“So, I'm told that you too are a witch hunter, mister- Arnow is it?” the alderman asked, glancing awkwardly at the man before him, as if unsure of what to expect from the newcomer, “My name is Torin Ham. I hope you were informed that your services are currently not necessary.”
“I heard you caught a witch,” Roland said bluntly as he took his seat opposite the man.
“We did indeed, and unfortunately far too late, he has done much damage already,” the balding man nodded sagely, “We were fortunate to receive a hunter from Etria, the troublemaker may have escaped otherwise.”
“So I've been informed,” the Malthorian frowned and steepled his fingers.
“What were the witch's crimes?” he asked abruptly.
“His crimes?” the alderman looked confused, as if being a witch was in and of itself a crime.
In some ways, he's not wrong.
“What crimes did he commit?” the witch hunter repeated.
“The boy has not been seen in church for weeks. His own mother said he does not want to come,” the man said slowly, emphasizing every word, “Thirteen of farmer Boure's cows fell diseased, and a dreadful fire burned down his new barn, very nearly killed the man. Worst of all he struck down farmer Kouran's son with an ague when the lad saw his sorcery.”
Roland had to fight not to smirk in disdain, “With all due respect, none of that sounds reminiscent of sorcery to me.”
“You would not doubt if you saw the suffering caused by the young man's ill association,” the alderman shook his head, “It is no less than devilry and dark magic.”
“What confirmation do you have of this? There are tests to prove magical involvement. Rites and proofs, were any such tests enacted, or are you merely running on the quantity of accusations?” the witch hunter said frostily.
“What are you? A lawyer for the boy? Even your compatriot says it is beyond all doubt,” the man insisted, clearly aggravated by Rolands doubts.
“I have seen more than enough of my 'compatriots' as you call them, enact hasty judgment, with invariably poor results for those so judged,” the Malthorian snorted derisively, “Are you so ready to let an innocent man hang?”
“There are witnesses, and a witch-hunter's testimony. What more proof could there be?” Torin crossed his arms.
“Let me see the scene of the crime. Let me speak to the boy, this so-called witch,” the witch-hunter said simply, “Give me an opportunity to verify the truth of this- Brother Hellik's allegations.”
“What stake do you have in this?” the alderman asked suspiciously.
“Given that you're the one so intent on hanging this young man, I think that question should be mine,” Roland sneered.
Torin's face twisted and contorted as he tried to contain his anger. The witch-hunter simply held his gaze, the contempt in his eyes absolute.
“Go ahead, verify it if you will, it is beyond a doubt as far as I'm concerned,” the man shrugged and leaned back, “Talk it over with Hellik if you must.”
“I don't think we have much to talk about, Mr Ham. Either I judge him to be correct, or-” Roland let the word hang for a second, gazing out past the alderman with disinterest, “Or he is simply wrong.”
“You seem awfully self-assured for a man who has seen none of the evidence,” Torin frowned and shook his head.
“I know my work, alderman, I know it well, and I won't see its reputation sullied any further with the murder of an innocent man,” he said.
"Go then- Go look at Boure's farm, tell me it isn't sorcery. See for yourself," the alderman said simply, waving him away.
A small voice in Roland's mind protested. He was delaying too long. He would pay for this stalling. It was a petty argument, nothing more than a clash of ego.
No. Justice. It was the question of justice against stupid cruelty. A matter of honor. A challenge he could not turn down.
"I'll see I do," Roland acknowledged the man's request with a jerk of his head. Hellik's hubris would be punished, and only then would he be on his way.
----------------------------------------
Roland eyed the ruins warily as they passed the stonework-marked boundaries of Boure's farm. The Malthorian cross burned weakly, the soft heat of lingering magic being dissipated into the wyrd. They had been right. It had been no ordinary flame at play here. Sorcery had occurred. Powerful magic had leveled farmer Boure's barn, leaving little more than a smoldering ruin where the structure had once been. In fact, to call it a ruin may have been generous, perhaps an ashen mound would have been more precise, so thoroughly had the structure been destroyed.
He could only think of a handful of mages with such power, and even fewer who still lived. To think some peasant bumpkin could be a match for them seemed preposterous. Though of course, never discount the possibility of the ludicrous. Archivist Rikard had always been fond of that saying for some reason. That didn't make Roland any more confident in the notion.
“Hold,” he indicated the two guardsmen with him, making his way cautiously forward.
He expected no trouble, yet to have the guards, much less Hellik making even more of a mess of the ruins was something he wished to avoid.
