The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

Once, there had been a bridge that spanned the river here. It had been a relic of the elves, built at the height of their power, like Alte Eichen. Like that stubborn city, it had survived the Last Night. Now, it was gone. The stones that had formed its structure sundered themselves apart, mortar shattering as they tore away from each other. Most fell into the river below. Others crashed into the banks or bounced along the ground, tearing up the earth and smashing their way through dying trees. Dust filled the air. The bridge foundations themselves toppled and vanished beneath the rushing water, that became filled with the floating corpses of fish.

Volkard lowered his hands. The echoes of the crumbling bridge resounded through the dying forest before fading away.

“Were those witch hunters?” asked Martin Bauer.

Volkard turned and stared at the boy, but Martin was past being afraid by now.

“Good.,” he said, letting the hate he felt for these monsters get the better of him. “I hope they catch you, and make you pay for what you did!”

A general, fearful murmur ran among the survivors. Martin waited to be struck, or be told to shut up, but no one said anything. He could feel the eyes of the few remaining men watching him. He noticed those same eyes watching Volkard, too.

“If they catch me,” the black minotaur said. “They shall catch you. They will be no more merciful to me, than they will to you. They fear our kind, Martin. They fear our power.”

“You don’t look very powerful to me,” sneered Martin.

Rahm cursed then, his eyes becoming murderous. He took a threatening, unsteady step towards Martin, but Volkard stopped him with a wave.

“We must not linger. Pick up the boy. We have a long walk ahead of us.”

Martin said nothing. By his count there were only eight of his captors left. Miron, one of the human men, rushed to pick him up again and sling him roughly over his big shoulder.

“These people are going to get you killed,” Martin whispered to him.

“Be quiet, boy” Miron snapped at him.

They set off, travelling into the forest Volkard had killed to ensure their escape. Withered leaves fell on their heads, piling up around the boots of the men and minotaurs as they marched. Shattered, splintered branches soon followed. Martin watched the sun blaze across the surface of the river, hoping to catch a glimpse of the people chasing after them, but there was none.

*

They walked for hours. Martin felt his legs going numb and complained. Usually, Miron would loosen them a little so the boy could rub his legs, but this time he did not dare. Rahm limped behind the two humans. Martin had little else that he could do but watch the massive archer tend to his wounds awkwardly as he lumbered along.

“Those will get infected if they aren’t cleaned,” Martin said to him at one point, though he had no idea why. Rahm glared at him.

“I will do so when we stop, boy.”

“Are you part of Volkard’s clan?” Martin asked him, both curious, and looking any means to pass the time.

“No,” Rahm replied, his face tightening with a look of pain, and bitterness. “My clan is gone.”

It must have been close to noon when they finally stopped. They could have travelled further, but Volkard seemed to be having trouble with his leg.

“I must tend to my wounds,” said the black bull. His hand clutched tightly at his hip, as if trying to conceal something. His nose had stopped bleeding, though he had done nothing to clean it yet. He assigned two of his remaining men to go find wood for a fire, and two more to go out and search for food. The remaining four would stay in the small clearing to keep an eye on the boy, and keep watch for possible pursuit. This included Miron, who set Martin down and finally loosened the bonds around his legs. Volkard and Rahm disappeared into the trees.

The boy sighed gratefully and began to rub life back into his worryingly numb legs, as he watched the two massive beasts vanish into the trees.

“They’re going to get you killed,” he whispered to the older man.

“Be quiet,” said Miron.

There was little food to share between the four on watch. Almost all their supplies had been lost that morning when the witch hunters put them all to flight. All Miron had to eat himself was half a loaf of hardening bread. He tore it in half and placed one part back into his empty satchel. The other he shared with Martin.

As others made themselves busy around them, Martin quickly devoured his ration of bread and set to watching them in silence. There was a lot of dry wood around, some of it littering the ground here already, so the two off to get firewood would be back in short order. The two looking for food would be longer, assuming they came back at all. The rest, like Miron, had slumped gratefully to the ground and were either lying down or keeping a fearful eye in the direction they had come.

“Why do you follow him?” Martin asked Miron, when he was certain no one else might hear.

Miron shrugged. “My hetman, Ostap Voloshyn, told me ‘go with our priest, Miron, and see him to success’, so I go, and I obey. It is the same with most of us men, here.”

“You serve a hetman?” Martin was quiet for a moment as he tried to recall what that meant from his studies. He knew he had heard the term before, he was certain of it. It was an old word, the boy remembered that much. Inspiration came to him suddenly. It had not been from his studies he had heard the word, but at the Great Market in Gozer.

“That’s an officer, isn’t it, Miron? Are you a soldier?”

Miron nodded, indifferent. He was still chewing his bread slowly, his eyes scanning along the ground as if searching for something.

“Why aren’t you wearing a uniform?” Martin asked, pressing him.

“Orders, boy. We all obey.”

Martin nodded as if he understood. The men gathering wood had returned, and were setting about making a fire in the centre of the stony clearing. The bonds around his legs were still loose. He did his best to keep them still, in the hopes Miron might forget about them. “Were all of you soldiers?”

Miron shook his head. “The priest brought some of his own. The old woman, the dogs, the bulls and a couple of men and scaled.”

“How many of them are left?” Martin asked quietly.

“Only Rahm,” said Miron softly. His eyes were firmly locked on Martin’s then.

“What?” asked the boy. He did not like the way Miron was looking at him.

