A man walked through Cherrytown with a quick yet calm gait. The street was full of noise and people, yet there was very little hustle or bustle to be seen. There was a sense of fear in the air as pedestrians huddled together and urgently traded hushed words with concern and worry plastered on their faces. Armed guards could be seen moving about, doing their best to maintain order as they ushered the civilians to evacuate away from the town center. Saying that big trouble was afoot was putting it mildly. The estate of the local head of state at the heart of town had been attacked and everyone with a functioning pair of ears knew about it. The incident was still developing and was so severe that Duke Gale Gervais – who coincidentally wasn’t on the premises – put the entirety of Cherrytown in a state of emergency. Every single peacekeeper available was mobilized to try and resolve the situation.
And yet, this one outsider headed straight towards the source of that emergency with all the urgency of a housewife doing chores. None dared to stop him or warn him away. Just the opposite. Guards and civilians alike stepped aside to make way the instant they noticed his presence. Some would kneel and others clasped their hands in prayer, but every man, woman, and child on that street watched in silent reverence as the armored figure walked past. There was no need for introductions or ceremony. Though they didn’t know the stranger’s name and couldn’t see his face, his peculiar outfit told them all they needed.
The knight-like figure had metal plates on his legs and arms, yet entrusted the vitals in his chest to a plain-looking leather jacket. A heavy, dark green cape rested on his broad shoulders and draped over its back. Its hood was pulled over a full helm that obscured all of his features save for what little could be gleaned through its wide horizontal visor. A flared pauldron was strapped to his left shoulder, across the chest and over that hooded garment. Several heavy-looking pouches dangled from his belt alongside a simple scabbard with the handle of a longsword sticking out. This seemed to be a back-up weapon given the size of the sheath he held in his left gauntlet. That thing was massive, almost as long as he was tall and plenty wide, forcing him to hold it parallel to the ground lest it scrape along the ground. If the tapered blade within was truly as large as it seemed then even calling it a greatsword seemed insufficient. Forget two, most people would probably need three hands to wield that thing effectively. And yet, if the stories were true, this man would only need one, for he was more than just a wandering warrior or some random adventurer. The cross-adorned crest on his unarmored right shoulder left no doubt as to who he was, where he was going, or what he would do when he got there.
This man was a witch hunter, and he was on a mission from the Church of Dawn to hunt some witches. More specifically, the rogue mages that were the cause of Cherrytown’s state of emergency. One might think he should get a move on before anyone else got hurt, but he judged there was no need to rush in this particular case. Indeed, as he turned a corner and approached the hastily set-up perimeter, he could see that the situation was contained. Not resolved. Not under control. Contained. The guards had set up barricades around the site of the disturbance using carts, stalls, crates, and anything else that could give them some cover. They had at least thirty crossbows at the ready should any of the suspects attempt to flee. Sure, there were plenty of spells that could deflect such basic projectiles, but at least one bolt in that sustained volley was sure to find its mark, and that was usually more than enough to do the job.
However, while the suspects probably weren’t going anywhere, the same could be said of the peacekeepers. Their only means of advancing on the duke’s estate was a straight, wide, and exposed garden path, beyond the large open gate just ahead. They had so far made one attempt to charge through and were forced to immediately pull back by the magical bombardment. There was no doubt they’d be slaughtered if they tried to take the place by force, not to mention the witches had hostages according to the few servants that managed to flee. No demands were made just yet, so the two sides were currently at a tense standoff.
In short, the situation was contained just as the witch hunter expected it to be, so there hadn’t been any need for him to rush. That didn’t mean he intended to delay his involvement further, so he quickly identified the commanding officer at the scene. Though neither his uniform nor equipment set him apart at first glance, he was yelling orders with vigor and the men around him obeyed without question. If he wasn’t formally in charge, then he deserved to be, and the hooded knight did not hesitate to approach.
“Watkins? Watkins! Blast that man!” the commander cursed while looking around. “Phillip! You see where Watkins went?!”
“Yes, Cap’n!” the man next to him replied while saluting. “He said he was going to the mages’ guild for help!”
“He what?! Prophet preserve me! Go find him and drag him back here! By force, if you have to!”
“Uh, you sure that’s–”
“Now, Phillip!”
“Yes, sir! R-right away!”
The grunt ran off and left the officer to shake his head. Pitting mage against mage never ended well for anyone involved. History made that clear enough. Getting the guild’s heavy hitters involved was the scorched earth option – a last resort. The officer was certain he had a few other things he could try as he turned his attention to the blueprints splayed out on a nearby crate. He then got the sudden, overwhelming feeling that someone was hovering over his shoulder.
“Fancy place.”
“Gah! What the hell?! Oh.”
