The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

A branch snapped nearby. Martin’s eyes opened. It was Volkard, towering above him, shrouded in darkness, save for his terrible eyes.

Martin lay still, trying to meet those eyes, and failed. There was a sickening crunch from somewhere behind the bull. A second followed. Martin wanted to ask what was afoot, but somehow he already knew. There had been protests against staying in camp here for another entire day, but the black bull had gotten his way eventually. It had required a lot of chest pounding and threats. The hetman must have only seen it as a petty reassertion of Volkard’s authority, the bloody fool. Martin had felt helpless, cursing his bonds and the men watching him, when he realised it mean another day trapped here, trying to sleep in the mud with barely any shelter, blankets, or food. What if he got ill? Would they kill him? He waited for another sound like the two he had just heard, but only silence reached his ears. Those men had been Volkard’s, and must have had some trust in him at some point. Now they were gone. He didn’t feel sorry, but he did feel sick.

Rahm appeared at his master’s side. Volkard nodded, and the bull scooped Martin up as if he were a sack of flour. Rahm’s hands were damp. Martin’s eyes had adapted to the night. From his perch atop the minotaur’s shoulder, he could see the men lying where they had gone to sleep hours ago, and where they would now sleep forever.

“Did they have anything on them?” Volkard asked.

“A few coins,\2 came the matter of fact answer. “No food.”

“You’re monsters,” Martin said then, staring at the bodies.

“I’m in a hurry,” Volkard replied, indifferent. “And they weren’t my men.”

“Whose were they?” Martin asked, surprised by the news.

“That’s not your concern, boy,” the black bull answered. “Not yet.”

They set off in the pitch night, saying nothing. Rain fell lightly upon them from the gaps in the withered canopy above. Time wore on, and Martin grew sore all over from the rough way Rahm carried him over his brutish shoulder. He wanted to say something, but just then he was more concerned about the direction they were taking. Even in the dark, the boy could have sworn that there was something about this trail that looked familiar. Martin eventually heard the rush of water, and was able to spy the curve of the river. He did not ask where they were, for he knew already.

“Set him down,” commanded Volkard.

Rahm obeyed, putting the boy down on a nearby pile of shattered rock. Martin glared up at him a moment before turning his attention to Volkard and the destroyed bridge.

“Did you have any idea of what my plan was?” the black bull asked, not looking at him. He was facing the devastation he had wrought, his arms casually held behind his back.

“No,” Martin answered.

“I don’t think that’s entirely true. People like us are more practical than the chattel.”

“Those were people you killed!” the boy screamed. He felt the tears coming, and just then was too tired to fight them. He beat his fists on his knees and sobbed. As he closed his eyes Andrej, Eckhart, Bader and everyone else he had grown up with was there in the dark. He wanted to go home more than anything in the world, but it did not exist any longer.

“I’m not like you,” he sobbed, and then began to scream. “I don’t want to be like you. I hate you!”

“Why?”

Martin opened his eyes, and he stared at Volkard in astonishment. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, as the black bull regarded him and his tears with total indifference.

“You murdered everyone I ever knew!” Was this happening? Did this fiend really not understand?

“So?” Volkard asked, giving a shrug. His tone was calm, almost casual, as if he were discussing the weather. “Who cares? How many insects did we kill on our walk just now as we tread upon them? Will you weep for them, too?”

“Killing a bug isn’t murder, you bastard!” The boy roared.

The black bull shook his head. “No, it’s all the same to you and me.”

“Shut up! I’m not like you! I’d rather die than be like you!”

Volkard smiled. The expression looked odd, unnatural on his face. It made him look crueller, exposing his yellow teeth as he strode towards the boy. Rahm stood nearby, keeping watch on the other side of the river, his massive bow in hand.

“You’re weak,” Volkard said, looking down upon the boy. “You’ve dwelt too long among the insects, Martin. You are not one of them: you are a hawk. You live in another world, another plane. It is a place of power, where you can do as you please. The insects below live and die in the millions, and it means nothing. But you, I, others like us are different. The millions fear us, and they should. This world does not belong to them, Martin. It belongs to us.”

“I don’t want the world,” the boy said. He wrapped his arms about his chest, his face damp with tears. “I want my papa.”

“He was right about you,” Volkard said, then. He looked back to the bridge. He raised his hands. “We waited too long, but we weren’t ready. Now, though, things will be different. I don’t know how you kept yourself from crushing those little bugs you lived with for so long, but it speaks of great discipline. That is good, Martin. You will need it. Without it, you cannot learn. Without it, you will only be able to destroy. You need to understand, Martin. Destruction is not the only thing I--or you--can do! Behold!”

