“That's him, that's the witch,” Hellik said abruptly, indicating the cell where the prisoner was being held.

Behind them, the small congregation of important citizens, as well as Alderman Ham and the venerable priest Wissall, stood in silence, waiting for what the witch-hunter aimed to demonstrate.

Roland froze, gazing through the bars at the miserable wretch waiting there. The dark-haired young man hunched atop the small cot within the cell said nothing, simply staring at the ground before him.

“You there, what's your name?” he said loudly, gesturing for the guard to open the door.

There was no response to his query.

With the clatter of keys and squeal of rusted hinges, the cell was opened. If the inertness of his Malthorian Cross had ever left any doubt, the fact that a sorcerer who had supposedly turned Boure's barn to ash was being contained by such pathetic security wiped any hesitation from Roland's mind.

“You. Look at me,” he said acidly, already feeling foolish for having his time squandered in such a manner.

Patience was a virtue. Yet this moment sorely tested what little temperance Roland possessed.

“Name,” he said once more.

“A-a-a-Aldrich,” the lad stuttered, glancing up at Roland with a look of dazed detachment.

“Do you know why you're here?” he asked, “Do you know what you're charged with?”

Nothing. No answer. The accused blinked and rocked back and forth, eyes unfocused as he considered Roland's question.

The boy was a simpleton. A fool. Nothing more than a scapegoat for whatever nonsense had befallen this miserable village.

God-forsaken Ernheim. Brother Hellik.

Roland felt a snort of disdain escape his lips. This was why he was being delayed. Because a bunch of imbeciles needed a victim to lynch.

“You must be joking,” he said flatly, doing his best to control his anger.

“This is the witch,” Hellik said simply, clearly taken aback.

“This child doesn't have one iota of wyrd blood in him. He's an idiot. Simple-minded, and nothing more,” the Malthorian snorted contemptuously.

“Deeds speak far louder than your suspicion, Brother Arnow,” his peer said smugly, “He may hide behind a facade of simplicity, yet this boy is a murderous witch.”

Roland's brows furrowed at the man's words. Had it been a different age, and his orders authority held any meaning, perhaps he could have ended this nonsensical business immediately. Yet those days were long gone, and all he could do was play along with this farce for as long as needed.

“The boy couldn't tap into the wyrd if he tried,” he said, “The damage done, it was done by a sorcerer of significant power, not paltry runic incantation or hex-work the likes of which some dabble in. And even that would be beyond this fool's ability.”

“There were witnesses. He was there. The boy is fallen from the light of God, and his reward for such devilry is the power you saw,” Hellik insisted.

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“The power of the wyrd is in the blood. That boy has none.”

“He is tainted!”

“Taint or not, he has no magical power,” Roland growled, “If you had performed even one of the three marks you would know this.”

“There are-”

“Witnesses are meaningless,” the Malthorian snarled, his voice rising and teeth bared, “Seeing sorcery, even true sorcery, occur means nothing when determining the guilty.”

“And now it will be proven,” he said, reprising some of his former calm and turning to the alderman and his retinue, “The rite of blood, my good sirs. Men of the jury. Father Wissall.”

He nodded to each of the present notaries in turn.

“This, is a Malthorian cross,” he said simply, pulling the trinket from around his neck and displaying it for all to see.

Frowns and some grumbling followed. Even here all knew of the Malthorian Orders' treason, and of its purge. Roland ignored them.

“Named after the revered saint himself, and a tool of my order, as well as all others loyal to the Southern Church,” he said slowly, ensuring to drag out and emphasize every word for impact, “It protects the wearer against assaults from the wyrd, and it dissipates such fel energy to the void where it belongs.”

“The blood of the sorcerer is tainted. Their very flesh bound with that same wyrd from which they draw their power,” he continued, vindicating the bumpkin's hatred for the magical arts, “To touch this cross would mean pain and agony for a witch. The pain of having their very power vented into the void.”