The guard captain reflexively turned around while reaching for his rapier, but stayed his hand once he identified the owner of the voice that startled him.
“A witch hunter?”
“What?! Where?!” the heavily armed stranger looked left and right. “I hope I can get an autograph!”
The officer was clearly irked by this terrible attempt at levity during a crisis, but managed to maintain his cool.
“… Brother Tacitus, I presume?”
“Ha! My reputation precedes me, does it?!”
“I was warned about you, yes.”
Witch hunters were even fewer in number than wizards, and the church kept their not-so-secret weapons on a fittingly tighter leash. Brother Tacitus wasn’t in Cherrytown by coincidence. He was here on a mission, and the relevant authorities were told what they needed to know and not a word more. The captain was better informed on average since he was supposed to act as the hunter’s minder, yet remained unaware as to the reason he came to Cherrytown. That and his timing was suspicious, if fortuitous.
“You’re here two weeks early,” he remarked.
“Oh, my mistake. Want me to leave and come back later?”
“I’d rather you stayed. If anything, we could really use your help. Ah, I’m Captain Edward, by the way.”
“Well met, Captain By-the-way.”
“… Okay, I walked into that one.”
“Did you?” Tacitucs leaned left and right as if inspecting the officer. “You, eheh, you seem to be standing perfectly still from what I can tell.”
“Will you cut the crap and get to work?!” the officer’s frustration boiled over.
“Hah. Ha-ha-ha!” he chuckled merrily. “Very curious choice of words, Captain By-the-way.”
“And why would that be?!”
“Because my job can indeed be summed up as slicing up pieces of shit.”
He raised the sheathed greatsword in his left hand and tapped its pommel against his chest. Edward couldn’t help but groan and pinch his nose. He’d been warned Brother Tacitus had the attitude of a bad jester and he thought he could deal with it, but that was under normal circumstances. At present, life had served him up the biggest security breach to ever happen on his watch, so he really didn’t need the lip. At least the witch hunter had nothing else to add. Though he kept snickering under his helmet, he walked off in the direction of the closest barricade with the obvious intent of dealing with those brazen witches. That was the good news. The bad? He was headed right for the front door in full view of half the manor and completely on his own. Captain Edward was utterly flabbergasted once he realized this. Surely an elite warrior should know better than to take a stroll through no man’s land, right?
“There’s no cover for eighty meters, Brother Tacitus!” he called out. “Are you sure a direct approach is wise?!”
It was no exaggeration to call a frontal charge suicidal, hence why the guard was looking at those blueprints. They were architectural schematics for the manor. The document was normally kept quite secret, but the duke was quick to hand it over since it could prove instrumental in saving his family from the renegades holding them hostage. It had been a sound call, given that Captain Edward now knew of a secret escape tunnel that the witches probably weren’t aware of. He was planning on using it to send some of the rangers under his command to infiltrate the building. That was why he was looking for that Watkins fellow earlier, but now that Brother Tacitus was here it made no sense why he wouldn’t use it. Surely it was preferable than making himself a target for a bunch of mad mages.
“Wise? Oh, most certainly not,” the man agreed, yet did not break his stride. “However, I am not as clever as you are. Heh. Us witch hunters aren’t allowed to be clever. Hahaha!”
He stopped at the edge of the guards’ perimeter, in view of the enemy but beyond their effective range. The crossbowmen huddled around couldn’t help but take a few wary steps away from the imposing figure as gripped the handle of his main weapon and pulled it free of its container in one fluid motion. Still gripping the scabbard, he raised it high in the air and then thrust it down. There was a heavy thud as the pointy metal fitting at the lower end of the sheath buried its way into the cobble-paved ground with a loud crack. The witch hunter simply left it there, standing upright in the middle of the road like some kind of flag pole.
“We are the blades of the Dawn,” he spoke loudly as he resumed marching. “We do not hide, cower, or deceive, for we are the righteous. We approach the witch and the heretic directly, honestly, and inevitably as the new day. We do so, carrying that same promise of a fresh beginning!”
He stretched his arms out wide as he stepped into the danger zone, his hand still clenched around his weapon’s handle. The blade pointed skyward, its immense weight seemingly as light as a feather in its wielder’s grip.
“Harken to me! Cast aside thine wicked ways and repent, or face judgment at my hand!”
Those words, shouted loudly and boldly, were clearly directed at the rogue wizards holed up in the manor ahead. The question of whether they could hear him from all the way over there was quickly answered by a lump of conjured flame. It flew out of a second-story window and drew a straight line towards Brother Tacitus’ helmet, only to fizzle into harmless sparks when a lightning-quick swing of his blade sliced through it.
“Judgment it is, then! Haa-hahahahaha!”
