Screaming. The crowd's jubilant shouts were a drowning cavalcade of noise that filled the wide avenues of Brachsenburg. A crush of bodies all pressed together in the center of St Matlin's square, overfilling the venue and spilling out into the adjacent streets. Not even the brisk morning rain had deterred them in their frenzy. A veritable sea of man, filling the air with their cries and pleas, each begging to be seen and heard by the venerable sage, jostling and pushing one another aside to catch but a glimpse of the great man in their midst. The man who had single-handedly ended the Long Plague. A savior scarcely short of a saint. The miracle of Donnerau in the flesh.
Orrin Skye, the greatest mage in the Fourna gap, had arrived in Brachsenburg. The excitement in the air was palpable, the tension thick and oppressive. It was a feeling that never ceased to amaze Roland. The energy of thousands, all filled with the same wonder and fascination. He nearly smiled to himself at the sight. It was perfect.
None paid him heed. Not even the maddened street preacher gave him any attention, the holy man's rabid ramblings about dark forces and Skye's consortation with demons interrupted by the wet smack of a vegetable against his brow.
It did nothing to deter him, seeming only to spur the man to greater fervor, bubbling froth forming at the corners of his mouth as he ranted. It was all nonsense, Roland knew. Magic was the product of no such bond, every priest would have confirmed that fact, as much as they resented it. The people here knew it too. They had heard of its works, and ached to see them, to feel them.
They were all misled fools. Magic was simply power. Great power perhaps, yet nothing more, and nothing less. Without a word, he slipped past the preacher, sliding through the doors of the Brachsenburg Cathedral like a shadow.
The building's interior lay dark and lifeless, the stained glass windows devoid of their usual color. Even the crescendo of the mob outside seemed dulled here. Leather boots glided softly across the stone floor as Roland approached the stairs, moving unhurriedly toward the steeple. The cobwebs parted as he clambered past the inner workings of the spire, meticulously avoiding making any sound. There was no reason to rush. With gentle touch he shifted the doors in his path, the soft creak of derelict hinges seeming uncomfortably loud in the darkened emptiness.
He was almost there, almost at the summit. The clamor echoing from the open windows told him so. Another door. This time locked. None of this surprised Roland, he had been the one to lock it after all. With the ratchet of a skeleton key, the sealed portal swung open, admitting him to the uppermost level. The moist air and damp stonework brought a frown to the man's face. He glanced around, taking stock of the empty tower. Only a single wooden case broke up the monotony of the stone chamber.
Good.
Without hesitation, he strode toward the edge of the spire, gazing down at the seething tide below. It was mesmerizing, the swirling mass of many-hued cloth as the crowd shifted and flailed, as if it itself were a living creature.
And there rode the savior. Sealed in a carriage and flanked by a small squadron of dragoons. Even the towns council guards had been dispatched to attend the procession, their muskets dull against the gray of the sky. The crowd was parted to make way, their arms straining to reach past the escort, toward the shadowy figure hidden far out of sight.
Roland watched with mild curiosity, looking on as the procession made its way through the throng, slowly and surely, approaching the dais set in the center of the square. He had stalled long enough. The man turned back toward the case, prying it open with a swift tug. Inside, wrapped snug in its oilskin, lay a rifle. Roland removed the weapon gently, caressing the length of the barrel as he searched for any signs of damage. It was immaculate. His preparation had been worthwhile. A few twists of a screw, and he had attached a telescope, the brass-cased aperture sitting snugly alongside the barrel.
With practiced ease, he opened the breech, pulling a ball and powder from his waistcoat and loading the ornate rifle with reverent care. A touch of primer. The frizzen closed. All was prepared. Cautiously, he set the weapon down against the stone railing of the steeple. In a single, smooth motion, he leveled his sights at the dais, allowing the scope to settle upon the raised platform. The cool, wet air ruffled his hair, the raindrops pattering against the barrel. The stage was set, the vantage prepared, now all he had to do was wait.
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Down below, the carriage ground to a halt, the soldiery surrounding it making way for the mage to step out. Slowly, surely, the doors swung open, leaving naught but the yawning darkness of the vehicle's innards. Roland licked chapped lips and adjusted his aim, not daring to move the scope from the center of the dais. Patience was key. If only Skye were less patient. Time seemed to drag as short stairs were lowered. Some balding city official bowed his head in obeisance, his pate spattered with moisture as he waited for the venerable man to exit. Who the official was, Roland could not tell, nor did he care. All waited with bated breath. Even the crowd seemed to quiet somewhat in anticipation.
And there he was.
The mage was an impressive presence. Tall and slender, well groomed and imposing. His graying hair hanging to his shoulders, mouth tightened in a knowing, patronizing smirk. It seemed as if the wizard's feet never touched the steps, simply gliding down to the wet streets below. A corona of white light surrounded him, the arcane shield flickering as raindrops sparked against it, none able to wet so much as a hair on Orrin's head. Perhaps it was no wonder that the people viewed him with such awe. With a languid flick of his arm, he brushed a palm against the official's shoulder, gesturing for the man to follow. It occurred to the marksman that perhaps that was the town's mayor, Reiner. He shuddered at the touch, nervously muttering something Roland could not make out before staggering and leading the way up the wooden stairs to the platform's summit.