“If young Aldrich here is truly a witch, as Hellik insists, then when his palm touches the cross, it will burn him, causing tremendous pain,” Roland stated, “A simple, effective test, and an indisputable mark of the witch.”

The congregation continued to stare at him intently, tight-lipped and scrutinizing.

“Come here Aldrich, give me your hand,” the witch-hunter said coolly, reaching out and gesturing for the young man's palm.

The steel gleamed in the dull light, and Roland could see the fear and hesitation in the boy's eyes.

“Give me your hand.”

His tone took on a harsher, colder edge, “It will be quick, and if you aren't a witch, this will prove it.”

The youth whimpered pitifully, glancing first to his mother, then those bearing judgment, and finally making contact with the witch hunter's pitiless glare.

“Your hand,” he said icily.

“Give him your hand, Aldrich, please, just do as he says,” his mother encouraged.

“Now,” Roland said with finality.

Palm shaking, the accused extended his hand, eyes wide with fear as the Malthorian pressed the medallion between his fingers.

Seconds passed. A minute perhaps. Nothing. Not even a whimper from the alleged sorcerer.

"See," the witch-hunter said coolly, taking back the protective amulet, "Nothing."

He could see the growing doubt in the observer's eyes. See Wissall nod in silent realization.

"He's faking it-" Hellik sputtered in outrage, "He's holding back-"

Roland's hideous glare settled on the man as he met his gaze, fingers folding as he withdrew a short paring knife from within his sleeve.

Aldrich never had time to react. Even if he had the alacrity to respond, the Malthorian's vice-like grip held him fast. The blade was a blur of motion as it sliced across the young man's finger, followed by the welling of blood. With a contemptuous snort, Roland turned the boy's hand, allowing the droplets to patter against his Malthorian Cross.

The room was silent, not a word spoken but for the muted crying of the youth as the witch-hunter let him go, his mother gazing mortified at what had transpired. With a flourish of his hand, Roland demonstrated the amulet to the surrounding congregation. Nothing. No fizzling of dissipating power, only the slow, lazy trickle of crimson liquid spreading throughout the ward's engraved surface.

“There was sorcery-”

“Yes. There was sorcery. The barn was immolated by witch-fire, of that there can be no doubt," the Malthorian agreed, dismissing Hellik's objection with a wave of his hand, “Yet the perpetrator is long gone, having avoided all entanglement.”

Gone as I should be. Roland sighed mentally.

“The mage got whatever it is they were looking for and fled north, all while you lot tarried over this here trial,” he cast a disparaging glance to the surrounding circle.

“Should a trial be re-convened?” the alderman asked warily.

“What trial is there to be convened?” Roland rolled his eyes and wiped the blood from his Malthorian Cross with a sweep of dirty cloth, “The boy is no witch, as demonstrated, and you have no other suspect.”

“There must be a trial, we must reconvene the remainder of the jury and see that justice is done properly,” Alderman Ham said.

“You must be joking,” Roland said acidly, “What is there to prove? What more proof is needed?”

“Law and tradition must be respected. You are not the only one with a claim to discerning justice,” Hellik sneered, the man's own anger boiling over.

“All you want is someone to hang. And a hapless fool who can hardly form a reasonable sentence makes the perfect target,” Roland shook his head in disgust, “You speak of tradition and law while leading a lynch mob.”

“Enough arguing,” Wissall said harshly, “Your claims may have merit, witch-hunter Arnow, and there will be a retrial. Yet we will not be rushed for the sake of your ego.”

The Malthorian froze, posture rigid as he realized the futility of further argument. He had no time for this. No time for an extended trial. No time to quibble over details with this rabble. He needed to leave, immediately.

And yet if you leave, a man will hang. Even worse the bastard Hellik would be considered vindicated. And that, that could not stand.

The witch-hunter allowed his face to relax, nodding once in acquiescence, “Very well, there will be a retrial, as you desire. But let it be swift, for my missive North has been delayed long enough.”