This was nothing like the giddy chuckles he showed the Captain. It was a maniacal laugh filled with malice and mirth in equal measure. None who heard it had any doubts – he was going to enjoy this. He gripped his greatsword with both hands and brought it low, parallel to the ground with the tip pointing backward. His upper body leaned forward and he kicked off with such speed and force that the cobbles he was standing on were knocked loose and sent flying for several paces. The spot he was standing on then erupted in crimson flames as a rogue pyromancer’s spell was a split-second too slow. Mere moments later the wide stone-paved path leading up to the duke’s manor was enveloped by another explosion, this one aimed right in front of the charging knight. He dashed into one end of the conflagration and burst out of the other, undeterred even as he trailed flame and smoke. If anything, his pace was somehow even quicker. He was covering that eighty-meter stretch of exposed ground with such speed that it truly beggared belief, his every step cracking the flat stones underfoot.
Yet, no matter how inhumanly fast he moved, he could not outrun lightning. Or so the sky-witch on the roof hoped as she conjured a crackling bolt from the blue. Her assumption proved correct as her spell found its mark in the next instant, only to bounce away and strike a nearby hedge instead. Naturally, this left the aeromancer utterly flabbergasted. How was such a thing possible? She’d heard tales of the witch hunters – everyone with the gift had – but only now it dawned on her that those rumors might not have been as outlandish as they first seemed. Never in all her years had she imagined she’d actually see someone parry lightning.
There was, of course, a perfectly reasonable explanation for this seemingly impossible feat. Brother Tacitus saw her head poking out from above the roof’s lip, overheard her chanting an air spell, anticipated what she would do, and brought the flat, lead-lined side of his greatsword in front of his face. The magic-repelling metal then did the rest. It really wasn’t that complicated a technique in theory, but to execute it in a split second, at such a distance, and without breaking his freakishly rapid stride? That was what seemed impossible, yet none of the renegades could refute the reality of what they witnessed. To make matters worse for the witches, they were rapidly running out of time.
“Hah! Hah-ha! Hah-ha! AAAAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Though only a few seconds had passed since the hunter started moving he had already covered half the distance, cackling maniacally all the while. Panic set in, and the three outlaws tasked with keeping the authorities at bay scrambled to prepare more spells.
“Suh- Summer spark and solar glare, make heat spike and flame strike!”
A ginger-haired man hiding inside a second-story window stuttered out a self-taught incantation, and another wild conflagration enveloped the knight. It was a direct hit that achieved just as much as the first two explosions – absolutely nothing. Though it looked impressive, the spell lacked the punch of a formally trained pyromancer on top of being slow to invoke. It was still plenty to cook an entire squad of guards, but against that witch hunter it seemed as effective as splashing water on a brick wall. The outlaw’s twin brother fared even worse. He shot a red beam of concentrated heat from his own vantage point, but his hands were shaking so much it missed entirely. Brother Tacitus didn’t even need to dodge that one, which was fortunate since the sky-witch was about to strike again.
“Aero dyna-deftos!”
A chant with actual words of power and not some cobbled-together rhyme – he was right to be wary of her. Witches that had received proper guidance before they turned from the Dawn’s light were far more dangerous than those that fumbled in the dark from the start. She was also adaptable. She saw her lightning didn’t work so she changed tactics and tried the next best thing. An invisible ball of magically-charged air fell upon the charging knight like a hurled boulder, perfectly aimed to achieve direct impact if he maintained a straight-line trajectory. The witch hunter couldn’t see it coming at all, but his experience and training allowed him to anticipate it much like her earlier attempt.
The knight decided to respect his opponent’s strength and actually put some effort into dodging this one. He thrust his sword down at the ground in front. It pierced the cobblestone path and sank deep into the hardened soil underneath. The knight used his weapon as an anchor, digging out a meter-long trench as his tremendous momentum came to an almost immediate dead stop. The ground a few paces ahead was cratered moments later as that invisible ball of compressed air struck and ruptured with thunderous force. Even Tacitus might have been knocked off his feet by the resulting winds if he hadn’t already braced himself with his weapon.
“You missed! AHAHAHAHA!”
The air stopped shaking a second later, the booming immediately replaced by a brazen taunt and yet more laughter. The witch hunter sprung forward with another explosive step while simultaneously pulling his greatsword free. It was too late to stop him from reaching the manor now. He covered that wide-open eighty-meter distance from the main gate to the front door in only five or six seconds, and not even the sorceress on the roof could muster a third spell in so little time. The sky-witch also had the misfortune of making herself a priority target. The hunter approached his prey in the same manner as he did the building – using the most direct route available. Though, that didn’t mean kicking down the heavy front door and charging up the stairs. While certainly the best option for most people, witch hunters weren’t ‘most people.’
