The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

Dawn came, the rising sun inexorably spilling red light across the crumbling skyline of Eichen. It brought light but little else to the dead city’s silent streets. Neither those who served the King, nor those who answered to Volkard, met the new day with any feeling other than dread. The lack of birdsong to greet the morning alarmed all those who remained within Eichen to observe it. Further investigation revealed that no animal that was not tied up remained anywhere in the city. The baser species had a far better sense of the wrongness in the air and what it portended than those whose sapience should have served them better. Horses and other beasts of burden, whether tethered or kept prisoner behind gates and walls, periodically struggled with what held them, snapping at nervous keepers that tried to handle them. They kicked wildly at the doors, filling the air with their own particular screams.

For those who still wished to see tomorrow, it was time to leave.

Men-at-arms, acting on the orders of the Duke, swept through the area behind the safety of the palisade wall. They were thorough, going from house to house, banging on doors and even kicking them in when no one answered but the door was locked. Those who were found inside were given five minutes to pack and get out into the streets, where they were eventually gathered together outside of the headquarters of the army. They numbered about a hundred, mostly men with invested interests in the town: artisans, blacksmiths, carpenters, and cobblers who had too much to take and no faith that when they returned they would find what they’d left behind.

The Duke himself read a royal proclamation to the assembled crowd. Everyone, excepting only those who were members of the Order of Saint Heinrich and a select group of others, would now leave the city under the escort of the King’s men. There were to be no exceptions among the civilian population. Arguments and protest were ignored. Eichen’s lingering citizenry offered token resistance in the form of shouts and yells, but those quickly lost their vehemence. It was obvious that even the soldiers were afraid, and that fear spread quickly to the people. All realised that any delay in their evacuation might prove disastrous.

The civilians suffered themselves to be formed into a rough column by the soldiers. Once assembled, the vast bulk of the King’s men led them from the palisade gate. Their goal was the city gate simultaneously as close to the palisade and as far from the old Temple District as possible. The Duke of Horitz watched them go from the balcony of his palace, empty now. Once the ranks of nervous soldiery and sullen civilians vanished from sight, he turned and made his way downstairs. His booted feet echoed through the pristine, deserted halls of the palace. His hand periodically played with the star stone that hung around his neck, tapping it against his steel breastplate.

The ground was damp but the rain had stopped. A score of men stood to attention before him. They were a dozen men-at-arms and eight dismounted knights from his own household, men the Duke had fought with and knew he could trust. They looked nervous, but remained quiet. Like their master, each wore a star stone about their necks, hidden under their armour, a sensible precaution that their Duke now quietly adopted too. These were gifts from Eisengrim, taken from the men of the black bull’s party whom they had slain in the woods. The rest of the Duke’s men would be waiting by the gate, alongside the hunters.

The Duke did not draw his sword as he ordered his men to turn about and follow him. He did not hurry either, for he was getting on in years, and there would be plenty of time for effort shortly enough. The red sun glinted off of his perfectly polished armour as he led the small column down the winding narrow streets of the inhabited part of the city, giving him a ruddy, sanguine aspect as he strode under his King’s bright banner. They marched in silence, save the uniform thumping of their boots on the cobbled streets of this lost place in their human world.

They reached the gate that led out directly towards the devastated centre of Eichen. The thick oak doors lay open, locked in place. Another ten men-at-arms and a quartet of archers waited for them, mingling with a motley bunch of people who stood wearily to attention at the Duke’s approach.

Duke Armin offered Prince Siegfried a salute, which the young royal returned. He offered another to Eisengrim the Hammer. The old bull returned the gesture with a solemn nod, clasping his old friend’s forearm.

“They’ll see us coming,” Gerda warned, suppressing a yawn.

“Can’t be helped,” said Siegfried, drawing his cloak over his shoulders. He looked down the empty streets that waited beyond the open gates. He had a helmet he’d borrowed from one of the knights the Duke had sent away tucked into the crook of one elbow. “At least this way, we can see what we’re doing. Fighting in the dark is a terrible idea.”

“It’s a pity you couldn’t find Janus,” said Klara, just a little louder than she needed to.

“It’s a pity you were shit at teaching him to behave,” the dwarf snapped back.

“Enough,” growled Eisengrim, silencing all conversation around him.

The Duke ordered his soldiers into line, his men-at-arms with their spears and kite shields up front, while the knights and archers followed behind. Ignoring his own safety, Armin took his place at the front of his boys. He gave Gerda a couple of minutes to get ahead of the small column, hopefully to get into position in secret, before the rest set out after her. At Siegfried’s behest, the other Hunters found themselves walking at the front of the column beside the Duke. Siegfried knew something of command. Even without the nose of a runner, the Prince could smell the fear of their men. They needed to see their country’s protectors walking ahead of them in quiet confidence. Eisengrim approved.

“What are your orders for how we shall deal with these Ashen?” the Duke asked the Prince and the old bull, just before they set off.

