The city, if one could call the rundown village of Ernheim a city, was a haphazard cluster of structures, centered around an aging church and council-house, both of which appeared to be in a state of dreadful disrepair, even at a distance. Yet this was the state of Astana's hinterland. Far beyond the crown's command, beyond even the control of its own duke, little would be resolved here barring another war with Ruthenia. Roland's face contorted in disgust as he neared the guardhouse at the edge of the town, guiding Ruyter toward the entrance with an unhurried pace.
“Halt!” a guardsman stepped out into the road to bar his path.
Clad in an aging military uniform in the dark green of Astana, the haggard man was armed with a short blunderbuss, which he aimed threateningly at the oncoming traveler.
“I said halt!” his voice took a slightly more agitated tone.
It was almost comical really. Missing teeth and his face marred by pox scars, the man was anything but an imposing presence. A second “guard” now joined him, clad in similarly dated fashion and holding onto a rust-specked halberd.
“Fine, fine,” Roland waved the man down, swinging free of his horse with long practiced ease.
Fear. He could sense it in their gait and their posture. They were very much afraid of him. That was good. He liked to inspire fear, especially here in the wastes. Fear was as good of protection as cold steel.
“State your name and business!” the man said loudly as the witch hunter drew nearer.
“Roland Arnow. Witch hunter,” he said simply, not bothering to explain any further.
“Well mister Arnow, didn't you choose a proper bad time to drop in!” the guard laughed and cast Roland a mocking, gap-toothed grin, “Coulda used ya a few days ago, but the witch, 'es been caught already.”
At that statement, Roland frowned. True witches getting captured were few and far between in this day and age, much less in a middle-of-nowhere locale such as Ernheim.
“Was that the case?” he raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing the guardsman before him.
The man did not hold his gaze.
“It is. The witch, he's bein' tried now,” the man said simply, “Nother witch-hunter came right before ya, caught 'im real quick! It'll be a burnin' for sure. You should stick 'round for it!”
Roland could feel his nose curl upward in revulsion at the man's statement.
“What witch-hunter?” he asked pointedly.
The man's eager insistence that the witch had been caught and would burn worried him greatly. A true witch was far more likely to evade capture, annihilating any who stood in their path with contemptuous ease. Rare was the man or woman of wyrd blood who would willingly stand trial when faced with accusations of whatever impropriety.
“I dunno, called 'imself Brother Hellik, said he's a Troian. Came from 'cross the border to the North, from Etria, good chap otherwise, we're lucky to 'ave 'im,” the guard shrugged.
“I'm sure you are,” Roland nodded somberly, “Am I free to pass?”
“Of course, 'nless you're a witch too-” the man gave the witch-hunter a conspiratorial, sidelong glance.
Roland simply smiled cynically and remounted his horse, urging it past the guard post with all haste. He had no time for the people's petty witch-hunts, and becoming embroiled in such stupidity was best avoided. No. He had other business. And then naught but a long ride north.
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He had been too late. It was always too late. Roland glared angrily at the bleak skies and grimaced as the small shovel in his hand tore up another clump of frozen dirt. The winter frost had set in early, inconveniencing his efforts. Yet the clank of steel on steel made the witch hunter redouble his efforts. Almost there.
The hunter allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction as the lockbox slowly came into view. Intact and untouched, perfect. With a wary glance around himself, he reached into the shallow pit, letting out a groan of exertion as he pulled the small, heavy container clear. It came free of the frigid soil with a welter of cold mud, spattering his face and making him spit in disgust, shoving the box aside. Once more, his eyes darted about the clearing, searching for any signs of impending disturbance. Secluded far out of sight from the village, he expected no such disruption, yet one could never be too cautious.
