The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [79]
Fred swallowed hard. “An awful lot of references t’ witches, Scowler Charles,” the little badger said. “I hope this village in’t like those villages.”
“You and I both,” said Charles, hitching up his belt. “Nothing to do but follow the path and see where it takes us.”
As it was, their path led them right past a bakery, which was filled to overflowing with cakes, and pastries, and puddings, and on and on and on. It was a culinary wonderland in the middle of a virtual medieval village.
“Grandfather would be sorry he missed this,” Fred said, reaching for a muffin from a cart near the door.
“Don’t,” warned Charles, grabbing Fred’s paw. “I don’t think it’s wise to eat anything here. I’ve read far too many stories about travelers being trapped in places just because they ate a morsel of food—and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be able to get home!”
“No problem, boss,” said Fred.
“This also smacks of a witch’s gambit,” said Charles. “The minute you set foot in the gingerbread cottage, you suddenly find you’re in an oven being roasted for dinner.”
“Good call,” Fred said, pointing up.
In the sky above them, silhouetted against the apricot sky, was a gaggle of witches—but Charles commented that they were wholly unlike any witches he had ever seen.
“How many have you seen?” asked Fred.
“Practically none,” said Charles, “but I’ve read a lot about them, and these don’t fit any of the descriptions.”
The witches were not on brooms—they were riding bicycles. Each one was sitting upright with ramrod-straight posture and was wearing a dour gray dress, topped off with a black shawl and a pillbox hat.
The bicycles were as average as any he’d seen, except for the fact that they flew. Each one had reflectors on the front (for safety, he assumed) and a small wicker basket behind the seat. They bobbed and wove exactly like a flock of birds, each following in formation behind the others.
Charles and Fred ducked down an alleyway to stay out of sight, splashing through some puddles and tripping into a laundry line as they ran.
The witches were gradually moving southeast to northwest. They had nearly moved away from Charles and Fred altogether when one of the last witches in the gaggle pulled away from the group and stopped, hovering in the air above them.
She squinted her eyes and turned her head from side to side, then lifted her head up to the air and sniffed, then sniffed again.
A smile spread across her face, and she looked down directly at Charles and Fred’s hiding place.
“Oh, no,” said Charles. “She can smell us.”
“You mean me,” Fred groaned. “Wet badger fur is a curse—a curse, I tell you!”
“This way!” Charles yelled. “We’ll try to lose her in the alleys and switchbacks.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he ran headfirst into a solid brick wall. Fred plowed into him a second later, and they both ended up sprawled in a heap.
Charles had led them into what was a blind alley. There were a few open doors on the adjacent walls, but the wall at the end was too high to scale.
“That’s an unexpected turn of events,” said Charles. “I don’t think we can outrun her now!”
“We’ll get you, my lovely boy,” the witch cackled, “and make a fine pie of your dog!”
“I’m not a dog!” Fred shouted. “I’m a badger!”
The witch swooped down with terrifying speed and swung something at Charles as she passed.
He threw himself aside just in time, but she caught his sleeve. He rolled over as the witch spun about for another pass, and he realized that the elbow of his jacket was in tatters.
Rather than brandishing a wand, the witch was wielding a long, razor-edged fork.
“Oh, come on,” Charles groaned. “A fork? What kind of a witch are you?”
“The kind who eats lovely little children like yourself!” she screeched as Charles again threw himself aside, protectively shielding Fred.
“Children!” Charles huffed, jumping to his feet. “I’m no child! I’m an editor! With tenure!”
The witch just laughed in response—a sound that was like grinding metal gears.