Of course, why the barn? Why would someone of such power wish to level a random farmer's property? Sorcerers were a petty lot of course, arrogant and malign often enough, yet this seemed an utter waste. Or perhaps, it was simply the location. Roland thought to his own emergency cache, hidden far on the town's outskirts. Here in the middle of nowhere.
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New barn.
What if something had been hidden here, secluded and detached from the main part of Ernheim somewhere it would not be found by prying eyes? Unconsciously, Roland's hand slipped toward the holster at his hip, even as the heat of the Malthorian cross continued to grow. To think it had happened weeks ago. The power to do such damage must have truly been incredible. The witch-hunter's hand clenched and unclenched as he knelt in the ashes.
“What did you hide here? What was it you had under here?” he muttered to himself, hands sifting through the ashes.
Why was the cross burning here? Surely the sorcerer hadn't ignited the barn while still inside. Surely not.
Roland glanced about warily, fingers clutching at the pendant as if he were a noblewoman clutching at her pearls. A few steps on and the power of the cross dimmed, as if he had passed the heart of whatever ruinous sorcery was at play here. Brows contorted in concentration, he knelt in the rubble, digging through the fragments in search of clues. Powdery ash dissipated in his gloves, tugged along by the gentle breeze. Strange. Strange things indeed.
“Found anything?” Hellik's grating voice made him grind his teeth in annoyance.
Great. His “peer” was here. All he could do was hope the man wouldn't interfere.
“No. Not yet,” Roland said bluntly, not deigning to answer further.
A snort of derisive laughter was all that followed.
The Malthorian blinked, pursing his lips and raking through the scattered rubble in an effort to find any sign of what remained. The abrupt clank of metal made him halt. Something had shifted. With haphazard sweeps of his hand, Roland piled aside the ashes, his curiosity piqued by the sudden noise.
“What is it?” the other hunter shouted, noticing Roland's sudden excitement.
“Not sure,” he answered simply, truthfully.
There it was. His fingers clenched around a metal plate. Grunting with exertion, Roland dragged it clear of the ash.
Steel banding, the sort used to reinforce a strongbox. Whatever wood components it had once held together were now burned away, yet what remained spoke of exquisite craftsmanship.
It had been chest far too expensive for the sort of peasantry residing in Ernheim. And yet it was not unmarred, signs of damage and faint rusting beneath the soot spoke of a long time buried. He wondered how long the sorcerer recovering it had waited, or if they'd buried it at all. Roland's face scrunched as he shifted the box's remains aside, scarcely casting them a glance as he reached for the remains of the lock.
“Silver, interesting,” he muttered to himself as he examined the strange, rune-inscribed mechanism.
Not a grain of soot clung to the metallic lock, the immaculate inscriptions seeming to wrap around the device like vines, flowing across its surface in a series of hypnotizing waves and swirls. All the makings of a wyrd sealed lock, of a nature that escaped the veteran witch-hunter entirely. No doubt a relic. Rikard would have recognized it perhaps, yet Rikard was long, long gone.
Inwardly, Roland cursed. The residual magic saturating the area made it impossible to determine for certain whether the lock was truly an imbued artifact, and by the time he carried it clear the Malthorian cross would have dissipated any of the weak mystic bonds still clinging to the artifact. There had to be more.
Roland dug swiftly, his hands grasping through debris with all the desperation of a colonial gold sifter. Somewhere in his mind, he knew there would be nothing more, whatever the lockbox had once contained would have been claimed by the mysterious magician. And yet he persisted, cursing as the wind tossed ashes clung to his hair and face. Disgusting. In spite of the cold, he could feel beads of sweat trailing down his forehead, dripping into the ash below.
His nose curled in annoyance as he wiped his brow, feeling the powdery ash itch against his skin.
Damnable little village. Why him? Why had he let himself get roped into this?
Roland was fuming, muttering silently to himself as he dug through the same stretch of ash with relentless determination.
Blind faith, that was all it was. A refusal to accept reality.
“Interesting, I suppose this is what the lad was looking for,” Hellik said over his shoulder, reaching down to pick up the remains of the strongbox from the ash-stained ground.
Roland grunted in acknowledgment, glancing back as the Troian daintily examined the steel frame, cautiously avoiding staining his refined attire.
It nearly drew a laugh from the Malthorian. Crawling on my hands and knees, digging through ashen ruins, all while that self-righteous twat smugly pretends to examine the lock. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
And yet he said nothing, continuing his search through the ashes in the vain hope that he might find some clue as to the strongboxes contents.
