Witheric’s mind raced. He knew what would come next. He had never seen it himself, but he had heard stories, both ancient and recent, of the water woman who lulled men into the water withhersong, releasing the spell with a kiss asshedragged the man under so she could feel him thrash as he drowned. He had to do something, anything to stop her before she grabbed them and her fae strength overpowered them. But what? He knew iron to be fae-bane, but even if he could load the iron shots into his gun in time, his flint and powder were soaked by now. What could he–

Then he remembered Restag’s shield. He had picked it up earlier, but only that and his friend’s bag. He had not seen Restag’s sword. His iron sword. With numbed hands, Witheric groped around in the water, hoping and praying to the gods that he hadn’t simply missed it, that his friend’s vigilance had ruled that night. His fingers touched on something colder even than the water, something rounded and attached to what felt like a pole: the pommel and handle of a sword. Gripping the handle, Witheric pulled out the blade, the motion exhausting for his chilled body and tight lungs. The sprite was close now, nearly within reach, the iron blade heavy both from its own weight and the cold and current of the river. Witheric released Restag, grabbed the blade with both hands, and heaved it clear of the water just as the sprite reached out to take his friend, nearly laughing as she sang sweetly, alluringly, causing the warrior to lean in toward her. Witheric let the sword drop, the blade’s weight pulling his stiffened limbs down hard onto the water, causing a splash that stung as the cold water hit his cheeks. Above it all, he heard a horrified and satisfying scream pierce his ears.

When the last of the waves settled, he saw the river sprite screeching and hissing furiously, holding one arm underwater, the shimmering gold of fae blood shining even beneath the dark water. At the same time, Restag started awake, gasping as he suddenly felt the cold, his mind suddenly clear of the muddiness. He had a moment to register Witheric standing nearby before a strong grip suddenly pulled him underwater. He tried to pull away as the river filled his nose and mouth, but he was too cold and the water too deep. His legs and arms had no strength. He also could not see much, the water black save for the pair of glowing orbs watching him and the shimmering lines trailing out beside them. Then he heard the sound of something plunging under the water. The orbs widened, and he heard a scream and hiss as the golden lines began curling out in another place, then turning into a cloud as the powerful grip suddenly released him and another, this one much weaker than the first, tried to pull him up.

Planting his feet on the riverbed, he stood, breaking the surface with such force he nearly stumbled back. Immediately, he began coughing both from the water his body wanted to expel and from the cold air hitting his throat, tightening it. At the same time, that weak grip pulled him back, his unstable feet following the pull into increasingly shallow water. As he reached where theriverrose only to his knees, whoever was pulling him tripped, releasing him as the grip’s ownerfell back with a splash, Restag following close behind as his weakened body dropped him waist-deep into the river, coughing and spitting out water. Not long after, he saw Witheric stagger to his feet beside him, dragging a sword with one hand and trying to support Restag with the other. Both men heaved against the current’s pull, stumbling the last few yards onto the pebbled bank and then to the grass, where they collapsed from exhaustion, Restag still coughing up water. The water sprite’s screams continued at a maddening pitch and volume for a few moments more before finally dying out with a grievous, heart-wrenching moan, leaving the two men alone in the still, autumn night, hearing only the river and their own heavy breathing.

After a while, Restag, shivering badly in the cold, managed to say, “W-w-what ha-hap-p-p-ened?”

“Water sp-sprite,” answered Witheric. Dragging the sword forward along the grass, he said, “St-stab-b-bed it.”

And hopefully killed it, thought Restag, feeling a new wave of weariness. He was so tired, his limbs heavier than a dead horse. He wanted nothing more than to sleep away the weariness and the cold and the pain in his chest andlimbs. Sleep as if the world would pass away, leaving him to feel nothing but the warmth of his own dreams. However, when he saw the blue shade of Witheric’s lips and his pale face, Restag realized he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. To sleep now would likely be death from the cold for them both. With a deep heave and groan, he pushed himself up. He helped Witheric do the same, sheathed his sword, stumbled over to his discarded shield and travel pack, and supported the shivering thane back across the mile of grassland to the treeline. He hardly remembered them gathering the firewood, his conscious mindbarely present as his years of wilderness experience and will to live remembered for him. He did recall staring at the pile of wood, wondering why it wasn’t burning as he shivered uncontrollably, as well as the lightning dancing between Witheric’s fingers and over the wood, soon lighting the dry sticks. He also had a vague sense of warmth and the smell of smoke as he curled up in his wet cloak and fell asleep.