What Brother Tacitus did instead was leap up to the second-floor balcony just above the opulently tall entrance, some three meters off the ground. His free hand reached barely high enough to grip the edge of the parapet with enough force to crack the masonry. That one arm was all he needed to swiftly pull himself up and over. His target peeked down at him from the rooftop, three whole floors away. She pulled her head back just in time to avoid something the knight had thrown in her direction. Good reflexes, but she misunderstood his intention. He wasn’t aiming for her face. It just happened to be in the way of his throw. She looked up at the hurled object and just barely got a glimpse of it – a spherical crystal bottle filled with bright yellow dust – before it burst open midair.
*PAKINNNNNN*
The entire rooftop was enveloped in a blinding flash of light and a high-pitched ringing sound. Fortunately for the sky-witch, she had cast her gaze skyward a bit too quickly and her lids shut closed on reflex as she caught a sudden eye-full of sunlight. It was a coincidence her opponent would find quite amusing since that celestial radiance was also what triggered the alchemical reaction that would have blinded her completely. But, since she got lucky and blinked, her lids shielded her eyes from the worst of it. Rather than blind her completely, the flash powder merely blurred her vision and filled it with some brightly colored spots. It cleared up after she stumbled away from the flat rooftop’s edge for a few seconds, but by then it was too late.
*Crunch*
“Heeeeere’s Tacky!”
That noise and voice sent shivers down her spine as her attention was drawn to the armored gauntlet gripping the edge of her perch like a vice. There was no doubt that the witch hunter would pull himself up to her level in moments, though how he got here was a mystery. She could not fathom how he managed to climb those tall, flat walls in the blink of an eye, nor did she have the luxury of time to speculate. With only moments to spare, she hopped back to put a bit more distance between them and channeled a spell to try and send him tumbling down. She was certain this one would work. This particular incantation had a short range, but was a wide cone that even this monster wouldn’t be able to deflect or dodge.
“Aero pyta-protos!”
She thrust her metal wand forward and finished the chant just as the witch hunter put one armored foot on the roof. He was in no position to evade, but that mattered little when he had a better way of dealing with this. The upside of facing a traditionally-trained witch was that they were predictable. Knocking an enemy off a high ledge was a classic aeromancer strategy, and indeed quite effective. The howling gust of wind the sky-witch just conjured would surely sweep the hunter away once it hit, especially with his unsteady footing. Therefore, all Tacitus had to do was keep the conjured wall of air from reaching him and, having read the renegade like an open book, he was already holding the solution.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Think fast!”
A quick arm movement saw the witch hunter scatter a handful of grape-sized ball bearings into the air in front of him. The wind spell hit the tiny spheres of lead and its power was immediately blunted from overwhelming gale to stiff breeze. The sky-witch had no idea what the hell just happened and just stared blankly in disbelief. It was as if she was silently demanding a refund on all those years she spent studying at the temple. She didn’t manage to snap out of it before Brother Tacitus lunged forward and landed a rib-cracking punch to the gut. The renegade’s face twisted in pain as she folded in two and blacked out. She might’ve withstood the blow if she was at full strength, but had exhausted too much of her inner breath. Not that she would’ve won, anyway.
“Aww, she’s all tuckered out!”
The man kept running his mouth, though he made sure to grab the witch before she fell and hurt her head. He didn’t want to kill these renegades if he could help it. Ending lives wasn’t what the Church of Dawn was about, especially when it came to spellcasters. Humans with the gift were rare and there was a chance, however small, that even these outlaws could mend their wicked ways. So, Brother Tacitus carefully laid the unconscious woman down and got another vial from his utility belt. This one was as thin as a child’s finger and held a clear, heavy liquid. He carefully popped the stopper and dripped a few drops on the witch’s upper lip, just under her nose. The fluid evaporated in moments and the resulting vapor floated straight up her nostrils. That would keep her out cold for at least a few hours – plenty of time to clear the house.
Incidentally, now that he got a close look at her, Brother Tacitus noted she was not at all what he expected. The witchfolk were outcasts that hid in remote areas and seedy underbellies where they performed all kinds of heretical rituals in a misguided attempt to attain power, influence, and wealth. As such, renegade mages typically looked scruffy, filthy, and disfigured. This one was nothing like that. She was a fine young lady in a cute and frilly maid’s uniform. Was she a treacherous servant of the duke? Or perhaps an imposter that infiltrated the premises? For these people to seize control of the manor so quickly and suddenly, they surely had inside help. Perhaps that secret tunnel that Tacitus noticed on the Captain’s schematics wasn’t so secret after all.
