Witch Bane Read online

  A second roar rose up in the square as the villagers screamed in terror, their burdens dropped unceremoniously to the ground. The Red Guard shouted them down and herded the people together, forcing them to their knees with barked commands and the points of raw steel. Once the villagers were subdued, all but two of the soldiers broke off and took the bait, heading toward the smoldering piles of wood. As Sebastian expected, they spread out and made their way through the maze of huts, their eyes locked on the flames.

  As soon as they moved past his position, Sebastian slid from the roof on the side furthest from the wood pile. He ran low between the buildings, staying out of the line of sight between the remaining Red Guard in the square and those who had gone to examine the pile. Without a sound, he closed on the square until he stood just feet from one of the guards. Sebastian settled his grip on his hilt. It was time.

  Little more than a shadow, he darted out from behind the hut and thrust his sword into the first soldier’s side. The blade slid between the man’s ribs and ripped through his lungs on its way to his heart. The soldier grunted deep in his throat and stiffened, collapsing as though he were boneless once the blade was pulled free.

  The second guard spun about and stared wide-eyed as Sebastian went at him. He died with the look of surprise etched upon his face, Sebastian’s sword driven through his mouth. The point burst from the base of the soldier’s skull, spraying the dirt behind with blood.

  Though the cowed villagers had seen neither of the Red Guard fall, their eyes downcast for fear of the soldiery, the nearest of them cried out as they felt the shower of warm fluid rain down atop them. Sebastian hissed for silence and slipped back into the shadows, heading toward the remainder of the Red Guard.

  The soldiers stood warily about the burning wood, clearly none of them having come to the conclusion the fire was nothing more than a distraction. Sebastian restrained a laugh as he closed upon them. The witches had been too long without a threat to their reign. Their soldiers’ edge had grown dull so far from the forge of battle. They spent their time killing children and peasants and had become soft with no true enemy to test them. For the Red Guard gathered oblivious about the wood pile, that failure of discipline meant their death.

  Sebastian was on the first before any of them knew he was there. His sword ripped through the man’s back, severing his spine. He struck down the last without so much as having to raise his sword in his defense.

  He shook the crimson remnants of their lives from his shimmering blade and waved it above his head in hopes to highlight it in the flickering light of the fire. He knew his father would see and would bring the caravan forward. The villagers in the square had only just begun to realize what had happened, and were getting to their feet in a slow daze as he walked back toward them, returning his sword to its sheath.

  He pulled his hood from his face, slipped off his mask, and approached the villagers with his empty hands in the air before him. “People of Deliton, I mean you no harm.”

  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.

  “I presume you’ve acted upon this already?”

  “Of course.” She feigned offense, setting her hand upon her breast. “The moment I learned I sent a dozen of my finest squadrons out, but I suspect we’ll not find this warlock waiting for their arrival.”

  Deborah nodded. “Was this the work of Elizabeth?”

  “I can think of no one else.” Carrance drew closer, climbing onto the first of the stairs. “She’s had enough time to grow a few abominations of her own and teach them a trick or two. They can hardly be a threat so soon, but if word spreads of her success it might embolden the populace to surrender more of their tainted boys to her, in hopes they’ll grow to be their savior.” Carrance laughed. “It is a fragile hope that rests upon the hands of the clock set against them. My Red Guard will beat these dreams from their heads.”

  Deborah dropped heavily onto the throne, fingers entwined in her lap. Staring once more at the spots, she sighed. “Though time is in our favor for the nonce, it is but a fleeting advantage. For all her vaunted morality, Elizabeth will cross the same lines as we to retain her youth, her vitality, even if only in secret. We cannot count on her fading away as we would a human enemy. She will be a thorn in our side for many years to come, Carrance, unless we prune the stem.” She leaned back and pulled her gaze from her hands, meeting her fellow witch’s. “Drown the outer villages under a rain of your Red Guard. Raze Mynistiria to the ground, if you must, but find that warlock and make an example of him; a very public example that cannot be missed. Be sure you’re there to do it yourself.” She waved the Red Witch away, who turned on her heels to comply. As the woman neared the door, Deborah called out, “Ask Gracelin to come, and send Victor to me. I would have a word with him, as well.”