Witch Bane (4 page)

The villagers stared at him through dull
eyes, their faces showing none of the relief Sebastian expected
from those freed from the Red Guard yoke. He drew closer and they
shifted away as one, a retreating wave of silent uncertainty. He
spied the claret that still dripped from his forearm and dropped it
to his side, backing away slow with an understanding nod. Sword at
his hip, blood on his hands, he, no doubt, appeared to them no
different than the soldiers that lay at his feet. He didn’t look
the hero.

“
You must forgive the people their
rudeness, young man,” a graveled voice spoke from within the
crowd.

Sebastian glanced to see who’d spoken. He
spied a broad-chested man slipping between the clustered villagers,
moving them gently from his path. Streaks of white colored his
unkempt hair, in stark contrast to the deep bronze of his leathered
skin. The man stepped from the ranks, his loose and tattered tunic
failing to hide the muscled bulk beneath. He moved with an easy
grace that belied the years etched across his tanned face.
Sebastian held his ground as the man came to stand before him. A
few feet of empty space remained between them. For all his
appearance, the man was no farmer or small village grunt.

“
They believe you’ve done them no
favors by slaying the witches’ men.” He gestured to the gathered
mass that looked on, their expressions as lifeless as they had been
when Sebastian arrived. “They fear more will come to take their
place, and the blood of those lost will be repaid a
hundredfold.”

Sebastian glanced at the old man’s hands and
noticed the trails of thick scars that marred his calloused
knuckles. He then gazed to his eyes. There was a casual confidence
that lurked in their swirling gray depths. It reminded Sebastian
somewhat of his father. Though the man might well swing an axe for
a living now, he doubted the burning cords of wood at the village
edge were the only things to have met the edge of his blade. He had
the look of a soldier who’d taken other’s lives and felt no shame
for having done it.

“
And you, sir? What do you
believe?”

An easy smile broke on the man’s face. “That
you’ve done us a right deed.” He proffered his hand, closing the
distance. “I am Jonas Hern. By what name are you called, son?”

Sebastian shook the man’s hand and smiled at
his solid grip. “Sebastian.” After a moment, he slid his hand free
and motioned over his shoulder. “My father, Darius, and a small
caravan of refugees trail behind me. They were set upon by the Red
Guard two days march into the wastes and have lost many of their
men and supplies. They seek sanctuary. Will you have them?”

“
It is not my place to say.” He
glanced back, deferring to an elderly man who had drawn closer
during their conversation.

Gnarled and bent, walking with the aid of a
roughly hewn wooden cane, the man stared at Sebastian from beneath
bushy eyebrows that looked like snow upon the mountain peaks. He
cleared his throat. “Do you mean to fight the witches, boy?”

Sebastian chuckled at the old man’s
directness. “Rest assured, sir, when my day comes, my hands will be
stained red with the blood of many witches.”

A near toothless smile greeted his answer.
“Then the One bless you. You and your folk may stay as long as you
will, with my leave, as well.” The elder turned away and hobbled
back to the gathered throng. He muttered something too low for
Sebastian to hear, but the villagers scattered before him, making
toward the piles of dead with reluctant steps.

Sebastian shook his head at the man’s
reference to the One; meaning the one god, Athuul. Raised far from
civilization, his father had told him of the common people’s custom
to believe in the One, the supposed maker of all creation. He was
said to be the whole of the world, the source from which all life
and magic sprung, and to He all life would return.

It was the people’s belief that Athuul
waited for the recent dead in the afterlife, ready to pronounce
judgment on those who came before him. Those who had been true and
faithful to the doctrine laid out by his church—as they proudly
proclaimed—would benefit with a place at the god’s side, becoming a
spirit of eternal life, wanting for nothing ever again. Those who
had gone astray of his word would suffer his wrath forever, doomed
to never find peace in the hereafter.