A thought then occurred to him. Removing his left gauntlet, he placed the back of his large, calloused hand on the woman’s forehead. She was sweating a bit too much for how cool her skin felt, though that might’ve been his fault. He then grabbed her wrist and checked her pulse. Her heart thumped oddly quick for someone taking a long nap. Finally, he held his armored fingers in front of her face and watched the metal fog up. He pulled his hand away and saw that the moisture was taking its sweet time evaporating. This ten second examination confirmed his suspicions – this woman wasn’t a criminal, but a victim of enthrallment. This explained a great deal, and more importantly confirmed a vital piece of information.
A water mage was in the building.
“Oh, those silly splashy boys and their pranks,” Tacitus mockingly shook his head. “I suppose I’ll have to get serious now.”
Though he said that, his movements were utterly devoid of urgency as he walked over to the edge of the roof he climbed over earlier and dropped to the balcony underneath. On his way down he made sure to retrieve his greatsword from where he’d stabbed almost hilt-deep it into the outer wall. There were no nooks or crannies in the wall that he could grab hold of, so he had used the flexible slab of metal as an improvised foothold. He gripped the blade in his right hand, cracked the knuckles on his left, took a deep breath, then resumed the witch hunt with his usual vigor.
“Come out and play, heretics! HAAAAH HAHAHAHA!”
He made a man-shaped hole through the fancy metal-and-glass door connecting the balcony to the manor’s second floor. The two hotheads who tried to burn him about thirty seconds ago could not have gotten far after they gave away their positions. Sure enough, after practically exploding through several doors in a row he found the first one. Now there was the classic witch look Brother Tacitus expected, and with the traditional skittish attitude to boot. The way the staff in his hands quivered as he tried to chant his spell was almost adorable.
“Summer spark, heed my–”
*DONNN*
“Urk!”
A quick step and a swift blow to the side of the head with the flat of the greatsword was enough for an instant knockout. It was a much harder takedown than the gut-punch, so there was no need to administer the sleeping potion. And even if he did wake up sooner than anticipated, his type were the easiest to deal with. The hunter’s cloak and leathers were regularly soaked in heat-resistant chemicals that made him virtually immune to anything a bunch of self-taught matchsticks could throw at him. He might have to be more wary if they were formally trained like the one on the roof, but even then he wouldn’t struggle much against cowards like this. At least the other ginger-haired flame-flinger proved to have more brains than his twin brother. He threw his hands up in surrender the instant Tacitus tracked him down to the bedroom he was hiding in. The witch hunter deeply appreciated his cooperation and expressed his gratitude by tossing him on the soft bed after he headbutted him into a coma.
Brother Tacitus then fell completely and utterly silent. His relentless, gleeful cackle cut out so abruptly that one might think he just vanished into thin air. Indeed, that was precisely what the last two witches in the cellar were hoping for. The pair were horribly mismatched like night and day. The man was short, hunched-over, balding, and sickly. One of his hands gripped an impossibly smooth stone sphere and his other held a napkin so filthy that its original color was forever lost. The woman next to him stood tall, straight, and fit as a bull despite the many wrinkles on her face and the gray, clumped hair that hung down to her shoulders. She nervously gripped a staff so dark, rough, and gnarled it looked as if she just plucked a random branch from a dead tree. Both wore simple, unassuming clothes that would make them seem like simple commoners if not for the spell focuses and a general sense of scumbaggery.
“Think the twins got him?” the man asked in a whisper.
“Oh, please,” the lively crone rolled her eyes. “Those two couldn’t get rabies from a mongrel.”
“What about your– Hack! Koff!”
The man’s throat added a fresh stain to his napkin. This one was a rich brown that might make one wonder if his digestive tract worked backwards, though the pair had bigger concerns than gross fluids.
“Quiet, you dolt!” the hag hissed at him.
“You know I can’t help it,” he quietly whined. “I’ve been moving dirt and stone for like, an hour now.”
Magic was a double-edged blade. The more a wizard pushed themselves, the more their body would suffer. For earth mages like Harland, their spells caused an internal build up of a grit-like substance. It dissolved naturally on its own, but could be dangerous if too much of it built up over time. That hard cough and disgusting discharge was the first sign he was pushing himself too hard. The next step was vomiting mouthfuls of what was essentially acidic mud. If he kept casting spells after that he’d see his skin turn pale, dry, and hard. That was the final stage. Unless he received immediate medical attention the petrification would spread inward and it would only take minutes for him to turn into a lifelike statue of himself, minus the ‘life.’ That danger was still far off at present, so he tried to focus on the more immediate threat to his well-being.
“What about your thrall?” he finished his earlier question.
“Done for,” the wrinkly woman grumbled. “Hoped she’d last a minute at least.”
