“Death to the witch,” they cried. A hundred horses surged forward, separating themselves from the Prince and his entourage. They traveled only a few strides before panic seized their mounts. The finest horses in the kingdom planted their hooves and whirled to escape, pitching their unsuspecting riders and fleeing in every direction, trampling some of the men despite all their training and inclination.

Bodies fell with shouts of surprise, good riders born to the saddle found themselves spitting clods of grass and dirt. They rose slowly, some uselessly reaching for their swords against no apparent enemy, then turned as one toward the wall of vine-covered trees that blocked all entry to the witch’s lands.

Lord Ronan soothed his own mount and turned to Prince Cathal. “You are certain your wife came this way? Perhaps she could not enter and has gone into hiding.”

Prince Cathal, face red with anger and ill-health, snorted. “That bitch can find her way into any trouble. I warned her to stay away from the tower library.” He raised his sword, took a deep breath and shouted, “On foot, then! We do not rest until the princess is found.”

Lord Ronan, who had never believed the old tales about this stretch of woods, struggled to remember any of the legends. The forest line appeared impenetrable and there was a hush around it. No bird song, no buzzing of insects. “Could it be an illusion?”

The prince’s attention was all for the men carrying forward, more slowly and with less assurance than on horseback, but there were no cowards among them. “Hack the vines!” One of them cried. “We’ll make our own way in.”

An axe swung, cracking as it bit into the vines. The vines shuddered, moved, and a small opening appeared high in the trees before closing again.

From the safety of distance, Lord Ronan dismounted and gestured to his squire. In a mutter low enough not to be overheard, he said “Take the horses. Catch any others you can. Wait for us to the south.”

He turned back to his prince, who cursed and swatted at a large insect buzzing near his face. The sudden sound of it in the unnatural quiet made Ronan's teeth hurt. Then the prince gasped, grabbed at his throat and fell off his horse.

“My lord.” Ronan pulled at the prince’s armor, but the man was already sputtering blood and as his face swelled, his breath gave out and the line of power was no more.

“Pull back!” Ronan whispered it, then shouted over and over. They should have heard, but the men continued hacking at the vines. Ronan felt cold as the living wall shuddered and began to move, slowly at first, then in a writhing mass a path became clear. 

The first to pass through was grabbed by a vine and slung away from the grounds. He cried as he flew high through the air, then landed with a sickening crunch and moved no more.

No one should have entered after that, but they marched as though it was of no concern. Ronan heard cries of elation from some of them. “There she is! Orla!” They rushed forward, crying her name and disappeared into the shadows.

Ronan rushed forward, grabbing at his own men to stop them. They pushed him off easily, his strength no use in the wake of the spell that had taken them over. “Leave her! This place is cursed. We must return to the king!” He tackled the last few men ready to pass through, knocking them to the ground only to watch in horror as they rose and continued on their path.

He stared down the path, suddenly uncertain. The darkness beyond looked peaceful, inviting. Maybe … 

The vines closed narrowly missing his nose as he jerked back. A melodic voice came to him then, one he was never sure if he heard in his own head or out loud.

“You will wait here for the princess.”

Then the screaming began and Ronan waited.

The army entered while the witch watched from her rose circle. She sat cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed to witness from within. A hundred and twenty souls wandered the grounds aimlessly, caught in the spell of entry. The first cut of steel against vine had awakened the four stone sentinels at the perimeters. They moved to intervene, their steps creating a comforting vibration of the earth beneath. A delicate stem from the closest rose bush reached for her hand, distracting her momentarily with the sting of thorns before she lovingly redirected it skyward.

Orla lay on the ground across from her, pale from her ordeal and sick from pregnancy. Her golden hair hid an exhausted face. She struggled to sit and mimic the witch’s position, and she remained silent. Such an interesting human, and the first to sit within the circle in decades. A large green orb set into the dirt at the center revealed the soldiers as they traipsed blindly through the hungry woods. Her stomach rumbled and she reached for the bowl of berries and cream that the witch had provided. She ate hungrily, but did not look away from what the orb chose to show her.

The witch returned her attention to the moss making its home on the sentinels. She felt the heavy swing of their arms as they crushed men to the ground. The moss joyfully soaked up the splatters of blood as the eldest thorns rose to stab at metal until it pierced flesh. The sentinels marched on, intent on destroying any who had harmed the living walls. It didn’t take them long to find the ones who’d wielded axes, and then only fifty-seven men remained.

A quick shift of thought and the witch could see the meadow beyond the tangled walls and the shadow woods. A young man walked through the clover, unaware of the thimble shaped purple flowers that grasped and recoiled from his armor. He pulled off his helm, tossing it into the woods. His boots followed and then he was barefoot among the wild parsnips, the yellow flowers swaying in a slight breeze as the toxic sap coated his feet and ankles.

He bent to scratch at his ankles then lied down, burying his face in the dirt at the base of a patch of clover. The deep tap roots shifted and twisted to wrap around his head, holding him down while the ravenous plants sucked the air from his lungs. They grew more lush, the purple flowers almost glowing, and they didn’t stop until the body stopped shaking.

“Fifty-six,” said the witch.

Orla gasped. “So many? I knew my husband commanded some loyalty, but - ”

The rose of sleeping reached out for her. She set her empty bowl aside and let the tendrils pull her to the ground again. Once stung, she smiled gratefully and closed her eyes.

The witch wondered idly what would become of the wanderers. This army had arrived prepared to hack down her protections and destroy all that she’d built. Anyone hoping to make it this far would have to be quite the unusual spirit, like the golden-haired woman now sleeping safely in her circle.

There was time to rest a while, right at the center of it all. She relaxed her hands, palms up, and sang out to her garden. “Test them, bleed them, take your fill. Three days, three nights. Determine their will.”

The roses trembled in anticipation, and the rest of the garden hurried to obey.

Orla woke to the sound of screaming, which went on for a time and finally stopped. She did not check the orb again, preferring to stretch sore muscles and let out a yawn. “Is it done?”

“Your husband is dead.” The witch offered her hand in a human gesture that looked quite unfamiliar to her. “And most of his men. The rest are not far behind.”

Unshaken, Orla accepted the help and rose to her feet. “I am truly free to go?”

The witch did not answer, but led the way through the woods to the southern edge where she had entered some days ago. They walked unbothered, the witch in her element and Orla in a state of perverse wonder. A bunny hopped across the path. The tall yellow flowers that had tried to pull the teeth from her mouth waved to them and, when they finally reached the edge, the vines shifted to allow an exit and the witch pushed her forward lightly. 

“There is one man left.” The witch glared at the man and boy some distance off. They were doing their best to calm the horses, who must have sensed a predator approaching. They would want nothing to do with this place.

“He is no bother. I can handle him.”

The witch laughed. “I imagine you can.”

Orla turned slowly, looking for the right words. “I thought you’d … “

But the witch and the opening were gone.

“ . . . be different.”

Orla sighed and trudged her way toward Ronan. Still sleepy from the wait for her husband to arrive, she would have appreciated more of those berries the witch grew. There was nothing like them in her father’s kingdom. Her kingdom soon. As Queen, then, perhaps she would send someone else to claim seeds and start her own garden. Where could she find a willing groundskeeper?

Ronan dropped to a knee at her approach, sobbing with shock and relief at the sight of her. “Lady Orla. How?”

“Nevermind all that. Take me home. There are things I must do.