The Wayward Witch Chronicles

Magic wasn’t supposed to be out in the wild anymore.

That’s what Elder Derrin thought, at least. Had thought. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

It had started a few weeks before, when his nephew had turned up at the village pub in a huff.

“I saw a witch,” the youth panted. The talk in the pub petered down. Derrin groaned as the boy went on. “I did! There was a lady out on the old woods road. I’d never seen anyone so pretty, like… like right out of a court painting. And her voice! Like a reed flute….”

“Youthful fancies,” Derrin snorted, turning back to his beer.

“No, but listen! She asked me if I could help her. I started over to see what was the matter, but then I saw her face, and it wasn’t right. It was like somebody’d cobbled it together with cheese wax.” Ever the poet, the farmboy was. “So I stopped. And she shrieked at me like a cat, and that’s when I realized she wasn’t a proper person, so I ran. And when I ran I looked over my shoulder, and saw her body in flames, and it was sort of shrinking and folding in on itself like when you smash dough, and–”

Cheeks reddening as smattered chuckles sounded throughout the room, Derrin stopped him. “Enough, boy. You scared yourself in the dark is all. Forget this fool story, get back home, and get into bed.”

But the boy insisted on his story, and the next morning, Derrin allowed himself to be led along to the old woods road. When his nephew showed them where black ash scorched the dirt path, the elder swatted his head. The boy began to protest, but Derrin cut him off.

“Not another word, you daft boy. Starting a fire in this dry summer? And for some tall tale! The whole village will be laughing at our family if this fantasy of yours gets around. Get back to tending the cattle, and don’t let me hear you’ve been speaking about this again.”

But a few days later, Derrin heard that one of the hunters had found a new fixture by the brook, some scant kilometers from town. Something dark that stank of ritual and blood, the hunter said, and it had writing in language man wasn’t meant to read.

“Do you believe me now?” his nephew whinged, and Derrin hadn’t known what to say.

Magic wasn’t supposed to be out in the wild anymore, but now it lurked– malevolently– just beyond the roadside.

Whenever he walked through town after, Derrin noticed small signs popping up. Bundles of acacia twigs and basil fluttered on fence posts along the dirt thoroughfare. Glassy quartz lumps glinted at the threshold of each thatch-roofed home. Bits of copper, polished to a reflective shine, hung at latched shutters. Behind the general store, the shopkeep’s home had an expensive hand mirror tied to the knocker, to the eldest daughter’s loud dismay. The risk of it being stolen was nothing compared to the real threat of a magicker on the hunt.

When they gathered outside the village headwoman’s home to demand action, she’d forbidden anyone from going out by the woods road and sent her two eldest to petition the local lord for protection. They came back with only a promise that the lord would send for help from the capital. Until then, the village was at the mercy of the night.

Derrin had nearly forgotten this fear. Sure, he’d still told his sister’s children all the old stories– of mages stealing away children for experiments, or witches disfiguring the hapless fools that offended them. And he knew of the greater scars of history too; the tens of thousands dead by magic plagues, or the invasions of creatures from nightmare realms.

But despite rumors that the neighboring hamlet harbored a hut doctor practicing their arts on the sly, his little village hadn’t seen a proper magicker in years. When the High King had passed on, the decades-long grace period of Amnesty ended with him. Now by law, all magic-wielders were to register themselves with the proper officials or forswear their use of magics, and there was no Amnesty for those who failed to do so. Even the farthest reaches of the Steelelands kingdoms saw little in the way of wayward magics.

But the old terror now rekindled to full waking life. The most wrinkled grandmothers guided their youngest children in wrapping bundles of herbs to tuck under their pillows. The town streets emptied as the working folk measured their fear of leaving their families unprotected against their need to keep food on the table.

Then strangers came to the village– three of them, a few days between each.

The first arrived on horseback, stabled at the pub, and spoke with the pubkeep over a meal. The stranger introduced herself as “some nobody official from the capital” and showed an insignia on her jacket, marking them as a member of the Bureau of Magic Regulation. She stayed in the village commons long enough to learn a few rumors and write a letter, then visited Derrin’s home to speak with Caylen, the only witness to see any magic. After dissecting his story for every remembered detail, she thanked him and left into the night, barely speaking to Derrin as the head of the household at all. He’d felt irritated, and rumors flew wild.

The second arrived a few days after. He was more outlandish than the first, one of the Glamori kind– a half-breed race with mixed blood from humanity’s long-eared cousins, the Mani. (Or, as humans tended to name them out of earshot, elves.) No one could label which of the magic-touched clans he belonged to, but his shock-white hair, sienna skin, and narrowed eyes hinted of a far land. The stranger wore a leather breastplate under a jacket with the same insignia as their previous visitor, and carried two slender swords at his belt along with a thick knife.

He spoke with a stern, sharp accent and introduced himself as an “Acquisitor”, an official who sought out illegal magical devices. He had come to examine the artifact they’d found by the old creek and to lay the groundwork for a third visitor who would be arriving soon. The Acquisitor paid for a room and asked not to be bothered. He came and went at odd hours, speaking to no one after his arrival.

Derrin’s frustration and anxiety was bubbling to an unbearing peak, and grumbling over beers in the evening wasn’t enough to relieve it anymore. He needed answers, before the tension erupted. So one morning, Derrin waited outside the pub with a group of other village men.