“Wasn’t she a named mage?”
It was the informal term for those who held formal titles as Senior Magi of the Ordo Mystica.
“She was.”
“You sure?”
“She was strong. I doubt I would’ve been able to dominate her if we didn’t poison her first.”
The woman in question was Eliza Bromley, also known as Sky Dancer, and she would hopefully learn to stop visiting shady bars by herself after this.
“So, that’s really a witch hunter up there?”
“Seems like it.”
Though he didn’t know for certain – their allies’ shouted warnings couldn’t be heard clearly this far down – it was hard to imagine that anything but the church’s boogeymen were capable of taking down three mages in just a few minutes. Even then, neither of these two had any idea what to expect. Witch hunters were shrouded in mystery and hearsay. Everyone knew what they looked like since the dark green cloaks and massive swords were an instant giveaway, but very few were aware of what exactly they were capable of. These two apostates certainly weren’t. For all they knew the bastard could just materialize in front of them and gut them like fish before they could react.
“Wait, that’s it,” the crone got an idea. “The hunter has to be a mage, right? Or at the least uses a lot of magic items.”
“I’d imagine so. What of it?”
“That means I should be able to feel him out.”
She jiggled her gnarled staff for emphasis.
“Ohh! That’s– Hack! Koff! Sorry.”
The crone shook her head and focused on the old staff in her bony fingers. It was a little something-something she made herself using some tricks not taught at any academy. Well, not officially, anyway. The focus looked like the branch of a dead tree, but was in fact a pruned sapling that had been fed copious amounts of her fey-touched blood. Growing it was a long and painful process, but the outcome was an item that unlocked additional abilities not normally available to sanctioned water mages. One of its properties allowed her to temporarily increase her sensitivity to magical energy so she could detect both wizards and enchanted objects with a great degree of accuracy. So long as she focused on it, not only would she be able to locate the witch hunter, but she could then make him choke on his own blood without having a direct line of sight.
Her mystical sonar steadily expanded outward. The first thing she sensed was herself and the dirt-mover next to her. Up next were the little ‘presents’ she left in the only hallway leading down to the basement. The powerful relics hidden in the duke’s underground vault were the next blip. Stealing those had been her objective, but she had no idea how to actually reach them. She would have mind-raped the information out of the duke if the lucky bastard hadn’t been away fucking his mistress or whatever it was those rich pigs got up to in the middle of the day. It therefore fell to Harland – the bundle of nerves next to her – to dig the place up. He’d made a tremendous amount of progress given the gaping hole in the floor next to him. Unfortunately, the idiot made too much noise, alerted the servants, and now the entire town was up in arms. Seriously, what was the point of infiltrating through that old escape tunnel if things were going to turn out like this anyway?
Lena chased those frustrating thoughts away and continued scanning the premises. The next presences she noticed were the two idiots she coerced into helping her on this heist. They were alive, which surprised her. She had no idea why the witch hunter spared them, but honestly couldn’t care less. They were basically hired muscle and therefore entirely expendable. She had a much better opinion of the next person she perceived – the brainwashed girl on the roof. That one she’d like to reclaim if at all possible. An obedient pawn that could think for itself that was infinitely more useful than the mindless meat puppets she fashioned from the dead servants. Still, those zombies should prove useful should anyone try to invade the basement through the only available corridor. They probably wouldn’t do much against a witch hunter, but at least they’d give Lena and Harland some advanced warning. They’d need that.
“Damn it all,” she opened her eyes and grit her teeth. “I can’t sense the bastard!”
Surely he didn’t barge in here by himself without any magic to support him, right?
“Maybe he figured he got us all and left?”
It wasn’t just wishful thinking that made Harland say that. That monster’s manic laughter could be heard even all the way in the cellar, and then it suddenly went silent. It wasn’t hard to imagine he’d left as quickly as he came once the immediate threats were taken care of, but Lena knew better.
“I doubt it. We still have hostages.”
She jerked her head to a corner of the basement, and the three tied-up ladies huddled there squirmed and cowered in response. These were the duke’s wife and two daughters and the main reason the old man had the entire town up in arms. Kidnapping them wasn’t part of the original plan, but there wasn’t a reason not to once Harland bungled the stealthy approach. The old crone toyed with the idea of ransoming them off if they could afford to escape with them, but that no longer seemed feasible. Not that Lena intended to let any of them live either way. In her eyes, these filthy stuck-up pigs deserved every misfortune she’d visit on them. Those tyrants at the church and their loyal lapdogs, too. She’d show them all in due time, but she wasn’t prepared to face a witch hunter just yet.
“Harland, we’re leaving.”
“I figured,” he sighed. “The usual, then?”