The wizard followed, gliding along in that graceful, ethereal manner. Silencing the seething crowd with his mere motion. None dared avert their gaze from the living miracle that strode in their midst. Now if only the damned mayor would move aside. The fat man's body blocked too much of the shot, and Roland frowned in annoyance at the sight. He had little time. Every moment he waited increased the chances of his discovery. Not from the crowd of course, they were far too focused on the mage in their midst. Nor the dragoons providing escort, for their attention was fixated on the mob about them. Yet the wizard himself. He wondered how long it would take with the crowd's distraction for the sixth sense to find him. For the wyrd sight to lock onto his position. Nervously, he stroked the Malthorian cross that hung about his neck, feeling the metal warm slightly at the proximity of magic.
The mayor spoke quickly, excitedly, hunched over the podium atop the dais. Roland could only barely make out the target behind him. See the glint of his eyes as they flickered across the crowd. The man just didn't stop talking. Seconds passed. Minutes. Dragging with cruel slowness. The marksman could feel his eye twitch in consternation. Finally. Finally, he had ceased!
The fat man turned aside, making way to reach for some medallion, some title or recognition they were granting the wizard. Orrin Skye stepped forward, smiling, his entire body illuminated in that fay glow, arms outstretched to the surrounding populace. The cheers began again, intermingled with fawning shouts of adulation. Truly the mage was a magnificent sight to behold, the man's power sensed even by the lowly peasantry that gazed upon him. Clumsily, the mayor bestowed the award upon Orrin, straining to reach around the tall mage's neck, his arms and body blocking much of the assassins opening. Roland cursed under his breath, adjusting his aim slightly.
There could be no mistakes. There was only one shot. With what should have been an elegant flourish, the mayor finally turned away, presenting the sage to the adoring masses. Orrin Skye continued to smile as he presented himself to the mesmerized crowd, glancing about the masses like some all-knowing patriarch. Then, unprompted, his eyes swung upward, smile withering as his gaze locked onto the Brachsenburg cathedral, recognition illuminating his features as he saw what no other could. The Malthorian cross tingled and burned. Too late. Witch Hunter Roland Arnow, Executioner of Tarva and slayer of the Frolingen Four, had already pulled the trigger.
All it took was a single lead munition, fired from a rifle a quarter mile away. The height of progress, reinforced with runes as old as man, the archaic inscriptions shielding the projectile as it struck the mages wards. They may have stayed a lesser bullet, but not this, not one designed by the finest artisans with a sole, single-minded purpose: the killing of wizards. The light flickered and died as the mystical shield failed, the murderous blow striking its target with terrifying power. The mans once imposing form seemed to wilt and wither as it crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Orrin Skye, miracle of Donnerau, savior of the Long Plague, was slain.
Shocked cries permeated the air as those surrounding rushed to the man's aid, far too late. The mayor had even fainted. But Roland was unbothered. He didn't have the time to care. Without hesitation he yanked the rifle clear of the edge, carefully unscrewing the scope and slipping it within its protective casing once more. The screams were getting louder now. But he had time. The faint puff of smoke was already vanished, dissipated in the moist air. With the mass of the crowd between him and most of the guards, it would take them far too long to reach his position. He did not hurdle down the stairs, nor race to leave his position. There was no hurry, no reason to tire himself, no reason to risk dropping the precious rifle. As the hunter pushed the doors open, he pulled his cloak up, shielding his face from the rain, and any potential onlookers.
None stopped him as he strode down the streets, even as the mob began to disperse, urged by shouting and angry commands from the soldiery. The whinnying of dragoons horses mingling with curses and mourning wails. They were so slow, so very slow.
Roland felt the revolver at his hip and kept walking. Ignoring the continued screaming that fast began to disappear behind him. A horn rang out, raising the alarm. The hunter increased his pace to a brisk walk, heading straight for the city walls, weaving his way through the narrow streets and side alleys of Brachsenburg with expert ease. Not even the vagrants and street urchins that normally dotted the city's periphery were to be seen. All were still at the square.
And there it was, the gateway to freedom. A lonely postern gate sitting on the old city's edge, screened from the view of the surrounding walls and towers. It too had been abandoned, the guards pulled for duty inside the city. Calmly, the man pulled the key from his pockets, glancing to his rear before operating on the locks. A few deft motions and the door was freed, swinging open and enabling him to pass through the small gate, onto the outer doorway. With a final smile of self-satisfaction, the hunter slipped beyond the city walls, vanishing among the shanties on the city periphery. They would know how he had escaped of course, how he had slipped clear. Heads would roll no doubt. But by then Roland would be long gone, and his trail as cold as his victim.