Miserable, miserable place. He repeated mentally, spitting ash and dust as it clogged his nostrils. A few half-melted iron nails from the barn had been the only thing he had to show for the time spent.
And there it was. An odd shape, leaflike, hard, and with raised surface, like a brooch of some sort.
Roland smiled to himself for the first time since he'd begun his little examination. It was a decorative emblem, and a macabre one at that. Roland raised an eyebrow at the iconography, a small steel skull wearing a winged helm, an old style of conic nasal helm of the sort worn by Astana's knights many a century ago. An odd token to be sure, and not one that Roland immediately recognized. A plethora of royal orders hailed back centuries, and they displayed these traditions proudly through archaic tokens harking back to ages gone, yet Roland could think of no organization to bear such marks.
“Do you recognize this mark?” he asked Hellik, indicating the strange display.
“No, not at all?” the man shook his head vehemently, “No doubt the boy was deeper in witch-craft than we could have imagined.”
Stubborn idiot.
Roland grimaced angrily at the Etrian's refusal to back down from his conviction that they had indeed caught a witch.
“Look around you,” he said loudly, standing and gesturing to the surrounding desolation.
“Do you see this ruin? Do you see this disaster?” he said with even greater vehemence, lips curling into an angry sneer, “Do you see this?”
His opposite stood still, confused and taken aback by Roland's sudden outburst.
“There aren't more than a handful of mages in the entire kingdom with the power to do this,” he said bluntly, “And you want me to believe that some random bumpkin in this dilapidated hole has the power to match them?”
“And this lock,” he said angrily, “Do you recognize it? Do you recognize it at all?”
More silence.
“No, and neither do I. It's some sort of archaic nonsense of the likes none of us can recognize, and yet you want me to believe that not only does this youth have the power to level a structure like this to flinders, but he can pick ancient locks he's probably never even heard of? Is that what you want me to believe?”
“This wasn't hex-craft, nor rune-craft, this was innate magic, and innate magic channeled with will and skill far beyond that of some local amateur.”
The Malthorian strode to the edge of the pit where the barn had once stood, glaring off into the distance.
Standing on the northern edge of the ruin he could see where the sorcerer had stood, the trail of fiery ruin leading back to the barn clear for all to see from where he had ignited the blaze.
“And while we're standing here quibbling over this nonsense, the actual perpetrator is long gone. Vanished weeks ago, far beyond the reach of anyone here,” Roland said coolly, “See the tracks? Heading north to the forest? The sorcerer simply covered his dealings here and marched away, all while you lot scrambled after whoever was convenient.”
“There were witnesses,” Hellik growled, “They saw the boy perform sorcery. They attested under oath to what they saw.”
“Witnesses?” the Malthorian raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, “A bunch of confused and terrified peasants who saw a barn catch fire out of nowhere and the farmer near slain. There's a witch! And all of a sudden every little smattering of misery that's befallen this backwater enclave has a perpetrator to be blamed, all you have to find out is who, and clearly you found someone. Witnesses. Pah, their word is meaningless.”
“The boy's malignance was divined-” the Etrian began.
“Hogwash. Archaic methods of that nature have no place in determining a witch's guilt, they were shown false and unreliable in the council of Tannabrae,” Roland scoffed angrily.
“The order of Troia has used these methods to determine witchery for centuries,” Hellik sneered.
Out of the periphery of his vision, Roland could just make out the town guards eyeing the pair warily as their verbal duel escalated, clearly unsure of how to take the immense disagreement.
“And the order of Troia has no power here, in the Kingdom of Astana. Or have you forgotten that? 'Witch hunter' Hellik,” Roland said acrimoniously.
“I will not have you speak to me with such impudence,” the other man snarled, leaning closer until his nose lay no more than a hair's breadth from the Malthorians.
“I will speak how I see fit,” he shook his head in disgust, “We're done here. This entire investigation might as well be finished for what it's worth.”
“The boy is-”
“Nothing. He'd have to be in the league of Katarina Romme or Declan Marroue to have anywhere near this power, and I sincerely doubt he's anywhere near either,” Roland brushed the man aside, pocketing the skull totem and motioning toward the guards, “You send a message to the alderman, and whatever passed for a court in these parts,” his brusque tone broached no argument, sending the first of the man scarpering, “Have them convene, I want to meet the accused and put an end to this nonsensical discourse once and for all.”
“What is this, you can't simply go about commanding-”
“I'll command whoever I please,” Roland growled, overturning Hellik's weak objections “A man's life is at stake here, and I do not have time to tarry. So get on it.”