“You know it.”
The earth mage went over to one of the six wine casks lined up against the far wall. He turned the spigot and pulled, prompting the hidden door to swing open. The escape tunnel seemed clear, so he turned his attention to the obsidian sphere in his hands and started mumbling his incantations. He wasn’t going to resume digging towards the vault, though. That was effectively a lost cause. Instead, he was going to set up an earthquake powerful enough to turn the manor into a pile of rubble as a means of covering their tracks. It went without saying the hostages would be left behind and would most likely perish in the collapse, but Lena didn’t feel like leaving that up to chance. She approached the bound and gagged family, her mind racing at the possibilities.
“Now what do I do with you,” she leaned over them, her cruel intentions dancing across her face. “Twist your neck muscles until the bones go pop? No, no, too painless. Rip out all your blood through your skin? Don’t have the time, sadly. Explode the eyeballs! Now there’s a good start! But what about after? Hmm… Oh, I know! How about I make you strangle each other? Yeees, doesn’t that seem like fun?!”
This was precisely the kind of stuff that made water mages so feared and reviled. While not as destructive as flame-throwers or wind-callers, the horrible things they could do to a person were the stuff of nightmares. It wasn’t just humans, either. Water made up the majority of living tissue, which technically gave hydromancers power over any creature of flesh and blood. Those with innate magic – like most monsters and those born with the gift – weren’t as easy to manipulate, but mundane folk like the duke and his family were utterly helpless. Lena was well aware, and forcing these sheep to submit to her was the greatest thrill. She was so engrossed in the atrocities she was about to commit that she didn’t even notice the quiet thump from the floorboards upstairs.
“Froth and boil.”
As Lena began her incantation, her prisoners could do nothing but huddle closer and shut their tear-filled eyes in horror.
“Bubble and roil!”
Luckily for them, the witch had gotten just a little too loud for her own good.
“Spring forth, and–”
“Peek-a-boo!”
That mirthful shout was the only warning she got before Brother Tacitus thrust his greatsword through the ground floor and into the cellar. It effortlessly broke through the carpets and wooden planks separating them and pierced the cruel old hag’s skull with a wet squelch. The noble family squealed and shuddered as her foul, black, and thick blood splattered over them. The unexpected commotion startled Harland and he turned around just in time to see the dirtied blade disappear above while his companion collapsed into an unmoving heap. He then heard a set of rapidly approaching and concerningly heavy footsteps from somewhere above.
“Ah… AAAAAH!”
He screamed and turned to flee, instantly abandoning his half-finished earthquake. He did not get far before the witch hunter came crashing down on top of him, straight through the low ceiling. The sickly earth mage was thus crushed under a pile of debris and one very giggly knight.
“Well, if this isn’t ironic, then my name’s not Tacitus! Hahah! Aaah.”
The man silently patted himself on the back for that. Not the poor joke, but for pulling this off. Despite what he told Captain By-the-way earlier, he was at least a little bit clever. Witch hunters were supposed to take down their quarry in a frontal assault of overwhelming skill and force, much as he’d done to the trio upstairs. It served to send a message to all who abused the gift – the judgment of the Dawn would come for them, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. That said, the loud-and-proud approach wasn’t always the best solution. From time to time a bit of subtlety could do wonders, and Brother Tacitus was more than capable of erasing his presence whenever he deemed it necessary.
And in this particular scenario – an experienced water witch that had taken hostages – it had worked flawlessly. Okay, maybe ‘flawlessly’ was too strong a word. The ringleader couldn’t be questioned since she came down with a sudden case of ventilated cranium, and her second-in-command was similarly indisposed by a mangled spine. Then there was the matter of the excessive property damage, not to mention the traumatized family. But hey, the innocents were saved and the bad guys were beaten, so Tacitus felt pretty good about himself. The fact that he no longer felt those cynical giggles well up from the depths of his soul was evidence enough of that.
“Oh, right. Hostages.”
He should probably untie them and find something for them to wear. Why nearly all witches insisted on stripping their captives naked was but one of many mysteries the hunter would never quite comprehend, and he was okay with that. He wasn’t paid to understand. Well, he actually wasn’t paid at all, but that was besides the point. The important thing was that he preserved as much of the victims’ dignity as he could. That also went for the shambling corpses he noticed nearby. Putting them down was a dirty and depressing task that quickly saw the knight’s incessant cackles return. On the bright side, they still had clothes, so he didn’t need to do much beyond cutting them down so their bewitched blood could drain out of the flesh.
