Another day in this miserable cesspit. Truly fortune did not smile upon him. Roland adjusted his hat as he made his way inside the dilapidated interior of the Ernheim courthouse.
Bah, courthouse.
To call it such was an insult to courts anywhere.
Much like the rest of Ernheim, the structure was an archaic affair, bordering on the decrepit even. A cursory glance at the cracked cross-beams and buckets set to catch seepage left no doubts as to how poorly it was maintained, and how little use it saw. As he made his way to the main courtroom, there was little décor or fanfare to be had. Just a few wooden benches for the spectators, with a raised dais for the officials set at the head of the great hall. Roland had to wonder just how many had gathered for this sham of a trial as he strode inside the overcrowded building. It seemed as if half the town had decided to make an appearance for the event, a sea of rabble curious to see what the new witch-hunter had to say in defense of the accused.
At the main table, a small throng of local officials clustered, from Alderman Ham to Priest Wissall of the Southern Church. Roland could not help but feel a pang of nervousness at the sight of the holy man. Already he knew that no simple insistence would be enough to sate their convictions, nor enough to slake the blood lust of the mob that awaited the witches burning outside. The marks of the witch had been disproven. Or at least one had. He had no time for the rite of soul, nor the tools for the rite of determination. Blood had been the only choice, and fortunately the most reliable, even if these bumpkins might not know it.
Perhaps it would have sufficed elsewhere, in a more educated, civilized court of law. But here, surrounded by paranoia and superstition, the witch-hunter had no such confidence. He would have to come up with a poignant defense, although what, he could not say.
With grim countenance and grimmer thoughts, Roland Arnow strode to his seat at the fore of the hall, casting a disdainful gaze at the mob that leaned forth to see him. Simpering idiots looking for entertainment. Roland pulled his greatcoat tight, feeling strangely naked without his weapons. All left at the door save for the small knife in the folds of his sleeve. Aldrich sat alongside him, shuffling sideways to sit closer to his mother. No others sat near them, as if the mere presence of a witch-accused was enough to drive the rabble clear.
Let them suit themselves. Roland thought bitterly, glancing at the seated officials with slitted eyes. There was no judge. Ham presided over the small affair, the ten-man collective that passed for a jury sitting alongside him. Town citizens of note, the witch-hunter thought, trying to gauge what their professions might be. Two of them seemed far too cleanly dressed, their clothing too new and appearance too modern for such a backwater, no doubt merchants of some note. He only recognized three who had witnessed his demonstration the day prior, and thus could be counted on to some degree. The remainder were less impressive, seeming more in line with the destitute appearance of the remainder of Ernheim. How difficult they would be to convince, Roland did not know. Certainly, he did not trust their ability to judge in an impartial manner given the circumstance, but he refrained from saying so, instead allowing his eyes to drift toward the opposition.
Seated at the simple pew across the aisle was the prosecution, a small gaggle of witnesses headed by Hellik. The damnable man seeming to have a resurgence of confidence amid the sympathetic crowd. Hellik. That was the key to all of this. The man who would press for Aldrich's death no matter the cost, if only to assuage a bruised ego. It was only the hammering of a gavel against wood that brought Roland's eyes forward once more.
"Order! Order" the Alderman called out, the rolling thrum of conversing citizenry diminishing to absolute silence as the trial was initiated.
"We are all here-" He glanced around the room, paying particular attention to Roland, "For the purpose of a re-trial of Aldrich Roll, standing accused of crime most severe. The crime of witchcraft. Of great bodily harm. Of the destruction of property. And of attempted murder."
Strictly speaking, witchcraft was not a crime. Though Roland did not feel like correcting the statement.
"This is idiocy! The matter should be closed-" began one of the supposed witnesses, a graying man with more gaps in his teeth than hairs on his head, drawing a hammering of the gavel from Ham.
"Quiet, Steerman. We must have order. There has been new- new evidence. Brought by master Roland Arnow here," he indicated the Malthorian with a wave of his hand, "He wishes to plead on the boy's behalf."
The man stared daggers at Roland, the clear hatred in his eyes almost making the witch-hunter laugh.
"Now, if we could have master Sevar Hellik present the prosecution's side," the man said, a hesitant tone in his voice, "I do apologize for the necessary repetition."
"Of course," the man said with a bow, his fur-clad frame rising to stand before the assembled crowd, "It is my honor."
"Weeks ago. The man you see- Aldrich, this witch, he ceased his attendance to Father Wissall's holy congregation-" he began slowly, theatrically, "Using that opportunity to practice his black magics. To consort with devils while no others could bear witness. He gathered this unholy power to perform many a wicked act, and were it not for his attempted murder of farmer Boure, he would have continued his vile deeds."
"Fortunately. By holy grace, Boure yet lives, and by divination and testimony, we have the culprit," he spoke the words with conviction and authority, and Roland could see the crowd nod along in agreement.