The pair exchanged a look. They had spent much of the previous night in discussion over particulars, and their separate adventures in the case, and had breakfasted together at the inn with the rest of their fellow Hunters before coming here.

“My objective is the engagement and slaying of the black bull Volkard,” stated Eisengrim the Hammer.

“Our objective,” cut in the Prince, without any hostility. “To answer your question, sir, this action must be carried out as quickly possible. It seems that most of the Ashen may be recent converts who only joined for fear of being murdered. They won’t stand once the fighting starts. Those that do must be killed or cowed as quickly as possible. If they run, let them. They don’t matter. Nothing does, if we can’t kill Volkard. The only other person we might need to worry about on his side is that archer of his. The rest of the Ashen can be discounted.”

The Duke nodded and passed the orders to his men. Siegfried fixed on his new helmet. Klara did likewise. They set off for the Temple District at a brisk march, the impact of their booted feet echoing along the cobbled street as they headed for the dark centre of the necropolis that was Alte Eichen. Silently, Siegfried hoped the sound of their approach unmanned a few score of Volkard’s waiting fanatics.

*

They’d left Kurt alone in the basement of the inn, just as Eisengrim had promised the night before.

He sat on a chair in a dim corner, the only light provided by cracks in the heavy cellar door nearby. He watched the blades of light slowly trace their way across the floor by his feet as the daylight hours passed. He had been left candles and some matches, but had done nothing with them. Shelves packed with dried goods surrounded him. Salted meat dangled from heavy hooks along one long wall. Vast barrels of beer and schnapps lined another wall. There was wine down here somewhere too, apparently. Kurt had wandered about the basement, after he was certain the hunters were not coming back to check on him, and had not found any other means of escape than the cellar door, and the doorway leading back up into the kitchen. The former was held tight by a stout chain and lock that rattled on the outside when Kurt had tried it. The latter was bolted too, and would not budge an inch. Kurt’s hands and shoulders were still raw and aching. There was nothing down here that he could have used to open the cellar door, so he had begun throwing himself at it, pounding it with his big fists, and smashing his shoulder against it over and over. The steps leading up to it had been narrow though, and the angle of the door made it awkward to really put any pressure on it. The door had rattled and shook against the impact of his considerable bulk but it, and the chain, held. Kurt had retired to his chair just before dawn, crumpling down onto it, his soft chest heaving, his clothes heavy with his sweat.

“I failed,” he sighed aloud. It had not just been to himself, then, but to Martin, so close now in this dead city and yet so far beyond his father’s reach. It had been to Sabine as well, long dead but always there, just at the back of his thoughts, always in his dreams. They were his family, and they were lost. Kurt looked at his hands. In them he had held the world: Sabine alive and warm, and then dead, and cooling. They had held his squirming, howling son, and he had thought terrible things he would regret forever after. Everything was gone now, but his son, and in the next few hours his boy might die, or be carried off by a monster. It was a bitter thing, he reflected, that the best he could hope for was to join Martin in the frozen prison of the Sanctum for the rest of his days. Worse still, it was not because of anything Martin had done, but because of things people thought he might do. And here Kurt Bauer sat, alone, silent, and utterly helpless to influence anything. He had been enraged at first, and had vented impotently on the doors. When they refused to yield to his fury, he’d turned his attention to the goods stacked everywhere. Piles of ruined food, burst sacks, and spilled grain littered the floor. Now though, he was tired and resigned to despair. There was so much here that he could use to drown his sorrow. To numb the pain, for there was so much of it just then. The urge to rise, to find something to break open one of the barrels of schnapps or beer was almost overwhelming.

But Kurt did not do so. He stayed where he was. He kept himself there, waiting for the ache to go away. Though feeling hopeless, some part of him would not sink into despair. Not yet. He held himself without knowing why. Was he hoping for a miracle? Everyone was gone. He was alone in a dark basement, with no one but memories of his lost love to keep him company. He dwelt on this thought, and at last realised why he would not give in to despair or drink just then.

Sabine and Martin would never forgive him.

Time passed at a crawl. What was going on out there? Kurt had heard the steady, rhythmic tread of a column marching away, and knew that by then the hunters must be off to the Temple to find Volkard and Martin. Had they reached them yet? What would happen when they did? What was going on in Alte Eichen above him? He could only guess vaguely at events with dread. His life now was so very far away from the one he and Sabine had dreamed of when they’d married. The dreams of youth for them had been simple, but even that had been too much to ask of whatever kind of gods dictated the lives of people on this earth.

Kurt stared at the floor, almost desperate enough to kneel and begin begging for mercy and grace from a source long silent in his life. He did not move. He could not do it. If they were even real, and influenced things such as a thousand different priests said they could, then the gods were nothing more than monsters. People begged forgiveness from them, but from where Kurt Bauer sat, and what he had seen of the world of late, it seemed that it should be the gods that begged forgiveness from the people, instead. How could anyone have faith in such ideas or creatures was beyond him. No, he would not pray. He had done just fine by his family without it, and he’d rather be damned than sink.