Overconfidence was a path to an early grave for many, and he had no intention of finding himself in such a position. His fingers clenched and extended as he eyed the case, before finally drawing a slender key from his pocket. With a soft click the container sprung open. Roland glanced across the contents without bothering to slow down. Two pistols lay holstered and wrapped in oil skin at the bottom, one a bulky pepperbox, the other a slender dueling weapon, both in impeccable condition. It didn't surprise Roland, he expected as much, his preparation before Brachsenburg had been meticulous after all. It would have been disappointing indeed if any harm had come to the weapons during his absence. With steady motions, he hooked the holsters to his belt before glancing back inside the lockbox. A small satchel remained. Inconspicuous and easily missed, as if just another piece of detritus.
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With an annoyed grimace, he crouched closer, opening the packet to check its contents. A small, golden cross glimmered inside, bent and creased as if struck by a heavy blow. An old saint's cross.
Many would pay a small fortune to get their hands on the tiny thing. A worthless trinket. He contemplated tossing it back in the ditch and leaving it behind. His finger traced the decorative engravings that coursed across its surface, admiring the craftsmanship. The sun of the Southern Church, set across Saint Malthors cross and embellished with exquisite detail.
Yet it was no Malthorian cross. It offered no protection against the powers of the wyrd, nor forewarning of sorcerous intent. It was naught more than a memento of a bygone era.
Grunting in annoyance he restored the cross to its satchel, sliding it into an empty pocket. He didn't bother masking the lockbox, it wasn't worth the effort. With a sweep of his greatcoat, he pivoted in place, striding back through the field toward Ernheim. His business was done, all that remained was the final ride north, to Frolingen and then Ruthenia, to plot and recuperate.
With a final glance toward the small forest, he began his trek down toward the village. Ruyter was waiting, and the ride ahead was a lengthy one.
A few glanced at him as he returned from the town outskirts, though none cared to hold his gaze. Word had spread quickly that another witch hunter had arrived, though none had cared to speak to him further. There was no need after all. Their witch had been caught already, and it was no business of Roland's.
"Sir witch-hunter!"
The address caught Roland off-guard. He glanced behind him to see an elderly woman attempting to gain his attention. The Malthorian ignored her, accelerating his stride toward the outskirts of the town. There was no time for stupid talk or entanglement.
"Sir!" she called out once more, the sound of her footsteps carrying across the field.
Roland scowled and stopped short, pivoting to face the haggard old lady. It was a glare that would have sent chills down the spine of seasoned officers, yet it proved no better a deterrent than his prior attempt at brisk escape.
"Please, sir, I need your help," the woman insisted, stopping to catch her breath.
"I am not in the business of providing random strangers help, certainly not whatever help you need, madam," he said curtly, drawing his greatcoat a little tighter to mask the armaments at his belt.
"But you're a witch hunter, sir, please," she implored.
"The sorcerer here was caught already. If there's another you have the Troian, ask him for help," Roland shrugged, indifferent.
The woman was clearly distraught, and his nonchalant attitude seemed only to distress her further. The witch hunter didn't care. It was time to go. Immediately.
"My son isn't a sorcerer!" she cried out, "He's innocent!"
The Malthorian stared down at her silently, his eyes boring into the woman. He could see the despair in her eyes. The vain glimmer of hope that somehow, he would intervene on her behalf where no other would. Vain hope indeed.
"They're all wrong. He never hurt anyone. He has no magical powers," she continued, "The other man, Hellik- He insists my son did black magic. But I know my boy. Please."
People were watching now, observing the pathetic spectacle unfolding before them. Roland's spiteful grimace seemed to make some of them avert their gaze, but more were flocking to the scene.
"Your plight is not my problem," he said bluntly, "Take your case up with the alderman, or the court. I am not a lawyer."
"None of them will listen, they only listen to the witch hunter, but he is wrong!" she pleaded, “Please!”
In his turn the Malthorian glared at her, glancing at the ever-growing crowd about them. This was not what he had wanted. Not what he had wanted at all. He needed to leave, swiftly, before this entanglement dragged him down further.
“I am not here to help, I am not here to be involved,” he said simply, “I am simply passing through. Your problems are not mine. I am sorry.”
“Please-” the woman began again, only for Roland to turn away and begin to stride clear.
