Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
And more than that, the cackling, malicious hunger of the spirits of fire still surged through her veins.
Even as she remembered the touch of the burning blade, she looked down, the livid scars already healing themselves as the spirits of earth lent her strength, absorbing her wounds into themselves. How could this be, she thought to herself? She was no shaman. She knew nothing of spirit-craft, save what little Gwenna had taught her in these last few, fleeting weeks.
But no; she knew that something had changed. Something of Gwenna had rubbed off on her this night. Something had awoken within her, some latent talent that perhaps Gwenna had suspected had been there all along.
And perhaps Virginie had suspected it too.
The spirits clamoured about her; those of the air, the earth, the fire, the water. All desperate to help, eager to lend her their strengths. The surge of power was exhilarating. It was a torrent, rushing through her unbidden, scary, yet she didn’t want it to stop. Couldn’t make it stop. People that could see and commune with the spirits were few and far between in this land, in this time, thanks to the persecution of l’eglise. Now, after the awakening brought on by her bond with Gwenna, the spirits clustered about her, swarming, like moths about a flame.
There would be a price for this, she knew. She had learned that much, at least, from Gwenna these last weeks. There was always a price. And she knew that she was nowhere near strong enough to give the spirits back what they would want from her when this was all over.
But images of her friends, of Gwenna, being carted away by the Malleus just kept flickering through her mind. She could not allow them to come to harm. She had given them a promise that she would see them safely out of the country, out of harm’s way, to wait for the return of their lord.
No. Whilst this power flowed through her veins, she would do what she could to aid them.
Come what may.
She stalked from the clearing, leaving the flaming tree, the melted sword and the charred and smouldering corpse behind her, her eyes full of a simmering rage and hunger that wasn’t entirely her own.
***
The sun was beginning to rise up over the horizon, its rays turning the sky a burning orange, just as they came into a village. Voices, as the Malleus men woke an innkeeper and commandeered his lodgings.
They had travelled throughout the night. But now they were to stop for rest, it seemed.
All about the wagons, the villagers had begun their morning duties; making their way to market, collecting water from the well. All their usual errands. The black wagons in the centre of the village must have stood out like sore thumbs. The dark iron bars to the rear of the vehicles, spaced far enough part that any villager might easily see through them to the prisoners within.
Yet not a single person dared look within. Not a single soul out of all the French villagers showed even the slightest bit of interest. They went on their way, studiously avoiding glancing even once in their direction.
Gwenna closed her eyes. This was what fear brought; the fear of damnation, of persecution, would cause even the kindest hearted of people to overlook the misery and suffering of others for the sake of their own comfort.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Time passed. It seemed as though the Malleus men were the only ones to have proper lodgings within the building; the prisoners being left outside in the wagons. But then voices, the jangling of keys.
A Malleus man, then another, the duo garbed in that menacing, long black overcoat and wide-brimmed hat of the witch-hunter. One man raised the keys, opening the barred door to the wagon for the first time since leaving the village in the south.
Like a shot, Pol darted towards the exit, an angry hound that had been held back and now let loose. Barging past his fellow captives, he threw himself at the closest Malleus man, hoping to overwhelm the duo by sheer surprise and ferocity.
But these men were veterans of a hundred such raids. Even as Pol lunged, the keymaster sidestepped, Pol running into the gloved fist of the second man. The impact smashed into his face with a crack, the youth falling backwards into the wagon to sprawl on the floor, blood trickling from his bust lip. With a snarl, he made to rise again, but the click of a crossbow being levelled cause him to pause.
“Stay where you are, cochon.”
Pol spat, glaring venom at the pair.
“Do it. I’d rather die than be captive to such cowards as you.”
The Malleus man that held the crossbow in one hand cocked his head to one side.
“Oui?” He moved his arm in one broad sweep, till the point of the crossbow bolt lay pressed gently against the fair-haired head of Larcia who sat closest to the entrance of the wagon. The girl’s eyes widened in fear as the man’s finger tensed on the trigger. “Does your friend here feel the same way, I wonder?”
A moment’s pause, the air filled with tension, then Pol’s head slumped in defeat.
“Now get back onto the bench,” commanded the Malleus man. “
S’il vous plait.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the youth rose and backed away to resume his place, wiping away a trickle of blood from his chin as he did.
“Tres bon.” The man turned now, his eyes on Gwenna. “Now you, come with us. His holiness wishes to speak with you.”
The red-haired shaman nodded, slowly, not wishing to antagonise the men and endanger her troupe further. To the worried stares of the cowed troupe behind her, she departed the wagon.
The iron bars behind her shut with a resounding clang.
***
The room was dim anyway, being a basement room; however, the curtains were also drawn over the high windows so that barely a ray of sunlight penetrated the gloom. Where thin rays did manage to pierce the darkness, they illuminated motes of dust that drifted lazily through the air from the ancient furnishings and the bed that nestled, unused and threadbare, in the corner.
