The streets were quiet but there was noise and firelight emanating from the town square so I ran to it as fast as I could. As I neared I heard gunshots and I froze suddenly. I’d heard guns before, of course, but never fired in anger. This was clearly no training exercise.

After a few long seconds curiosity and loyalty to my father took hold of my body and my legs pushed on mechanically. My face was screwed up with trepidation and anxiety and fears ebbed at the corners of my eyes but I dared not cry before I knew what was happening. I was just so worried for my father; I’d never seen him scared before. And I’d certainly never seen him hold a sword.

I burst into the town square expecting people to look as I had been running, and in quiet Bielefeld people typically walked. No heads turned my way, all eyes were focused on the centre of the town square and to my horror I saw my father there with a group of five other men armed with messers and pitchforks. One man carried a shovel. I recognised all of them. They were my father’s and aunt’s friends, and they stood before my aunt. Her long brown locks had been shaved entirely and she was now grotesquely bald. Her wrists were manacled behind her back and she cowered behind my father.

Before my father stood the two witch hunters I had seen before, and another holding a cane in one hand and a wheellock pistol on the other. The first two witch hunters had also drawn their weapons, though they had chosen melee weapons, probably due to their proximity to my father and his friends. One of the men carried a sword, dual-edged and much longer and more ornate than my father’s, and the other carried a large hammer. A boy not much older than I also stood beside them, though he carried no weapon.

I couldn’t see who had fired the gun previously, and there were no bodies strewn across the pavement. Perhaps it had been a warning shot, fired by one of the men on either side to try and intimidate their opponents. If the intention was to scare one party off then it had failed, as they were currently exchanging insults. I couldn’t hear their words over the din of the watching crowd, but it was clear that they were working themselves into a fervor. It makes sense to me now: being in the grip of an uncontrollable zeal is the easiest way to face battle, especially battle where one’s side is clearly inferior.

I pushed through the crowd in an attempt to get closer to the fighting. I was too scared to participate, but I wanted to be near my father. He knew what he was doing, he always did, and I certainly didn’t.

As I slipped between idle legs my father roared terrifyingly and broke ranks, rushing at the witch hunter carrying the ornate sword. My eyes widened in horror as his opening swing was parried by the witch hunter before him. My father swung again, but the witch hunter parried that also, this time blocking with such strength that he wrenched the messer from my father’s grasp.

His friends burst forth, but the second witch hunter smashed one in the face with his massive hammer and he collapsed to the ground instantly, his face a bloody mess. The other man who stood beside my father and carried a sword swung it at the first witch hunter, catching him unaware, but the boy jumped forward to protect his master. The slash caught the boy right on the face, dividing it with a deep gash. He collapsed to the floor.

The third witch hunter fired a shot from his pistol, killing the man bearing the sword, and the remaining three men fled, taking their pitchforks and shovels with them. Much of the crowd joined them in fleeing, but many also stayed to watch events unfold. The pistol-armed witch hunter holstered his gun and jumped forward to grab Aunt Katherine by her manacles to prevent her from escaping in the confusion.

I finally reached the front of the crowd as the sword-bearing witch hunter stepped up to my father and put the sword against his throat.

‘No!’ I shouted, inaudible against the din of the crowd to ears deafened by gunfire.

There was no dramatic hesitation, no opportunity for last words. The witch hunter simply forced the tip of his sword into my father’s vulnerable throat. He fell limp to the ground, blood draining from his neck like loose thatch during a rainstorm. ‘No!’ I screamed again, this time rushing forward into the conflict.

I didn’t hope to achieve anything, I simply could not think of anything else to do. One of the adults in the crowd saw me and grabbed my arm, stopping my momentum. The unexpected jolt jerked tears out of my eyes and I screamed unintelligibly.

The witch hunter passed his sword to the man with the hammer, who stowed it on his back. The now-disarmed witch hunter approached the still body of the boy and placed two fingers on his neck. He shook his head, and the witch hunter with custody of my aunt sighed sadly. Then he kicked the back of Aunt Katherine’s leg so that she fell to her knees, and the swordsman stepped up to her. I was screaming uncontrollably, but that didn’t stop him from raising his sword into the air.

And beheading my aunt.

It took the giant swordsman only a single fell strike to execute her. Her lifeless head rolled towards the crowd, its face an expression of horror stained with tears. I struggled and strained in anger against my bonds, the horrors of the day mounting additively and leading me into a state of utter shock.

Finally I broke free of my custodian’s grip and burst towards my father’s body. I scrambled on all fours to his corpse, shaking his shoulder in a futile attempt to stir life back into him. The stillness of his face, previously so full of vigor and motion, sent waves of wild aches through my body. The silence that had taken my mouth upon escaping the crowd was replaced by a single, silent plea.

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‘Please no,’ I whispered.

The witch hunters were looking at me, and I looked up at the one who had killed my father. He had dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes, and he was staring right back at me. He still brandished his basket-hilted sword, wet with the blood of my father.

