The Last Witch

The border between the Dalvany township and the farms was a shallow but rapid river. Rocks broke through the white foam, joined with a hiss that drowned out the sound of the approaching night. The uneven patches of grass around the bridge showed signs of camp – sticks still propped out of the ground and burnt rocks suggested campfires. No signs of life showed anywhere, and Asher hoped that it was a refugee group that moved on, but it still made him uneasy.

Across the bridge was a trading post, a single brick house with a wooden shelter for horses and mules, sitting at a fence that marked Dalvany in one direction and Raulkada in the other. Asher wondered why a sign needed to point towards the mountains or the forest was really needed so close to said mountains, but he’d seen people do dumber things. The road widened past the post, branching off to the narrow tire-trek roads that wound around the fields to the individual farms. Penn stood in the crossroads of two narrower roads, then tossed the red wisp high into the air.

The little red ball hovered high in the air for a heartbeat, then shot forward the same as before. Penn didn’t charge after it, instead followed with careful steps, and Asher hobbled after him, balancing against the uneven road.

There was no hard line between town and farmland. Though the river marked the division between the two, many of the buildings at this end were closer to the road, large square buildings that offered more indoor produce; greenhouses and silk spinners and postal checkpoints. Each fence line gradually grew further and further apart, until the familiar stretches of field and winery met them. The red light shone bright against the night sky, signalling them like a fire waving in the dark. The spirits had come back too, flecks of light racing through the blades of grass next to the road, lighting the way for them.

When actual fire pierced the air in front of them, Asher swore and pulled Penn to the side, off the road and into a dip that covered them in shadow. The spirits followed, circling around them as though trying to announce where they were, and Asher was glad no-one else could see them. Penn wriggled free of his grip and scrambled out of the ditch, but Asher grabbed him and pulled him back down.

‘Wait,’ Asher hissed. ‘Don’t you see the people?’

‘What about them?’ Penn asked.

Asher strained to see the small group in the dark. Farmers, he had to guess. None seemed to be wearing the coats of the guard, though with these new Sovereignty idiots it was hard to tell. Some carried torches, holding them straight and scanning the road in front of them. As they swept around, the unmistakable glint of rifles on their back caught in the light. Asher swore.

Penn scrambled to his feet again, and Asher grabbed his cloak, causing the man to slip against the uneven ground and slide further into the ditch. He hissed, harsh and angry and loud, then smacked at Asher’s hand. Asher caught his wrist and held it firm. ‘Will you stop that?’ he demanded.

‘Is someone there?’ one of the farmer’s called out.

Asher sank deeper into the dip, keeping one fist closed around Penn’s cloak as he tried to keep as still as possible. A few of the lights running through the grass rose up and caught in his hair, sticking fast and illuminating the curls. They can’t see it, he reminded himself. They can’t see you.

Two of the men drew closer, one readying his rifle, while the other swept his torch across the landscape, coming uncomfortably close.

‘You’re hearing things,’ the one with the gun said. ‘We’re hunting wolves, not ghosts.’

‘I’m telling you, I heard a voice,’ the one with the torch said. ‘Someone else is out here.’

‘So?’ the gun one asked. ‘Bounty is for everyone who catches the buggers. Let it go.’

Penn tensed, but didn’t pull against Asher’s hold. He waited for the moment where the torch light would throw it’s beam over them, two men crouched in a ditch on the side of the road, no light between them. Even if he could pull rank, there was nothing that would easily explain any of this. His heart pounded against his ribs.

The two hunters stopped, and after a beat of silence that stretched on for an eternity, both turned and rushed to catch up with their companions. Their footsteps left rings of white light in the ground. As the light of the torch bounced, Asher noticed that one was carrying a thick pelt, dragging it along behind him.

‘Hunting wolves,’ Penn hissed. His eyes were burning again.

‘I don’t think it’s your wolf,’ Asher pointed out. The red light still flashed in the sky, now seemingly still as though it had found it’s mark.

‘They can’t kill the wolves,’ Penn said. ‘Wolves do nothing wrong.’