The leader of the Malleus had acquisitioned a room rarely used, it would appear.
The door closed behind Gwenna and she was suddenly alone with the man. He didn’t even deign to look at her, sat behind a heavy-looking mahogany desk in the centre of the room, his cold eyes fixed on the piece of parchment upon which he patiently wrote with a scratching quill.
“Please,” he told her, eyes never leaving the paper. “Sit down.”
She made to resist, made to stand in defiance, but something in those words caused her to move involuntarily and sit on the chair before the desk, directly opposite him. She frowned, as she did so, for there was something intensely familiar about the feeling that came over her.
At first, she could not place it. But then the man looked up, fixing her with those eyes, so cold and grey, that seemed to bore deep, deep into her very being. She shuddered as she finally recognised the feeling for what it felt like; glamour. Yes, that mesmerising stare, so similar to the glamour of the spirits of air.
But how?
“You intrigue me,” he told her. “You’re different to my usual prey. And I’m not sure I know what to do with you…”
She shook her head, summoning her willpower to shake off the effects of his hypnotic gaze, before replying.
“How so?”
“Tell me, how many witches do you think we capture and try every year, my child?”
She wrinkled her nose at the thought.
“I wouldn’t care to guess,” she spat. “But from what I’ve been told, your trials are frequent and your witch-hunters prolific…”
The man smiled, the look not entirely suiting his gaunt face, not sitting there well.
“Oh, oui, oui; all true. But you misunderstand me, my dear.” His eyes twinkled, darkly. “How many
real
witches do you think we capture each year…?”
A look of fresh horror must have crossed Gwenna’s face at the words, for the man before her laughed.
“You… you
know
that these people,” she stammered out, “these innocent people that you capture and condemn to death… you
know
all along that they’re not even what you make them out to be?” Her green eyes glistened with a mixture of growing hatred and horror. “You bastard.”
“Innocence?” The man laughed again, the sound chilling the shaman to the bone. “You speak of innocence, child, as if such a thing exists. There is no such thing. Read the good book, my dear.” He gestured over to a thick and leather-bound tome that sat upon the desk, emblazoned with the gilded form of a cross upon its cover. “Mon dieu,” the man smiled, “but that book makes things easy. For who can live up to such exacting standards? It all but gives me licence to condemn and kill whomsoever I wish.”
Again, the shaman shuddered at the pure and utter disregard for life that she heard in his voice. He continued.
“But, to answer your question; oui, I know, of course, that the majority of those we capture are nought but scapegoats. Not innocent, never innocent, I’ll hasten to add. But certainly not the witches or sorcerers that we make them out to be…”
“You’re evil,” the shaman whispered. “All of you.”
“Oh no,” smiled the man. “My brave men of the Malleus out there, they don’t know the difference. How could they tell a man who has the gift of sorcery from one who has not? No my dear, they’re merely zealous. Merely misguided.” His eyes narrowed, pits of merciless, inhuman cruelty. “It is only I that is evil, my poor girl.”
“What are you?”
“What I am is of no consequence, child. It is what
you
are that is of interest to me right now.” He sniffed again, the nostrils of that slim nose flaring. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I could smell the sorcery upon you. I can taste it. It tastes ripe, well-developed. Full and flavoursome, not like the weak and watered down magicks I’ve encountered elsewhere in this land. There’s something… foreign about it.” He narrowed his eyes, cocking his head in curiosity. “Where are you from, child, you and your companions?”
“From the north,” she told him, eyes defiant.
He studied her, his cold stare piercing her lies with frightening ease.
“No, my dear. You are not from the north. Not from the north of this land, nor the north of any other land.” He smiled, and for the first time she noticed how predatory he looked. As though she were no more than prey to him. “Trust me; I’m well-travelled.”
She stifled a laugh.
“Well-travelled, you say? And where-to have you travelled, hmm? Have you ventured beyond the veil? Have you crossed the boundaries of time and space? You have no idea what we’ve seen, where we’ve been.” She stopped herself, face suddenly cold as he leant forwards, a gleaming curiosity in his eyes.
“Do go on…”
She had fallen under his spell, again. That intense gaze loosening her tongue without her even knowing it.
“Magic,” she whispered. “Glamour. You’re trying to beguile me with a spell. You’re no less than the very same that you yourself hunt down. You’re no different from us.” She furrowed her brow in distaste. “And that makes you even worse than I thought before; you’re a killer of your own kind.”
He snorted.
“My own kind? Girl, you know nothing of my kind. But I digress.” He bored into her with those eyes once more. “Tell me more of what you’ve seen. Tell me more of whence you came…”
She shook her head, her anger now steeling her against the bombardment. Her green eyes flashed with inner fire as she summoned her own reserves of will, ready to change the rules of the game despite the ache that yet beset her.