All things said and done, it took about ten minutes for Brother Tacitus to emerge from the duke’s manor with the hostages. The two girls and their mother ran as quickly as they could while wrapped in some colorful curtains with the hooded knight striding casually behind. Seeing this, the guard captain ordered his men to move in, secure the building, and get the hostages to safety. The man in charge naturally ran in with the others, even if only to meet with the witch hunter halfway.
“What’s the situation?!”
“Tisk, tisk, Captain,” Tacitus waved his finger at him. “Where are your manners?”
“I left them in my other pants’ pocket.”
Given his deeply sarcastic response, it was safe to say that Edward was a hundred and ten percent done with this guy.
“Hah. Hahaha! Well, things like that happen!”
The witch hunter gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder and resumed walking at his usual pace, prompting the officer to follow suit. He tried to remind himself what the dossier he received from the church said. It would be easier for everyone involved if he just mirrored Brother Tacitus’ oddly casual behavior. He didn’t act like that entirely by choice, apparently.
“Sounded like quite the party in there.”
“Oh, yes. Lots of loud noises and pretty colors, but I didn’t get to dance much. Tuckered out all three of the youngsters upstairs right quick, I did. Heh. They really don’t make them like they used to, huh? Still, they lasted longer than those lovers in the basement. Things got very spicy down there.”
Though his helmet obscured his face, one could practically hear the wink underneath.
“That’s it? Just five partygoers? Not much of an event, is it?”
“Well, it was still fun while it lasted. Hehehe, you could say we really brought the house down. Oh, and tell Duke What’s-His-Face to not be too harsh on the young lady up top. She didn’t know she’d be throwing a party.”
“I’ll make sure I tell him.”
Seeing as that was all the witch hunter had to say, the captain grabbed a passing guard to relay the information he’d just received. There were three unconscious suspects on the upper floors, one of whom was likely coerced into helping the witches and was to be handled with care. Two more were in the cellar, though what that ‘spicy’ comment meant was still unclear. The guard captain wasn’t quite fluent in Tacitunese yet, but he was getting the hang of it. For the moment, he sent the man off to disseminate his updated orders and went to catch up with the witch hunter. When he did, he found the hooded knight sheathing his bloodied greatsword into the tall scabbard still sticking out of the ground, exactly where he left it. He then promptly pulled it out and kept putting one foot in front of the other.
“I appreciate you swinging by,” the officer spoke earnestly. “You really saved our bacon.”
“Ooooh! Bacon, you say? Can I have some?”
“Absolutely. I’ll get you all the bacon you want.”
“Hahahaha! I knew I liked you, Captain By-the-way!”
He gave the slightly smaller man another hard pat on the shoulder that felt more like a punch. The two walked in relative silence broken up by quiet giggles and the occasional random quip from the witch hunter. It was strange. He seemed jovial on the surface, but Edward had a feeling the witch hunter wasn’t all that thrilled to be here. He had a hunch as to why. It was odd that he arrived ahead of schedule. He had a feeling something bad must have happened if his timetable was shuffled around so suddenly, so he decided to try the direct approach.
“Why are you here, Brother Tacitus?”
The sudden appearance of a serious question seemed to cut through the fog of laughter that plagued the hooded knight’s mind as he responded in kind for once.
“There’s been an outbreak. It’s contained, but it needs to be treated.”
Edward’s eyes nearly fell out of his skull. That was not at all what he expected to hear, and it raised so many questions. What kind of outbreak? And where? No, asking was pointless. He’d have been told if he needed to know. Since he hadn’t, then he and his men likely couldn’t do anything to help. Why did the church send a witch hunter to Cherrytown, then? It surely wasn’t just to fetch an alchemist or something. Actually, assuming this disease was magical in nature, he’d likely need a mage. At least a named one, if the matter was serious enough for the church to involve a witch hunter. The issue might even require more than one. If that was the case, then it made sense why Tacitus had been sent to Cherrytown. The local mages’ guild had seen quite a few promising members climbing the ranks in recent years, so Edward’s guest would be spoiled for choice. Unless… the choice was already made? Not that it mattered. The core issue was clearly way above a mere guard captain’s pay grade.
“Tell me who you need and I’ll bring them to you.”
It was the only thing the captain could do to expedite a solution.
“Heh. Haha! HA HA HA! You are quite clever indeed, Captain!”
And just like that, his special brand of madness came back full force. Or so it seemed. That was the first genuine laugh that Tacitus had had in a while. Indeed, he was overjoyed to have such an insightful man be his handler. It would make both their jobs easier. The witch hunter seized that pleasant surprise and held onto it in his heart as he relinquished the requested piece of information.
“I seek the Sage of the Sands.”
“… Oh.”
Only now did it dawn on the captain what the man meant when he spoke of ‘treating’ the outbreak.
After all, there was only one thing that fire mages were good for, and it wasn’t mixing medicine.