“Seeking help elsewhere, eh? Even from some wandering vagrant?”
A nasally voice interrupted the woman's hysteria, causing Roland to turn on heel to stand face-to-face with his peer.
Peer, heh.
The notion was ridiculous. A man of the Troia was scarcely worthy of the title. Dressed in traditional Etrian garb, his fur-lined coat bedecked with ornate embroidery, the man was anything but a peer. Degenerate rabble at its finest, with the deluded arrogance to call him a vagrant. His blood boiled, fingers lightly twitching as he resisted reaching for his revolver and ending the man's insolence then and there. One had to remain calm, he couldn't afford the trouble. He had to leave.
“So you're- a witch-hunter?” Roland squinted, as if trying to mask the amused smirk crossing his features, “You?”
The man froze, as if taken aback by the offhanded remark.
“Surely there must be a mistake,” he said, his mouth twitching with the obvious effort to conceal laughter.
None of the people around him seemed entertained, but he could see some of them shift nervously, as if Roland's allegation suddenly made them uncertain of their trust in the man. Good.
His opposite glared, thick brows furrowing in barely contained anger.
“I am Brother Sevar Hellik the Thrice Blessed,” he said slowly, making sure to stretch out every word of his title, “Witch-hunter Lieutenant of the Holy Order of Troia.”
Roland blinked, drawing himself to full height and allowing his hand to rest on the revolver at his hip.
“Splendid news,” he said, his smile growing broader, “Must have been an expensive commission.”
The man went rigid, hands curling and shaking in hapless fury.
“I do my duty, and have done so here,” he said coolly, retaining the composure of his speech if not the rise in his tone, “A witch was captured, tried, convicted, and will soon burn.”
“Tried and convicted. All in the space of what, a week? Very impressive,” Roland said sarcastically, “Must have had a lot of proof.”
“I have caught and slain many a witch, and this man bears all the makings of such an aberration. His soul is tainted. And his deeds were clear for all to see,” Hellik said simply, regaining some of his composure and straightening his coat, “It would be a crime to drag things out further.”
“Failed the marks of the witch did he? Perhaps simply failed one?” the Malthorian said, eyebrows raised and scrutinizing.
The Troian stayed silent, lips drawing taut in a thin line.
“Oh, he didn't, did he?” he continued, allowing his grin to broaden, “So the proof lay in hex-craft? Or rune-craft? Perhaps both of those?”
More silence. The crowd about them didn't so much as move either, one heard naught but the rustle of wind dancing in the street.
“None of those? None? And yet this man is convicted?” Roland said mockingly, drawing closer to the other.
Though more heavily dressed, his opposite was a fair few inches shorter, and the former cavalry officer bore over him like a dark pall.
“The proof is obvious to those who see,” Hellik said, refusing to back down, “Who are you to question it?”
“Roland Arnow. Witch Hunter. Korotian Order,” he lied smoothly in response, “Your little trial here, your conviction. It is a sham if not executed correctly. You are aware of that, Sevar? If the man in question has failed none of the three marks, nor was there proof of either rune or hex-craft, then your entire case here is nothing more than a joke. Nothing more than murder in the eyes of the crown, and murder in the eyes of God.”
“Who is in charge here?” Roland snorted derisively, opening his arms to the crowd around them, “Who is the alderman of this village? Or are you really all content to let this man lead you on the road to murder?”
A few of the townsfolk stepped uncomfortably, while others stared at him in disbelief. Some wavered, others were too far gone to shift. He didn't care. The rush of anger had taken hold of him, and he was committed.
“A decision has already been reached-” Hellik sputtered, flailing in impotent fury, “This is no business of yours!”
“It shouldn't have been,” the Malthorian said icily, “But you made it so. And now we're going to resolve this witch matter, and we're going to do so properly.”
“You,” he jabbed a finger at the woman who had been groveling for his aid mere minutes earlier, “I need to speak to whoever is in charge here, take me to them, so I can be on my way.”