The ground began to tremble. A low rumble filled the air, shaking Martin to the core. The dead trees that surrounded them swayed in a wind that was not there. Far beyond them, Martin heard the sudden cries of animals, and the cracking of bark as trees began to die. He looked up then, outraged and afraid, to demand Volkard stop, to call him awful names impotently, but his voice failed him.

He stared in silent wonder as the bridge Volkard had destroyed began to fix itself. Fragments of stone flew into the air of their own accord, piecing themselves back together like some colossal jigsaw puzzle. Seams where fragments met glowed with an angry red-orange light, like a pot left on the hearth too long, and Martin could just make out steam rising from those cracks in the glow. The boy realised then that Volkard was reforming the bridge in much the same way a smith might reforge fragments of a broken blade.

They crossed after Volkard was done and the stone had cooled. The structure was rougher and uneven, yet whole. Martin stared at the surface as Rahm him carried it over. He looked for individual bricks but they were gone. It was as if this bridge was a complete, single stone now. Martin was amazed, yet he could not forget the sounds he had heard, the lives that it had cost to make it. How much of the land was dead now because of this? Dear god, were any people caught up by it?

“How did you do that?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

“Practice, patience, and discipline.”

In time the sky began turning red. They stopped to rest awhile on some rocks they found by the road, and shared the meagre rations left.

“You can do anything,” Volkard said at length. He seemed excited, almost carefree, as he ate his stale bread. He gave off the absurd impression of a man having just finished a vow of silence. “You just need time, and discipline. When I found the city, I did not know the language of the Elves. It took me a long time, but I taught myself the meaning of their written word. I explored all of it. I searched, though at times I did not know what for, until I found what I was looking for. I had not known before what I was put on this earth to do. Then, I knew.”

“The Dead Lands are forbidden,” Martin said automatically.

Volkard laughed. He and Rahm shared a knowing grin.

“That means nothing,” the black bull answered.

“They say if you go there,” Martin went on, feeling an icy trickle slither down his back, “and stay for too long...that you become mad.”

“Do I look mad to you, boy?”

”Yes.”

They got ready to leave. Rahm cut the boy’s bonds, much to Martin’s surprise.

“We are going to Eichen,” Volkard explained. “Carrying you around with your legs tied up will attract attention I do not need.”

“How do you know I won’t run away?” The boy asked, as he rubbed the feeling back into his legs. They stung, and he had to grit his teeth to better hold his tongue.

“That’s easy, Martin,” Volkard replied. He smiled, and it wasn’t just unnatural this time, but frightening. “Eichen has many people living in it. Thousands. If you try running away, I will kill everyone there. The hunters you hope will kill me are very far away. The only people you can go to for help around here are mere insects, and you know my attitude to them already.”

That settled things.

They walked for several hours. As they walked, the sky began to clear as the rain clouds were driven off by the wind and the boiling sun.

In time, they came upon a cart, pulled by a pair of haggard looking horses. The cart was laden with goods. A pair of grimy children and a woman sat upon it, while a man in peasant garb walked at the side of the horses. They were headed in the same direction as the trio, their backs to the minotaurs and human boy, oblivious to their approach.

Martin felt his heart begin to hammer hard in his chest. His legs, unsteady already, were now weak as reeds. Volkard picked his pace up a little, and began to pull away from them as he walked after the family. Martin wanted to scream a warning, as useless as that might be.

“Good morning to you!” The black bull yelled.

The cart stopped. The man looked behind, saw them coming. Martin could not see Volkard’s face, but Rahm gently prodded him forward.

*

A cart rolled up to Alte Eichen. It was drawn by two old, tired horses. A black minotaur that strode beside it pulled off a quiet boy.

“Thank ye for yer company, sir,” said the man that stood with the horses.

“Thank you for the schnapps,” Volkard said with a laugh. He set Martin down. Elle and Gretel, the two young girls he had spent the last few hours beside, waved down at them. He waved back, finally able to smile.

“I was worried about bandits in these parts,” went on Bene, the man they’d stumbled across on the road. He was a farmer whose crops had suffered, and had come with his family to find work in the towns before what savings and possessions he had were lost to destitution. “So I was only too happy to have ye and yer friend to tag along! If there were any out there, just the sight of the pair o’ ye would be enough to have fortee-fore o’ them shite themselves!”

Volkard nodded, smiling. Martin watched Rahm take the hand of the wife, whose name was Karra, and kiss it gently. The peasant woman’s face turned red. She did not resist or make any protest.

They passed through the gate together. The family had no papers, and neither did Volkard. The black bull did have coin, however. That got them all through. They walked the cart and its precious contents to the inner gate of the town, keeping a watch for wolves or any other dangers that might have hid among the abandoned ruins of the ancient settlement. Only when the palisade was in sight did Volkard, Martin and Rahm take their leave.

“Where are we going?” Martin asked, after he was certain no one else might hear them.

“My temple,” Volkard answered.