Very shortly after the party finished resting, Christopher told them to prepare for departure. True to their host’s word, no sun had risen to signal the approach of morning. He had elaborated his plan to hold off the witch, should she appear, so that the party could take the child and flee. 

He spoke to them privately, in a hushed tone, glancing over his shoulder occasionally at his daughter, who was blinking sleepily on the other side of the cabin. 

Everyone nodded grimly and went about packing up their things. As Bardy picked up his bag, however, he caught Malakos and Deruque, muttering to each other out of earshot. 

“What are those two up to now?” He wondered. Last time they had been on the same page about something, it had led to disaster; and seeing them nod discreetly at each other put Bardy’s stomach in knots. (Although, Bardy chose not to remember that what they had agreed upon was his own plan to kill Duke Phillip)

Christopher gently lifted his daughter, speaking to her softly, and then approached the party. He pulled out a small, worn bag, with a few silver coins inside. 

“This will pay for her medical care,” he said, handing the bag to Deruque. Even without looking inside, the party could tell it would not be enough, but there was an unspoken agreement that this did not need to be voiced. 

Deruque hesitated, then tried to hand the bag back, insisting that they could pay for her; but Malakos elbowed him and whispered, “Don’t deny him this. It may be his last gift to her.” 

Deruque looked at the old man, a bittersweet look of fondness in his eyes as he stroked his daughter’s hair. 

The dragonborn cleared his throat and nodded; then the party left the cabin and began following Christopher down the path through the midnight darkness. 

Malakos placed his hand inside the black velvet bag that the party had convinced him to buy and carry Holy Mace's skull in, so as not to disturb so many onlookers. As soon as his fingers brushed the bone, the hero appeared, walking next to them.

“Holy Mace, sir,” he asked. “We may be meeting a witch before we can leave these woods. Have you ever fought a witch?”

“Yes, I have,” the hero answered.

“Any combat advice?” Malakos asked.

The hero looked at their party. “Have you any anti-magic spells or tools?”

“No.”

The hero's voice grew grim. “Then run. As fast as you can. And pray she is not faster.”

Malakos withdrew his hand from the bag. Not an option, he thought, watching Christopher gently stroke a strand of hair from his sickly daughter's face, his eyes shimmering with moisture. He had pulled Deruque aside, back at the cabin, to see if he would be willing to fight a witch with him. It had been all he could do to keep the ranger from jumping up and drawing his sword on the spot. The tiefling then instructed Ruby to take the child and Lorenzo with her. She would need to take them to Whispenshire ahead of the rest of them. She looked at him shrewdly, but he smiled in return, hoping not to betray the pang of guilt he felt at leaving her again. Finally Bardy–he would be a wildcard. He might stay and fight or he might run and aid Ruby. Either was an agreeable option for Malakos, but he couldn’t risk the little halfling finding out about his plan and trying to interfere. Bardy was a practical adventurer, and would no doubt have some logical objections to make against going up against a witch; but the cleric could not, in good conscience, abandon someone who had offered them aid–especially not a loving father. He would be leaving these woods with both father and daughter, or he would not be leaving them at all. 

And besides, he tentatively smiled to himself, they hadn’t done too poorly in the last battle. He was itching to try out his flames again; and with Christopher leading the strike, they might be able to free the woods entirely, with enough time to get back to Whispenshire and finish their delivery. 

Ah,  he thought. On that note– 

Malakos approached Ruby and handed her the skull in a bag, instructing her to take care of it until they could get to the Red Cloak base. Christopher then helped her secure the girl to the tiger’s back, and turned to the rest of the group. 

“We’re getting close to the border now. If we come across her before we leave, you must wait for my signal, then run. Run fast and do not look back until you are far, far away. Understand?”

“Of course,” Malakos nodded. Not.

Christopher kissed his sleeping daughter on the head one more time, and then led the party out of the tree line and into the open. The farther they walked beyond the trees, the lighter it became, until even Bardy could see most of their surroundings, albeit as vague, black shapes in a dusky gloom.

Suddenly, Christopher halted them.

Up ahead, they could see a bridge, crossing a small river. Beyond it, the pall of gloom gave way to a sunny morning in a bright forest. On the bridge, however, an old woman blocked their way.

"Valaetha," Christopher said. "Let these travelers through. Let them by peaceably, and I'll surrender to you. I'm the one you want–you've been after my magic for years. Just let them go."

The old woman smiled shrewdly at them, her eyes crinkling in a very unpleasant grin. "You would have me sell myself short. I know what I'm worth. Why don't I just take you all?"

Malakos was so deeply focused on the conversation that it took him a moment to realize they were not speaking Common. A quick glance at his teammates' confused faces told him that none of them spoke Infernal.

"He's bargaining with her," Malakos explained in a low voice. "His life for ours."