Sebastian’s father scoffed at the idea, as
did most people who could channel magic or understood its nature.
There was a deeper sense of spirit among those folk that ran
contrary to the belief in gods. Darius had seen far too much
cruelty in life—both in the name of Athuul and otherwise—to think a
god could be powerful and omniscient enough to create such
diversity of character yet have no sway over it save for some
scribbled words upon an ancient text. It seemed cruel to him that
such a being could exist yet care so little for what it had
created; a wayward father unwilling to protect his children.

Since Sebastian had seen no proof of such a
god, one way or the other, he disbelieved, as well, choosing to
follow his father’s faith in the deeds of men. If there was
goodness in the world, it had to come from man. Besides, given the
blood he’d shed, and intended to shed, he doubted Athuul would have
much use for one such as he. Better for his conscience to
disbelieve now than worry about what might come after death.

He said nothing of his beliefs or
opinions aloud, though, Darius teaching him not to openly question
the faith of others. If nothing else, it was considered
rude.
Believe as you will
,
his father had always told him,
but keep
it to your damn self, boy
.

“
How many of your people survived?”
Jonas asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“
A few dozen, perhaps, mostly women
and children, but they are not my people; just wanderers we
stumbled upon. My father and I would take shelter only until first
light, and then be on our way. We could use some traveling
supplies, as well, if that’s not too much trouble.” Sebastian
stared off toward the square. The people of the village set about
gathering the corpses, lifting them with gentle reverence.
Encumbered with their dead, they made their way toward the burning
wood pile at the outskirts of the town. The pyre already sat
waiting.

Jonas nodded. “It shall be arranged.”

“
Thank you.” The evening breeze
stirring the scent of death, Sebastian turned away and headed off
to wait for his father.

Jonas stuck close to his heels. Once they
had cleared the huts and stood in the open grass, far from the ears
of the village, the man set a staying hand on Sebastian’s arm. “A
word, if I may?”

Sebastian nodded and stared off into the
darkness, seeking the distant dust of the approaching caravan.

“
I spied the blade you used to slay
the soldiers. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it did not appear to be
steel that forged its edge.”

“
You would be right, it isn’t. It was
a gift from my mother.” He said no more.

“
And the flame that set light to the
wood pile? Was that also a gift from your mother?”

Sebastian turned and met Jonas’s eyes, his
own narrowed. “Of a sorts.” His hand settled restless upon his
pommel. “Speak your mind if you would have answers.” The man had
clearly appraised him, as well.

Jonas nodded, taking a short step back. “I
mean no offense, young man. I only wonder how one of your kind has
escaped notice by the witches for so long?”

“
It’s easy to avoid someone who
doesn’t know to look for you.”

The man gestured back toward the village.
“It seems they’ll know soon enough to start, by my guess.”

Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t intend to make
it easy.”

“
I could help you with that.” Jonas
leaned in as he spoke.

Confirming his earlier belief that there was
more to the man than simple appearances portrayed, Sebastian let a
smile color his lips. “How exactly would a farmer, trapped in a
tiny, backwoods village at the edge of the wastes be able to assist
me?”

Jonas chuckled, the sound like crumbling
stone. “Come now, boy. You’ve a shrewd eye in your skull. You took
my measure the moment I stepped from the crowd, and you can’t deny
it.” He glanced about before continuing. “I stand with the
resistance, against Council rule. There are others—many of them—who
feel the reign of the witches should come to a violent end; the
sooner the better it will be for all. We could use a warrior such
as you.”

“
To do what? Lead an army of untrained
rabble against the witches?”

The man stiffened. “We have our own witches,
and even a few of your kind who’ve escaped being culled in the
Council’s murderous crusade,” he huffed. “We are the realm’s only
chance at being free, and your addition would go a long way toward
helping us achieve our goal. We intend to move against the Council
before the year is out.”

Sebastian stared a moment, meeting the man’s
icy glare. He could see the determination in his eyes. He’d likely
meant every word, however lofty. Sebastian drew in a slow breath
and shook his head. “Your quest is a fair one, Jonas, and I wish
you luck, but I have my own to accomplish. I see no quick
resolution to the witch rule and cannot spare the time.”

