The witch hunters crouched by the large, black boulder in the fen's center, serving as landmark for the hag’s lair.
“Alright, boyo,” said Sir Edwin, eyeing the lonely hut. “We’ve made it. We be twenty yards away from the most notorious witch in all the Nordic shores.”
“We are,” said Sir Baltin.
Edwin turned to look at him.
“We are twenty yards away. Sir.”
Edwin stared at him. Sir Baltin looked flustered.
“I’m terribly sorry sir,” he said quickly, “I know you have more field experience chasing witches and English isn’t your first language and what not—but you haven’t been using proper grammar this entire trip and it’s—well, it’s really been driving me quite mad!”
“Baltin, of all the times to be argue over—”
Edwin stopped talking, seeing Baltin wince.
“Jus’ keep it quiet,” muttered Edwin. “We’ll soon deal with this harpy and be done with it.” He smiled and picked up his quiver of silver-tipped arrows. “I think she don’t like the darts, eh?”
At that moment, a massive, green spirit emerged from the top of the hovel, raising its bony fingers to the sky. It let loose a shriek sounding from the depths of Hell and momentarily, other green specters began to emerge from the ground for miles around them.
“Sweet Lord!” cried Sir Edwin. “Her fylgja! Ghostly familiars!” He turned to Baltin. “Run, man! Run, to save your soul!”
“Fylgjur!” wailed Baltin. “The plural of fylgia is fylgjur!”