‘I think they’ve been attacking the farms,’ Asher said.

‘Not their fault,’ Penn said. ‘The world is broken.’

He had a point, but Asher understood why people were taking the situation into their own hands, especially when there was a bounty involved. When he got back, he would talk to whoever set the bounty and try and get it lowered or removed completely. One problem at a time though.

As the torches disappeared over the rise, leaving only an orange haze behind, Penn scrambled out of the ditch once more, this time moving too fast for Asher to grab him. His leg screamed at the effort of pulling himself out of the dip, but he grit his teeth through it and managed to stand. If they tried to follow the road, it was more likely they would get shot before anything else happened.

Penn charged after the group. Asher swore and tried to follow, but the man was sprinting at full speed, and Asher quickly lost sight of him. He couldn’t follow. But he had to do something.

The flecks of white light still caught in his hair, and he brushed them away impatiently, then paused. All he needed was a clear path for Penn to carve his single-minded mission, so the man didn’t get shot. He could draw the hunters away, somehow.

With only the lights of the spirits to guide him, Asher skidded down the slope next to the road, and continued the momentum to duck under the wire fence and onto the property next to the road. He couldn’t tell in this light what it was for, but it was big and if he made enough commotion, it would work fine.

It was a slaughterhouse. Blood and copper hit his nose as soon as he let himself in, burning his sinus and making him gag. The table along the far wall was stained brown and black from layers of past animals, and sharp tools hung from the wall and the ceiling, dried but equally stained. In the far corner, was a fire pit, cold and empty. His first thought was fire, but the last thing he needed was for someones business to go up in flames just to keep Penn from getting shot.

A rifle sat propped against the side door, and Asher swiped it up just in case, checking the barrel to note that it was loaded. With the weight against his shoulder, he let himself out the side, where a path had been carved by two narrow fences leading further into the fields. The little flickers of light from the spirits caught in tuffs of dirty wool scattered through the grass. Asher saw no sheep, but now wasn’t the time to be distracted by something fluffy and stupid.

Instead, he balanced the rifle against his shoulder, and took aim at a nearby fencepost. It had been so long since he’d fired one of these, but the target didn’t matter; only the noise. As long as he didn’t hit anything living…

He pulled the trigger, and the shot ripped across the air, snapping through the silence with a plume of white smoke from the barrel. As the noise died, he strained to hear something beyond its echo, but there was only silence. He needed to go again.

Ignoring the now screaming pain in his leg – he didn’t know where he had dropped his crutch – he rushed back into the slaughterhouse with the flecks of spirits following him, pattering at the gun with a frantic excitement. Asher batted them away and found the small wooden box of bullets on a shelf, grabbing a handful and shoving them into his pocket.

He forced his way back outside as another shot rang out, making him freeze. It had come from somewhere distant, somewhere in the direction he had fired. Asher scanned the sky, noting the red orb still hanging in the sky, which was noticeably too close to where the noise had come from. Another shot sounded, a crack that whipped through the air.

Asher scrambled to load his own rifle, cursing as the next bullet became gritty and rough in his hand, caught in the dust that had once again covered his skin. Brushing away the flecks of white flame that bounced around his hand, he clicked the barrel back into place and pulled the pin back, then took aim at the same post. He didn’t even know if this was working.

He fired.

The post exploded.

Asher cried out as white flame burst from the wooden pole, shooting high into the air in a pillar of heat, before it sucked back down into the ground and a very real, orange fire swallowed the post. Panic froze him for a second, the gun still raised and pressing into his shoulder as he stared at the fire. The dust on the bullet, it had to be. He’d put it there. He had done that.

Shouts and cries in the distance broke him from his trance enough to lower the rifle and back towards the slaughterhouse. An orange haze appeared over the rise by the road, slowly growing brighter. The hunters. Penn’s way was clear, but now they would come for him.

Asher thought about putting the fire out first, but it was climbing up the post, not catching on the grass, and dimming by the second with nothing to feed on. The hunters would be here soon; they would put it out.

The hunters were coming.