Everyone here knew. Or they thought they knew. The boy was guilty in their minds before his defense had even been spoken.
"If you- honored members of the jury- would please hear out the witnesses of these vile attacks-" Hellik finished his sermon, stepping back to allow the first alleged victim to take the stand.
An elderly man, describing how his chickens had disappeared, faithful hound unable to catch the culprit. But it had all started when he had spoken to Aldrich in the town square. It took all of Roland's effort not to roll his eyes at the rambling story. And to think it was only the first of many.
A parade of witnesses followed. Each describing the horrors that had befallen them. Dead cattle. Diseases and pox. Filthy well water. Not one had seen the boy of course. But they had seen the results. They'd seen him muttering to himself after all. No doubt the juror's minds were racing as they contemplated what vile incantations could have caused such devastation.
How much more absurd can it get?
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Roland struggled not to yawn, doing his best to pay respectful attention as farmer Boure's wife stepped forward, tearfully describing the destruction of her husband's barn, and the fact that he now lay gravely injured, bedridden, and crippled by the attack.
The one true act of sorcery in this whole damnable affair. And the one issue that would cast doubt upon the matter. As the unfortunate woman sat back down, Roland sighed to himself. It was finally over. The last of the witnesses was expended.
"Well, master Arnow?" Ham asked with raised brow, indicating the floor was his, shaking Roland from his momentary lethargy, "What is your- repudiation of these facts."
Blinking slightly, Roland stepped forward, palm resting on the spot of his belt where his revolver would have normally been. The room was held in rapt attention, waiting for what they no doubt expected would be an outlandish excuse for the young man's supposed actions.
"Magic has rules," he said the words slowly, making sure to emphasize every single one, "I would know. I have hunted the witch. Studied the witch. Killed the witch." Every syllable enunciated to hammer home where he stood, to build up his reputation to a disbelieving crowd, "I have seen the cruelty such power can commit. And I have seen its limitations. To concoct plague or poison wells, that is not within its realm of possibility. Both the scriptures, and the treatises of my order and others attest to such fact."
He could already see Hellik rising to argue, the angry glares of the supposed witnesses. The "victims" of magic.
Raising his palm to pre-empt the protest, he continued speaking uninterrupted, "And yet- And yet- Sorcery- Sorcery was committed here," Roland said simply, nodding his head in acknowledgment of the fact, "Miss Boure, there can be no doubt that your farm was burned by witch-fire. Your husband injured by that same dark force, and I am sorry for your tragedy, truly." Whether his feigned sympathy won any hearts, he did not know, but the effort had to be made.
"It has been many a year since I have witnessed the aftermath of such power, the likes of which can only be channeled by a sorcerer of the greatest potency," he continued his speech, fighting back the smile as the crowd clung to every word, "And that is power the boy lacks. He has no sorcerous potential-"
“The boy is tainted by evil, I divined it with the blessed Ashola's Tarot,” Hellik insisted, interrupting his carefully concocted speech.
“You divined nothing, if any judge of repute were available, they'd laugh such claims out of court,” Roland snapped in retort, his anger bubbling at the other witch-hunters' obstinate stupidity.
"Yesterday. You. The honorable masters Ham and Wissall, as well as some of the others, raise your hands if you please-" he said as he indicated the men of the jury present, "You all witnessed the Rite of Blood. This boy's blood. Spilled upon Malthor's Cross. A full-proof method of proving one's sorcerous potential. You did witness, did you not?"
A couple of grumbled agreements and subtle nods followed from the gathered group, confirming the witch-hunter's words.
"And what did you witness?" he asked, earning himself silence. “Nothing,” Roland said bitterly, “Nothing at all.” He turned toward Hellik, then glanced to Aldrich, "Nothing because the boy is no witch. No sorcerer. He is entirely incapable of performing the feats witnessed."
“This boy is of simple mind, and simple soul,” he said with finality, addressing the crowd about him, “No sorcerer, nor a threat to any of you. There is not the slightest drop of the wyrd blood in him.” He sighed, lowering his hands in supplication, "Sorcery was performed here. Many were gravely hurt. Of that there can be no doubt- yet the true perpetrator, he is long gone. Fled like the cowardly dealer of darkness he is."
"He was searching for something, something of great value, something he was willing to kill to acquire," Roland said, "The perpetrator must be hunted down. In that, let me be clear. There must be justice. And I will see justice done. But it will not be found butchering an innocent boy."
He could see the jury nodding, the grim, suspicious faces mumbling among themselves as they worked to come to an agreement.
"The boy is a witch-" Hellik burst out, anger contorting his brows. He was the one man who could not be dissuaded, who would prosecute to the bitter end. "It was witnessed. It was divined. What higher authority can there be than God himself verifying the vile nature of the-"
"Ashola's Tarot is meaningless. Disproven at Tannabrae," Roland said, his voice flat and monotone, as if bored of the man's ramblings, "You are a charlatan. A fraud. A lying hack who belongs back in the Northern hell from whence you were spawned."