Something rattled. It caught Kurt off guard, pulling him suddenly from his milieu. It had been metal. Yes, definitely metal. The chain? He looked up at the cellar door, and saw that the light coming from the gaps in the wood was blocked. They shifted. Someone was testing the chain.

“Kurt? Are you down there?”

Bauer was on his feet in an instant, his pain and exhaustion forgotten, his heart in his throat. He was at the base of the steps in an instant.

“Janus! Janus, yes! Yes, I’m here!” Kurt replied. He was laughing. There were tears in his eyes and he didn’t care. He pressed his hands against the cellar door, and could just spy fog grey fur in the gaps. “You came back!”

“Of course I did,” came a nervous laugh. “You’re stuck with me a little longer, friend.”

Kurt laughed and sobbed together. This was happening too fast for him to truly believe.

“The other hunters are here!” he called up through the door, pressing against them with his bulk.

“I know,” Janus replied. The shadows disappeared briefly. When he spoke again it further away, and he sounded annoyed. “I snuck near the palisade last night and overheard the guards on the walls talking about them. I’d have gotten here sooner, but I had to make sure no one else was around, or that you weren’t being marched out with all those other people the Duke evicted this morning. You still got your star stone?”

“Yes!” The man answered, fighting the sense of bitterness that threatened his sudden elation. “Eisengrim let me keep it! He says once they deal with Volkard, they’re going to bring Martin back here, and then they’ll be taking both of us to the Sanctum.”

“I don’t like that plan,” the runner cackled back. He sounded somewhat far away now, and Bauer could only guess what was happening until he heard Janus let out a laugh of triumph.

“What are you doing?” Bauer called out.

“It’s alright, Bauer! I found it!”

“Found what?”

The runner’s shadow swept over the gaps of the door, blocking out the light.

“One of the big axes the innkeeper has his people use to chop up the firewood,” came the answer. “Kurt, get away from the door!”

Kurt obeyed. There was a savage howl from outside and then bit by bit, the heavy oak door began to quake, and shatter…

*

Janus was panting, his chest heaving by the time the work was done. The shattered door lay in splinters on the inn’s ground floor, the stubborn chain that had kept it closed against Kurt’s battering glittering in the faint light. The fat farmer scooped Janus up into a bear hug and began laughing. The runner could not help but join in for a second in spite of himself.

“Kurt! Come on, put me down! We haven’t much time!”

Janus thrust the massive axe into Bauer’s hands after Kurt set him back down.

“My horse is tied up in the stable. There’s none else about, so we’ll have to share. Is there food down there?”

“Aye,” Kurt said with a nod, as he tested the weight of the large axe. It wasn’t the sword he’d been trying to master, but he could make it work.

“Right,” said the runner, looking about quickly. “We’ll fill a couple of sacks or something with as much food as we can, so we won’t need to stop other than to rest the horse along the way.”

“What’s going on out there, any ways?” Kurt asked his friend.

“Looks like Eisengrim’s taking all the hunters and some soldiers to the Temple to fight Volkard and his Ashen,” was the grim answer. “It’s going to be a slaughter, Kurt.”

“That sounds insane! How do they think that might work?”

“I don’t know,” Janus said. He rushed down into the pantry that had been Kurt’s former prison. The man followed him back down. He began to grab and stack salted meats, breads, and cheese together as Janus searched for sacks to carry them in, all the while outlining his plan in a tone that was only slightly above excited barks.

“I don’t care either. I’ve been in hunts where things went wrong. Everything becomes chaos. You’re too afraid to notice anything other than what you need to see to stay alive. Battles must be the same, so what we’re gonna do is circle Eisengrim’s column, and leave the horse far enough away to the rear of the Temple that it might not be caught up in whatever magic Volkard uses to fight them. We’ll find an opening in the rear, and I’ll sneak in and grab your son. Then we run west and don’t stop until we hit the coast. How does that sound?”

“That sounds dangerous,” Kurt replied, pausing. “Are you really sure you can do that?”

Janus snarled at him. He stalked towards the man, and Kurt jumped as the runner slammed two large haversacks on the table before him.

“Don’t you dare start doubting me now, Bauer! Not after the night I’ve had. I can do this. I know I can do this. Do you trust me to, or not?”

“Of course I do, Janus. I want my boy back more than anything, but that doesn’t mean I want you getting killed doing it.”

This silenced Janus. He stared at Bauer then, looking confused and furious all at once.

“I’m coming with you,” Kurt said then, meeting his comrade’s gaze. “We’ll both go into the Temple to find my boy. I don’t care how good you think you are, or how useless you think I might be in a fight. He’s my son, and if nothing else I can watch your back. Understood?”

The wolf-man was quiet for a moment, his sharp eyes boring their way into the man’s, seeking weakness, or false bravado. Bauer stared back, quiet and firm as a rock.

“Alright, Kurt. But you do what I say at all times. Do you understand?”

Kurt nodded.

“Then let’s pack our things and get out of here. They’re about to start killing each other out there, and we need to be ready when they do.”