The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

By the time the first of the Ashen reached the entrance to the stable, Janus had unslung his bow, glad it he’d thought to string it before beginning his reconnaissance. This he clutched in his left hand. He held his axe in his right, at the ready. Back still pressed against the wall, he had slipped back as deep into the shadows of the ruined stable as he was able. He could no longer see the archer. Janus wished desperately that the bull was either walking away, or observing his minions from the same spot, hopefully without readying his own bow. The runner knew that he had no place to hide in here, and that flight was his only chance of survival, but he was afraid to haul himself over the wall. He was absolutely certain now that he would be spotted, and that monster that followed Volkard around would be on him within seconds. He had seen enough proof of the strength of the bulls to know he would be killed effortlessly by that lumbering, brown fiend.

Muttering reached the runner’s ears as he climbed over the fly-riddled corpse of a horse. The ragged lines of light that poured in between the gaps in the stone from the temple fires vanished, leaving him briefly in total darkness. He heard bare feet sweep over dust and pebbles. They were just outside.

Janus looked over to the back wall. It was maybe a dozen steps away, now. Instinctively, he slipped into the nearest dark corner as hints of resentful conversation reached him. There was a clear line of sight between him and the entrance where the men had gathered. Only the shadows covered him, but that wouldn’t last long in the light of the torches they carried. They were naked save for the ash spread over them. No armour.

The old familiar taste of the oaks of his home filled Janus’ maw as the haft of his axe filled it. The runner effortlessly drew and nocked an arrow to his bowstring in silence. A dozen feet to the wall. He couldn’t see anyone checking the perimeter of the stable. They would all come one way. He risked a glance towards his only chance of safety, noting where another dead horse lay, and a scattering of large rocks, possibly dislodged by the poor animal’s death throes. He’d need to dodge these once he made his break for it. Janus counted the seconds that crept past far slower than the hammering of his heart. He knew what to do. If only he could be sure of where the archer was…

The moment came. A man, human, with neat hair and a short sword that dangled unconvincingly in his right hand, stepped into the stable. Between the torchlight and the moonlight, it was impossible to miss his girth. He was soft and fat, and looked afraid. It was horribly obvious he was not one of the original cult. He had probably joined just to stay alive. These realisations came quickly to Janus, and he stayed his hand for one long, awful second. He willed the man to not look in his direction. He begged the unlucky fool to walk away.

The man turned then, and gasped. They stared at each other.

Be quiet, the runner begged him, desperately hoping he could be understood in the dark. Please.

Things slowed. Janus watched the big, soft chest expanding. He saw the eyes widening, and the bearded mouth opening in horror.

The man’s belly was big, and rippled violently as the arrow plunged deep into it. Janus could hear the man grunt sharply as he raced for the wall. He heard the heavy body collapse to the ground, half blocking the entrance as puzzled, and then shocked cries came from beyond the stable walls. He reached the wall and began scaling it before the man he had killed finally started screaming.

Panic hit. He heard the Ashen howling behind him and scrambling about as Janus put his leg over the wall. He tried to keep low even though knew that it was pointless now. He risked a glance backwards, looking over the broken stone walls, the dead horses, and the moaning, weeping man he had killed. He saw the minotaur. The bull saw him, too.

Run!

Janus fell off of the wall with the grace and agility of a drunken man. He barely kept his feet beneath him when he landed. It took far too long for him to right himself and begin running. Pounding footfalls reached his ears, and Janus could swear he felt the cobbles beneath his feet trembling from the impact. The sound of them swept over his frantic breathing and the hammering of his heart. His axe and bow were in hand. The tomb of a world hidden in darkness lay before him, dead streets full of crumbling houses and no light. It was his only chance.

The earth reverberated beneath him in rapid succession, growing in violence as the minotaur drew closer. Raging breaths bore down on him from behind and for one insane, horrible instant, the runner swore he felt spittle fleck against his ear.