"God-" the man was seething, entirely unwilling to admit his defeat in the moment, "There must be further testing- Trial by Ordeal-"
There was no time for such things. Roland couldn't afford to wait any longer, "God shows us all the truth. The Rite of Blood is the proof. Verified by the Southern Church most holy. By Saints Carahan and Boniface. Begone. Peddler of deceit."
"I am the Thrice Blessed. You slander my name-" he shook his head, "You slander my order. The Holy Troia. I challenge you- I challenge you in the name of all holy!" Hellik was fuming, sputtering in anger as he tried to form a coherent sentence.
For the first time, Roland allowed a slow, wolfish grin to crease his mouth.
"I challenge you on the field of conflict!" The man shouted finally, drawing himself up and pointing an accusatory finger. The gauntlet was dropped.
"I challenge you to rite of combat!"
That. That was an acceptable resolution.
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“You're a madman. You're insane,” Hubert shook his head in dismay as Roland strode toward the clearing, "Do you hear me Roland? You're fucking insane!"
The young officer ignored him, keeping his steely blue eyes fixated on the path ahead.
“Roland, you've fought alongside him for years! You can't do this!” his friend shouted, impotent anger filling his voice.
The officer sneered and withdrew a long pistol from his belt, pulling the greatcoat tighter against the frosty chill and continuing his forward march.
“The marshal will be furious! Don't do this for your damned pride!” Hubert pleaded with the man, “For God's sake. Don't throw everything away.”
“Devil take the marshal and what he thinks,” Roland turned on his friend, voice grating with absolute contempt, “Rissen slaughtered those people, all on the advice of that cretinous witch-hunter Greshin. Trying to smoke out the wizard he said. Trying to force him out. I know what sorcerers are. Watched them burn Grismund's company to a man at Paderswald. I've fought them. Killed them. Bear the scars to prove it, Hubert. They're a contemptible bunch the lot of them. Self-serving, power-hungry bastards. But that witch we killed? It should have never come to it. Never.”
“She attacked your men. She attacked you. She very nearly killed you! Roland, please, see reason! Rissen is not your enemy here!” Hubert's voice took on an ever greater desperation.
“The witch was a child. A fucking child. Rissen and his men slaughtered her family, all because of that imbecilic witch hunter, and she snapped. You would have done the same,” Roland snarled, his voice a roar of hatred as he closed to striking distance of his friend.
“I killed a child. A damned child,” he said suddenly, voice calm and cold, “She couldn't have been more than twelve Hubert. She didn't deserve that. It should have never been us or her. He turned her on us, and he got my men killed. Good, honest men of the Brachsenburg Light. Men who weren't even there to commit the act. My men. An innocent family. An innocent little girl. All because of that degenerate.”
“You'll lose your commission!” his friend said, “You'll never be allowed to serve again.”
“I don't care,” Roland said, shrugging indifferently.
“It was a mistake, it happens in war,” Hubert said finally, the protest weak and indecisive.
“There was no mistake,” the officer snorted and turned away, heading directly for the chosen field of duel.
“Neither of you are witch-hunters, you couldn't have known,” Hubert called out.
“We knew. Rissen knew. The hunter knew. The real sorcerer escaped. And too many died. There is a blood price that must be paid for that Hubert, and fortunately for him, Greshin is already dead,” Roland didn't bother turning around, striding toward the open patch of frost-covered grass, “All that remains is to correct the matter of Rissen.”
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Brother Hellik eyed Roland warily as he strode into the open field, as if the dawn's chill had sapped his conviction. The Malthorian lips twitched upward as he took his place at one end of a twenty-pace line. It was a terrible, gruesome smile. One that never quite reached his eyes. Their gazes met, and Roland's grin broadened.
The guard sergeant eyed the two men critically, clearly disbelieving what was taking place. He read out the agreement of the duel. The rules. One shot each. If no harm was done, no further conflict was to follow. The matter would be deemed resolved. Roland's smile faded slightly at the statement. There would be no peaceful resolution.
“Do you both agree to these statements, by which this duel shall take place,” the sergeant asked.
“I agree,” the Malthorian said icily.
“I agree,” Hellik nodded.
“Adjudicator, I leave it in your hands, and Gods,” the sergeant said, taking a step back and allowing the portly judge to take his place.
“At the dropping of the flag. Consider this duel begun,” the adjudicator said simply, raising a plain red banner attached to a short wooden stave.
The flag rose.
Both witch-hunters' weapons were raised with it. Paired dueling pistols, dedicated by the constabulary. The weapon was an unnatural fit in Roland's palm. He adjusted his grip slightly. The pendant fluttered, tugged along by the morning breeze. Roland paid it nearly no mind, barely noting the little cloth out of the corner of his eye. His boots ground slowly into the frost as he took on a duelist's stance. A deep, ragged breath escaped his lips.
The flag fell.