Roderick said nothing as the stench of rotting tree roots wafted up their nostrils as they stepped out into the ankle high water.
Tiny black fish called Mushdra swam around their feet. These simple-minded creatures were harmless enough, until they sensed blood. If that happened they would enter a killing frenzy, where even a full-grown man could be devoured in seconds. Deadrick took relief in the fact that they had no interest in Witch blood. He most certainly should have checked Roderick for any cuts or wounds, but, seeing as he couldn't hear any bloodcurdling screams, he ignored that.
Deadrick stepped onto the marsh ground, the soil squishing up against the side of his leather boots.
Roderick made a small noise of distaste, and Deadrick resisted the urge to kill him. Because, if he did, there was a chance that he wouldn’t get paid.
“Stay close, there may be more Wicca nearby,” He told the man, who was already out of breath.
As Deadrick pushed a vine from his face, he began to feel uneasy. A familiar tingly feeling ran through his veins, sending his brain into alert.
“Unholy…” he whispered, “Hide!”
He pushed Roderick down into the undergrowth, holding his hand over his mouth willing him to keep quiet. Deadrick watched the trees for a moment, doubting his sixth sense for a moment.
Then, out of nowhere, the vines and growth began to rustle, and a group of tall, impending looking beasts stepped through.
Lycankin, Deadrick thought, Werewolves.
Deadrick was shocked, the marshes were Wicca designated. No Werewolf in their right mind would step into Witch territory, the magic they practised scared the Werewolves.
“Morag!” The largest looking Wolf yelled, “Tagra!”
The wolves knew Morag? There was something terribly wrong with what was going on, and Deadrick didn’t like it one bit.