Jonas shook his head in turn, as if to
deflect Sebastian’s refusal. “Come and meet Elizabeth before you
set your mind. She was once of the High Council and now stands
against them. This is no fool’s errand we are about, I assure
you.”

“
I don’t question your intent or your
dedication, but my path has been nineteen years in the making and
can wait no longer.” He set a hand on the man’s shoulder and felt
the steel tenseness beneath the haggard cloth. “I’m sorry, Jonas.
Should I survive the trials ahead, I will seek you and your
resistance out after. Regardless, success at my task only serves to
help your own cause.”

“
Is this to be your final
word?”

Sebastian nodded.

Jonas sighed and proffered his meaty hand.
“Then I will say no more of it.” There was a note of frustration in
the man’s tone.

He took Jonas’s hand and gave it a hearty
shake, the rumble of the caravan carrying to his ears through the
growing darkness.

“
Tend to your charges, boy, and bring
them before the elder when you’re ready. You and your father can
stay in my home, such as it is.”

“
I wouldn’t wish to
impose—”

Jonas raised a hand, cutting him off. “No
imposition at all. It will be a long night tending the pyre, and
I’ll likely be at it until well after dawn.” He started off toward
the fire that darkened the sky. “Find me there when you’re ready to
retire, and I’ll show you the way.” He gave a backward wave and
slipped into the shadows of the nearest hut.

Sebastian watched him for a moment, and then
turned back to the approaching caravan. He could smell the dust it
kicked up on the breeze, its scent far better than the one that
seemed to permeate the village: the stench of the dead. He matched
his father’s wave and drifted out toward the lead wagon. He steeled
his mind and pushed away the thoughts of what tomorrow would
bring.

Morning would come soon enough. He needn’t
worry about it until then.

Four

Deborah Altus sat upon the white throne, her
hands clutched to the ivory curls that made up its arms. She looked
at the darkened spots that stained the pale skin atop her hands,
thinking them ants upon the desert sand, squirming with each clench
of her fists. She spread her fingers and then bore down upon the
arms of the chair, watching as the spots danced. There were more of
them than she remembered. She stared at the blemishes for a moment
longer before the scuff of feet drew her from her thoughts.

She glanced up to see Carrance Darby, the
Red Witch, approaching the dais, a disheveled soldier a distance
from her heels. Deborah met her fellow witch’s eyes, the brilliant
blue of them seeming to glow against the maudlin crimson of her
robes. There was a glimmer of darkness in the brightness that did
not bode well. The deepness of the lines, which worried her
expression, told the same story; her words would not please her
ears.

Deborah encouraged Carrance to speak. “Tell
me your news before it hardens upon your face and leaves you
looking so bitter.”

The Red Witch gave the slightest shake of
her head and turned to the solider, motioning for him to speak.
“Tell the White what you did me.”

The man drew forward with hesitance. His
gaze on the steps, he gave a curt bow and cleared his throat with a
sharp cough. “We set upon a caravan headed into the wastes; lawless
vagrants fleeing your rule.” His voice was quiet, the words little
more than a whisper. “As we went about our duty, we were
attacked…by a warlock. He—”

Deborah stood in a rush, silencing the man
with a hiss. “A warlock? Are you certain, soldier?”

He nodded, not raising his face. “Our
captain tried to bring him down, but she was slain, as was most of
the squadron. Only a handful of us escaped with our lives…” he
glanced up with widened eyes. “...to bring you this news.”

“
Was he alone?”

“
I saw but one companion, though I can
give little detail, cloaked as he was and out of sight until it was
nearly done.”

Deborah stared at the solider, and he looked
once more to the floor, his boots shifting against the tiles. She
knew she’d get nothing more of value, so she shooed him away. He
left in a hurry. Deborah waited until he shut the door before
turning to Carrance.