"I thought they were just having a screaming contest," Deruque said. 

Bardy barely registered the conversation. His eyes were glued to the witch. Something about her–not her as a person, more like, her energy, her magic–was setting off alarm bells in his head. He could barely hear anything around him over the sound of his pulse rushing in his ears and the frantic rhythm of his own breath, coming in short, panicked gasps. 

Not again, not again, he thought. Memories, fragmented shards of his past, began to surface unbidden–unwanted–in his mind. He tried to force them back down, back to the darkness of self-induced memory loss, but they pressed against him as though carried with each crashing wave of his heartbeat.

A woman wrapped her arms around him, shielding him. In front of them, a halfling man stood before a large, spectral, skeletal figure with glowing eyes. It reached forward and began to speak. Green light began to form around its hands. The man strummed his lute, and the figure was silenced. The monster looked frustrated as the green light dissipated, then floated to find a new position–outside of the field of silence, Bardy realized, to recast. 

The memory ended with the halfling man shouting for the woman to run, and then everything went dark.

"--rdy? Bardy, are you okay?" 

"Huh?" Bardy snapped back to the present to find the rest of the party watching him with concern. 

"Kinda zoned out on us there, li'l guy," Deruque said, as Malakos quickly checked Bardy's eyes. 

Only a few seconds had passed, but Bardy felt as though he'd lived out a whole other lifetime. He waved off the cleric's hands. 

"M'fine. How's Christopher with the witch?"

The party turned back to watch the conversation as Christopher repeated his offer. As Valaetha responded, Christopher pulled his hand from a leathern pouch at his side and threw a fistful of sparking dust in her face. 

"Now!" He yelled.

Bardy pulled out his lute and cast a field of silence around her. As he had hoped, she, like the skeletal figure in the memory that his mind was already re-burying, moved to a position outside of his spell's effects–and away from the bridge. Bardy turned in delight to signal the rest of the team forward, but was horrified to find that they had other plans.

"RUBY, GO!" Malakos shouted, flipping open his book and reciting ancient writ. The witch's face erupted in white flames as Ruby, Patch, Lorenzo, Kiki, and the bundled form of Amelia crossed over the bridge and disappeared into the woods. Deruque pulled out his longbow and launched an arrow at her. It sunk into her side and she released a scream.

Deruque and Malakos whooped as they prepared another volley, but Bardy looked at the witch. Her cry at the arrow hadn't sounded wounded–more like annoyed–and she was patting out the flames on her shoulders as though they were a spot of dirt she was brushing off. 

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Christopher roared. "RUN!"

Bardy didn't need telling twice, but Deruque released another arrow in her direction. Malakos was starting to look unsure–having noticed how quickly she'd put out his flames. The tiefling saw her glare in annoyance at Deruque as she pulled both of his arrows out. Slimy, black tendrils of ooze poured out of the wounds and healed the spot, and she stretched her hand out toward the ranger.

Oh no you don't, the tiefling thought, casting another bout of fire at her face. I'm your target. Aim for me. I'll pay you back in spades. 

His fire did the trick–Valaetha screamed as her face erupted in flames again. She glared at the cleric and pointed her finger. A green wave of energy fired at Malakos. He swiftly ducked, dodging the blast and hitting the grass below him. Grinning at his narrow escape, the cleric tried to get to his feet again, to issue his counterattack; but something was wrong. He couldn't pull himself up–not even to his knees. The aftershock of the spell had hit him, and now darkness overtook his vision as he heard his teammates shout his name. They were practically within arms' reach of him, and yet, they already sounded so far away…

"He's dead," Deruque said in disbelief. The pallor on the tiefling's lifeless face confirmed the diagnosis without any need for closer inspection. "Down in one shot." 

"RUN!" Christopher repeated, throwing one last fistful of powder at Valaetha. 

This time, the party heeded him. Deruque seized their fallen teammate, and bolted after Bardy across the bridge. 

It felt wrong–running from a fight, especially a fight against a powerful tyrant–but right now his instincts were in control. Those instincts had been born and honed in the vicious slums of Gluttlen, and they knew that there was a time for being valorous, and a time for being alive. 

He glanced over his shoulder as they crossed the bridge, but did not stop running. Christopher and Valaetha stood, facing off; though the match was obviously one-sided, and the witch's arboreal minions were starting to enclose them. Valaetha stretched forth her hand toward the old man who had saved them…

…and that was the last thing Deruque saw before the trees blocked his view.

"Let me see him," Bardy said, when the ranger caught up with him. Deruque obliged, leaning down to give Bardy better access to the tiefling corpse draped over his shoulders. 

"You think you can just pull a stunt like that and run off to the afterlife without a proper scolding?" Bardy muttered to the dead cleric, pulling out his lute and starting to play. "Too bad for you that my music is good enough to wake the dead!"