wooden door and heard the old woman inside speaking. The tone seemed rhythmic… melodic. Her eyes widening with fear and her heart threatening to burst from her chest, she raised the surprisingly heavy sword she had been entrusted with and threw her shoulder into the door, smashing it to pieces. Then her eyes struggled to take in the dark smokiness of the room as she searched for her friend.

Michael was on his knees in front of the fireplace. His shirt had been ripped from him, exposing his large, broad and hairless chest glistening with a profound and unnatural, feverish sweat. He had hardly seemed to notice Freya’s arrival as he squeezed his eyes closed, clearly trying to blot out the searing pain he was in. Gasps of anguish escaped his lips as every muscle in his thick neck tensed and his chest heaved in deep inhalations of the stale air. Freya knew at once what was happening. This evil witch was performing a curse on him.

The witch worked hard to remain focused despite Freya’s intrusion. She lifted a hand and seemed to hold Freya to the spot with a vice-like magical grip, halting her progress. But as she did so, Michael gave a gasp of relief, as if the immense power he had been under had briefly lowered in intensity. Michael was strong; too strong for the witch to shift her focus now. It was all the witch could do to keep him from rising to his feet once again and she spoke her spell harshly, staring Michael down with all of her might so that she may complete her enchantment on him.

Michael fell to his knees once more, growling in pain. The witch’s incomprehensible spell sang out across the air. Freya could feel the magic holding her, trying to twist her body in knots. But it wasn’t enough. She could move herself if she just tried hard enough; if she really focused...

Lifting her sword as if it were ten times its weight, Freya forced through a sharp jerk of her arm towards the old witch. It was a one-time shot, for she could hardly hope to repeat this momentous effort. But as the blade whipped through the air, it fell perfectly, slicing the witch’s head off cleanly in a single blow.

Suddenly freed, Freya sank to the floor, panting. “That was a close one!” she gasped, seeing the black blood of the witch pool onto the floor. “I thought we were dead for sure!”

Michael’s body lifted itself from the ground, still drenched in sweat; long dark hair sticking to the handsome man’s cheeks, until he brushed it cleanly back. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he smiled, clearly thrilled with the adventure of it all. He leaned against the wall and caught his breath; the great powerful chest sucking in the free air once more. “Get her head!” he pointed, throwing Freya his leather satchel, clearly too exhausted still to do it himself. Freya obeyed, picking the head up by the greasy, thin grey hair and packing it unceremoniously away. “You did well Freya,” Michael nodded appreciatively. “I haven’t had a close call like that in quite some time!”

He seemed almost delighted.