Buildings rushed to meet him, each one with darkened memories of doorways and empty windows like eye sockets in the shadows. Janus picked one, every cell and sinew of his body burning. He reached it and dove through what remained of its doorway. He had barely begun to roll when what remained of the wall exploded. Dust mingled with darkness and the small space reverberated with a scream that burst from the runner. He rose as the archer pulverised stonework to reach him. There was no roof. There were no rooves left on any of the abandoned ruins. One corner at the far end of the room he’d wound up in was crumbling, its shattered and tumbled stones low enough for him to clamber over. A heavy, booted foot slammed into the earth behind him. Janus ran. He scrambled up the wall, his tongue lolling out of his sharp, ragged maw. The bull reached for him. Janus rolled off the wall as a huge hand snatched at his ankle

The ground rose to meet him. Janus landed on his side, knocking the wind out of his lungs as his limbs spasmed. His bow was gone, and forgotten. There was no time. An empty doorway loomed large just ahead. He scrambled to his knees before as he heard the cracking and snap of masonry. He saw a hand at the top of the wall where he had just been pulling at the stone. Dark lines spread like cracks in the ice before the uppermost bits of the wall fell away. The bull’s hands tore haphazardly at the rest of the wall between himself and his prey. Janus wanted to get away but half the wall was gone before he was even on his feet. The minotaur filled the gap he’d created, a tower of muscle and rage and hate, with large white eyes and a monstrous frothing mouth. A vast hand reached out to crush him.

Janus screamed, and his axe sprouted from the archer’s face before the runner quite realised he’d swung it. He registered the squelch of the impact a moment before the scream struck him like a hurricane. It washed over him over with an awful stench and a spray of blood that blinded him. Janus screamed, too. He dropped the axe, staggering backwards. He nearly toppled when he struck a crumbling wall. Shaking hands wiped desperately at his eyes. He had to get away. He had to get away!

Another earth-shattering scream washed over him. His bare chest and belly felt warm and sticky. He got the blood out of his eyes, and saw the huge beast climbing over what was left of the wall. One hand clutched at his ruined face, and Janus knew somehow that underneath that blood-soaked hand was a ruined eye. Even one-eyed, the minotaur’s stare bored into him. The beast was nearly in. Its free hand reached out for him.

Janus dove under the arm, and crawled. He was through the door before the bull realised what was happening. A scream of hate followed after him. It propelled him through more doorways, over walls and out through dead, deserted streets as the beast smashed its way through the house and those after, trying to find him in the dark.

Janus did not stop running. His veins were filled with acid and breathing was near impossible, yet he did not stop. He did not dare. Even over the frenetic drumming of his heart he could hear that roar, mnore terrifying than any thudner storm. Out of every dark corner he raced past there seemed to be eyes watching him, and huge, stone breaking hands reaching out to grab him and drag him away…

Finally, long after time meant anything, Janus stopped. His legs gave out from under him and toppled to the ground. Even so, he kept him going. He rolled and bounced violently against the cobblestones in a jumble of limbs until finally the momentum of his flight was spent. He heaved himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled once the world had stopped spinning, but only had the strength to drag himself into a nearby alley. Janus collapsed again, curled up on his side, shaking violently from head to tail. His body begged him for rest. He wanted to go home. But there were monsters out there looking for him, strong enough to take him in their hands and break every bone in his body like they were made of dead, dry twigs. The shaking got worse as bile welled up his throat. The runner began coughing, bringing up acrid remnants of the wine the Duke had given him. What had he been thinking? He had nearly been caught. He did not want to think about what they would have surely done to him if he had not gotten away but it was impossible. The tortured bodies and the faces frozen in fear were still waiting out there, between him and Kurt and his word. He knew he should rise, but he was afraid. So close…he had come so close…

Janus buried his face into his hands as the tears came. He covered his mouth to muffle his cries, and sobbed until this took what pitiful strength he had left. The runner passed out in the alley, dead to the world for a little while.