I gritted my teeth in anger and reached for my father’s messer, which lay uselessly beside his immobile corpse, but the witch hunter deftly kicked it out of my reach. I screamed a single, unending vowel, and charged at him with my fists, but he simply clubbed me on the head with the hilt of his sword. I fell to the ground, dazed.

‘What is your name, child?’ he asked me. He looked to be the same age my father, perhaps slightly older, and I noticed partially-healed scars over much of his visible skin. I didn’t want to answer as I was wracked with hatred and misery, but I was helpless and on the edge of consciousness so I responded automatically.

‘Karl.’

The witch hunter studied me for a few more seconds. By the way the the others waited for his command I could tell that he was the leader. He turned to the blond man with the hammer and said, ‘we have to go.’

The brown-haired rider then grabbed me under the arms and carried me to his horse, which was being held with several other horses and a carriage by two other men on the far end of the courtyard. I protested violently, kicking and thrashing, but the man was clad in thick leather armour and I had all the muscle of a 12 year old child. He sat me on his horse and mounted it behind me, holding the reigns in one hand and steadying my left shoulder with the other.

‘Hold on,’ he said to me, ‘don’t make me bind your arms.’ I ceased my struggling. There was really no point continuing my futile efforts against his superior strength. He kicked the horse into a trot, and it was all I could do to shoot my father’s lifeless body one last sad glance before my abductor took me away from the town square. The other horses were mounted by four of the other witch hunters. The fifth horse pulled the carriage, and was steered from a seat at its front by an old man. The clique increased their speed to a canter. Soon we had passed through the built up parts of Bielefeld and found ourselves on a road a short distance from the town. It was very dark away from the lights of the city, and I knew that we were already almost as far from home as I’d ever been.

‘Let me go!’ I said upon that realisation. ‘Let me go!’

My captor called his companions to a halt and dismounted. He helped me off the horse as I had no idea how to get off its back without injuring myself, but then I pushed myself away from him. The others stayed on horseback.

‘Karl,’ he said, and I regretted answering him so easily back in Bielefeld when he’d clubbed me on the head. I rubbed the bruise and realised that a sizeable bump had already formed near my hairline. ‘My name is Godke.’ He waited for me to respond, but I folded my arms and glared at him. I wanted to run away, but I was scared of getting hit on the head again so I restrained myself to a less physical form of defiance. ‘I need you to cooperate, Karl,’ he continued.

‘Why did you take me?’ I asked angrily, and the others turned to face us.

‘Did you see a boy who was with us? He was about your age.’ I didn’t respond, but Godke took that as an answer in the affirmative. ‘He was our acolyte. He was killed tonight. Do you know what an acolyte is, Karl?’

‘It’s like an apprentice. Or a disciple.’ I said in a rude tone, eagerness and bravado momentarily overpowering my will to keep silent. The word was in one of the stories I used to read with my father, so I could spell it too. Not that that would have been particularly useful at that moment.

‘Yes it is. Very good, Karl,’ Godke said. For a moment I thought he was going to ask me to be his next acolyte, but perhaps he sensed that I would have refused and said nothing.

‘We need to find somewhere to stay for the night,’ said the old man on the coach.

‘Herford is only a short ride from here,’ suggested Godke, turning to face the others.

‘Maybe we should travel for the night and get away from Bielefeld,’ said the blond one with the hammer.

‘I think we scared them, Gunnar. Herford is a Free Imperial City, we should be safe there,’ replied Godke, and that seemed to settle the matter. He helped me back onto his horse and he led the horsemen to the northeast.

I thought my captor might decide to talk to me as we rode for more than an hour, but his only interaction with me was to keep his hand on my shoulder until we arrived at a small town that I presumed was Herford. I cried during the journey as I realised that my home was fading into the distance, and potentially the memory of my father with it, but things were happening too fast for me to wallow in self-pity. I knew not what I’d do if Godke let me go, as I no longer had family in Bielefeld, so I was lost and confused. I had little choice but to stay with Godke, but I didn’t have to like it.

The riders billetted their horse in a stable. Godke talked to the stablemaster, though I was too far away to hear all that they were saying, though I gathered that we had entrusted the care of the carriage to the stablemaster also, perhaps for an increased fee. The carriage belonged to Godke personally, from what I could tell, and the horse that pulled it was also his, and was named Ros.

After sorting out shelter for the beasts, the group became concerned with their own accommodation. Eventually they made their way to the local tavern. It was late and the pub was closed, but the tavern master greeted us and led us into the second floor where my captors paid several coins each for use of their lodgings. The tavern master quickly disappeared and each of my captors claimed a bed.

By that point I had calmed down. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and sleep, perhaps forever. Godke had generously rented a bed for me and I fell into it, wishing that the others would blow out the candles already. The rage and sorrow that had previously thrived within me was gone, leaving a hangover of numbness in its wake. Upon sighting Godke’s face the anger flared up but only for a few seconds as I had no energy left upon which to sustain it. I had no more tears left to cry. Despite all that, sleep was slow to arrive.