When the Acquisitor stepped outside, Derrin caught the stranger by the shoulder. “You’ve been skulking about for days now! What are you doing to make our families safe?!”

The stranger grabbed at the hand on his shoulder, and Derrin was surprised to find his farming hands outmatched by the Acquisitor’s lean muscles. As the Acquisitor forced his hand off, Derrin swore the stranger’s eyes flashed a wicked silver, like some storybook fiend. He nearly choked, feeling a wild need to call on his companions for help– but then the stranger softened. “This will be over soon, Elder,” the Acquisitor said, voice rumbling.

Taken aback but uncowed, Derrin pressed him, “Will it? Because I haven’t seen you do anything. None of us have!”

“I wish I could settle your worries here and now,” the Acquisitor apologized, pitching his voice to carry to the whole group, “but it’s not the time for action yet, and I’m not the one to take it. But let me ease your worries. First,” he raised a finger, “the magicker will not appear again until the Waking Night.”

Derrin furrowed his brow. “How can you be sure?”

“Think on it. The night the magicker appeared, both moons were full in the sky, weren’t they?” the Acquisitor said. Derrin thought on it, and then nodded. “Well, there are some kinds of magic that work best on those kinds of nights. This magicker intends to practice one of those. Therefore, you’ve nothing to be afraid of until then, and you can tell the others of the village that as well.”

The wrinkles in Derrin’s forehead eased. “That’s the first. What’s the second, then?”

“The second is that before that night, an Investigator will arrive. And that’s when the time for action will come.”

“Well,” Derrin said, more bewildered now than belligerent, “who’s this Investigator, then?”

The Acquisitor shook his head. “I’m not sure which one will be coming, yet. But the Investigators are the highest ranked of the field agents for the Bureau, and they’ve dealt with far greater threats than a lone magicker on the road. Don’t you fear, Elder. Like I said: This will all be over soon.”

***

It was mid-day before the Waking Night, though, and no Investigator had arrived in town. The Acquisitor kept to his room, and the grim excitement in the pub was becoming impossible to contain. Derrin was beginning to nurse dark, violent thoughts of what they ought to do if nighttime came, and no Investigator had turned up.

Finally, one of the stablehands nearly split the door off its hinges, bursting in. “Someone’s come,” he blurted out, “and he’s heading straight here!”

Derrin bought the stablehand a drink, patting his back for bringing the news, and gossip buzzed. Just a few minutes later, the doors to the pub opened again.

The new stranger struck an unforgettable figure. A regular Human folk, to the relief of those put off by the Acquisitor half-breed. Young– no more than thirty, and that was being generous. Curls of unruly red hair escaped under a black stocking cap, contrasted by vivid blue eyes. He dressed for the summer heat in an unbuttoned vest and shorts, but the jacket tied up around his waist had an insignia familiar to their previous visitors. There wasn’t a single weapon visible on his well-muscled person, nor a lick of armor, and no more accessory than a copper pendant about his neck. More than anything else though, his smile captured the attention of the onlooker immediately– wide and unrestrained.

“Well, hello! Good afternoon to the lot o’ ye,” the man greeted the staring assembly. “Pardon me intrusion, but would one o’ ye be the head o’ this village, or dinnae mind tellin’ me where I can find ‘em?”

An uncomfortable murmur passed between those gathered at the long tables. The pubkeep took it on himself to answer: “Take a seat, and I’ll send for the headwoman. Investigator, is it? One of your people has been about as well, said he was to be told when you arrive– I’ll send word to him as well, right?” At the Investigator’s nod, the keep motioned at the stablehand who had brought news of the arrival in the first place, who gulped down his drink and took off for the door. Turning back to the new arrival, the pubkeep asked, “What do you drink?”

“Jes’ water’ll do me, but have ye got anythin’ fer a meal? Been on the road since last mornin’ and I’ve a mighty hunger buildin’.” The Investigator slid onto a stool by the bar, dropping his pack on the next seat over. Quick negotiations ensued for a night’s lodging and meals, and ended with the Investigator passing over eight iron bits for a room key and a hearty slice of bread smothered with cheese, figs, and cold pork slices.

The Investigator must have felt his every bite being watched, but no one was brave enough to approach him and ask questions– Derrin included.

The Investigator had enough time to tuck into his meal before the village head arrived, a wiry and hawkish woman with a wild mane of gray hair over a dark green shawl. The first read of her face upon seeing the Investigator was open doubt bordering on disdain. She barely feigned deference as she greeted him– “Investigator?”

The Investigator wiped crumbs from his mouth and stood. “Aye, that I am. The name’s Allen West.” He offered a handshake, which the woman accepted.

“Deanna Baker,” the woman said..

“Headwoman Baker, then. Appreciate ye comin’ out here to speak wit’ me. If ye dinnae mind, let’s head upstairs fer a private-like chat, aye?”

Derrin watched them head up the stairs, a rising sense of discontent puffing up his chest. He exchanged glances with his tablemates, and rose. This was their village– they deserved to know what was going on, didn’t they? Creeping up the stairs, they lined up outside the door to the Investigator’s room, listening through the crack.