“Don’t you try any of your tricks with me, boy,” Miron growled. He became animated, and his he spoke his accent grew more pronounced, confirming to Martin Bauer what he had already guessed, which was made certain as the hairy man went on. “You want to run away, or think to make us men of The Hold fight the bulls of the Dead Lands. I’m assigned to watch you, and watch you I will. No witch child will get the better of me!”

“I’m not a witch,” Martin growled.

“The priest says you are,” the foreigner yelled back. “That’s good enough for me! Enough of your slimy words, boy! Cease to question, or I’ll put a gag on you!”

Martin fell quiet. Miron smiled to himself, as if having scored a triumph. He rose to go off and relieve himself, but not before tightening the bonds around Martin’s legs again, and telling his companions to keep a watch on the little toad. Another brute came over as Miron disappeared. He was the sour sort, brooding and wholly unfriendly. Martin sighed, and stared down at his trapped legs.

“They’re going to find you,” he said to the man. He had a long, drooping moustache. Looking carefully at the style of it, Martin was surprised by how little effort some of these men were putting into hiding their identity, as if changing their clothes would be enough to fool his people. Men like this were obviously not natives of Sturmwatch. The Hold. The rnrmy to the south. Why were they here, with Volkard, and why did they refer to him as a priest?

“They’ll kill the rest of you when they do,” the boy said, trying to get a reaction, but the brute said nothing. In time, Miron returned. Martin lay down and stared up at the sky.

*

Without a clock, it was difficult to tell time, but the sun had moved significantly in the sky by the time Volkard returned. The black bull found a roaring fire, but no food. His face was clean once more, and fresh bandages adorned Rahm’s wounds. Martin could just see the hints of a bandage peeking out from under Volkard’s armour at his hip. His limp was not as obvious, now.

“Where are the men I sent to find food?” Volkard asked the remaining humans. Aside from Rahm, those two had been the only ones left with bows.

A general murmur was all the reply the minotaur got. No one was certain, but he need not fear. They would return.

Volkard exchanged a quick, sideward glance then with Rahm. The archer’s eyes narrowed. He nodded as he unslung his bow.

“Where are you sending your hunter?” one of the few remaining men asked.

“It is not your concern,” said Volkard.

The man rose. His three companions, Miron included, did likewise. Martin had been lying down, trying to get some rest when this altercation had begun. He sat up now, watching the scene play out before him. He kept quiet, hoping for violence. Everyone here was afraid, even if they weren’t showing it. They had to be. The boy had watched things get steadily worse for this group in the past few days. First, they had lost some of their horses at the ruined plantation house thanks to the antics of that idiotic, crazy old woman. This morning, they had been ambushed and butchered by what could only have been some of the witch hunters of Sturmwatch. They clearly had not expected that. Volkard, that murdering bastard of a bull, had probably told them all that there had been no survivors back at the farm. But he had been wrong. Martin had suspected it, but the fight and then flight that morning had confirmed it. Volkard had not gotten everyone. His father was still alive. There was no other way anyone else could have stumbled upon the awful massacre so quickly. His father was alive, and he had called in the witch hunters.

“It’s my concern if you’re sending that beast of yours out to find my men,” the man growled. Martin wondered if this had been the hetman Miron had referred to, or if he was a lower ranking officer.

Volkard growled something vicious under his breath. “I am in command here,” he said then, his massive hands balling into fists.

The men were not intimidated.

“You’re in overall command,” said the leader of the remaining humans. “But I am responsible for those two. They will come back. It’s probably taking so long because you scared off all the animals!”

Rahm’s free hand moved subtly to his quiver of arrows. From where they stood the men confronting them could not see it. But Martin could.

“He’s reaching for an arrow!” The boy cried out quickly.

He was surprised at how galvanised the opposing parties became at the sound of his voice. It was as if they had forgot he could speak. Volkard glared at him, but Rahm took advantage of the distraction. The archer drew his arrow and notched it before any of the men before them had a chance to react. They cried out, scrambling for weapons, as Rahm aimed at their leader. Martin stared, and praying silently for bloodshed.

Volkard reacted first. Arm snapping out, the black minotaur grabbed tight onto the arrow in Rahm’s bow before he could loose it.

“No!” Volkard snapped, his eyes narrow as firing slits as he glared at Rahm. He pulled the arrow out of the cowed minotaur’s hands before turning his attention back to the men. The foreigners had all found time to draw their weapons in the intervening seconds. “We are all allies!”

“Then keep your cow away from my men!” yelled the leader of the humans. He had a heavy looking broadsword in one hand and a steel shield on his arm now that bore heraldry Martin did not recognise. “They will return!”

“You can vouch for that?” asked the black minotaur. Rahm muttered something under his breath, but Volkard glared him into silence before looking back over the fire to the men that stood up to him.

“Yes,” the leader snarled. “We men of The Hold are no cowards! They will return.”

Volkard was silent. His face had become a mask, his grip on Rahm’s arrow so tight that Martin could see the thick wooden shaft beginning to bend and crack. The boy held his breath. Should he say something else? The tension here was palpable, and yet Martin felt no fear at all. Things could go so wrong here still, but how could he push it in that direction? He considered speaking again, but doubted it would have the same effect as before. When Rahm, at Volkard’s behest, put his bow away, Martin realised the moment had passed, and the opportunity had been lost.

He lay down again, as everyone went back to doing whatever they had been before, acting as if nothing had happened. But that was a lie. Martin rolled over on the soil, watching them all, and made note.

The sun shifted in slowly in the sky overhead. Eventually, the men with the bows returned, carrying a dead deer between them. The leader of the men of The Hold sneered smugly. Volkard said nothing. Martin lay still, and watched.