“Doesn't seem like much occurred,” Roland snorted cynically as they strode inside the cathedral. Almost instantly, his eyes were drawn to the vaulted ceilings far above, the cool mid-day light trickling through dusty stained glass to lend an eerie light to the vast space.

“It was beneath us, Master Arnow,” Louis said warily, “Down this way.”

The witch-hunter sighed as the man gestured toward a flight of steps, hidden in the rear of the ancient structure.

Korvin cast him a humored grimace as he saw his reticence, “Oh come now, you can't be scared of the dark? Or does the cold get your joints?”

At that the Malthorian shook his head, but said nothing, refusing to be goaded by the man's prodding. The catacombs were, of course, rather cold, and he pulled his greatcoat a little tighter as they passed into the crypts. A handful of oil lamps spat their light amid the dark hallways, casting surreal shadows along the stone walls. Little was out of the ordinary. Only the cross.

Roland could sense the ward begin to grow warm against his flesh. Korvin's latent aura could not be doing so. No, it had to be something else. The heat began to build to discomfort, making the hunter's brows furrow in concentration. Only a potent display of magic could have left such residue, far beyond the powers of most ordinary wizards. Instinctively he reached for the revolver at his hip, eyes glancing warily between the men around him. For his part, Korvin seemed unfazed, though he must have no doubt sensed the disturbance in the wyrd with greater clarity than even Malthors cross could provide.

Either the man was incredibly sure of himself and his own abilities, or incredibly stupid. If the echoes of the transpired events were enough to leave such a resonance then the witch involved must have been one worthy of wariness if nothing else. Then again, mages weren't exactly known for their humility or care. Roland's smirk drew a quizzical glance from Louis, though Korvin seemed not to notice, lazily resting his hand on the ornate saber at his side as they followed the insurgent ever deeper through the corridors.

Mentally, Roland tried to make note of every nook and cranny they passed, tracking the path that led ever deeper beneath through the labyrinthine maze. Dozens of the exits had been sealed following the small states occupation, yet many more remained opened, a myriad paths winding beneath the city of Frolingen and beyond.

“Here,” Louis said simply.

The witch-hunter believed it. His Malthorian cross burned bright, and he was forced to shift it over top his shirt to ameliorate the irksome pain.

And yet no amount of anticipation could have prepared him for the destruction that lay beyond. The massive antechamber Louis led them inside was a devastated husk. It had once been a burial hall of immense size, the length of the dark room dotted with ancient sarcophagi interspersed between the stone pillars that bore the ceilings weight, all leading the walkway to the plinth at the rooms far end, the old basalt memorial high-lit starkly against the bleached wall beyond. With a sweep of his eyes Roland took the length of the chamber in, drawn to the signs of recent damage that lined its edges. Pillars shattered, several of the graves scorched and washed with flame. He gulped with consternation at the sight of ash outlines plastered against the walls. It was all that remained of the men who had stood there, only to be incinerated in moments by wyrd-flame. The bodies may have been removed, yet a handful of the men's weaponry remained, scattered about where it had fallen. Whoever the witch was, she had been surrounded, yet it had done nothing to save those arrayed against her. The tinkling of metal made him glance down to his feet, catching sight of the deformed bullet clattering along the stonework. It was no mage killer, the projectile had never stood a chance against a magician's wards, and its wielder had paid the price.

“What madness have you fools brought upon yourselves,” the witch-hunter said, his voice loud and echoing within the silence.

A small smirk creased Korvin's face as he glanced up from his own bored inspection of the mayhem.

“They led her down here and she turned on them, when they tried to accost her, she killed them all,” Louis whispered, his voice quivering with emotion as he spoke.

Several more projectiles lay ruined upon the stones, melted and deformed from where they had struck the witch's barrier. They all faced the same direction, Roland saw now. Scattered, certainly, but all fired at a target fleeing the room.

“This amount of power. So little control,” Roland shook his head in disbelief, “Were there survivors?”

“None,” the Frolingian rebel's voice was hoarse, “She murdered them all.”

He narrowed his eyes as he strode to the far end of the room, right beside the plinth. The witch had stood there initially. Here a handful of projectiles faced the opposite direction. They had ambushed her, somehow. Not that it had done the men any good. Their weapons were of as much use as corn stalks against a scythe.

The plinth itself seemed un-harmed, its smooth surface interrupted by the intricate engraving atop it, a flowing script of runes, silver inlay, and gold-leaf interwoven to form a fine mesh atop the stone. The witch-hunter was mesmerized.

“Well, well, well,” he hissed under his breath, “A Verians.”

At that the Ruthenian agent raised his brow in surprise, his smirk turning to a slight frown of confusion. That by itself brought the smile back to the hunter's lips.

“You recognize it?”

“This could have been why they were down here,” he said, "Why they wanted to help."

“Perhaps,” the wizard said hesitantly, “Yet why? What is there to be had?”

You tell me. He thought to himself bitterly, examining the fine, settled dust atop the stonework. Strange.

“How long ago did this happen?” Roland asked abruptly, once more ignoring the question posed by the sorcerer.

He had to know how much of a head-start the witch had, and wasting time quibbling over her motivations would be no aid.

“Two days,” Korvin said immediately.

“Three,” Louis overrode him, "It's been three days now."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Why would Korvin say that? How could he even know? Pure speculation? Roland had taken the agent to be a more precise man than that. He could feel the Malthorian cross burning around his neck as he considered the question.

Three. They had waited three days to alert him. The Malthorian's nose twitched as the realization dawned on him.

“Three days,” he said finally, “You waited three days.”

“Nobody was made aware. Garnier attempted to keep the thing under,” Louis said apologetically, “The city watch was of no help. The garrison-”

“Shut up,” Roland said, his tone acrid and bitter, “I should have been notified immediately.”

“We were hesitant, you do not like dabbling in our business-” the insurgent began.

“What?” the witch-hunter's voice took an even more dangerous note.

Delayed. Led around like a fool. He could feel the fury building within him. Had Argus stood before him he would have struck the man for the delay. As it stood he only had Louis and Korvin.

“Petaine thought she was an ally,” the Ruthenian said simply, the words escaping him in a reluctant whisper, “He confided in me that we may have another sorceress on our side. An alchemist he had encountered at the market. He wished to bring her over to our cause. He was misled. And as we see fatally. I think it makes sense this has been kept. Secretive.”

Roland blinked.

“Argus worried you would be reluctant,” Louis tried to explain.

“Argus is an imbecile,” Roland snarled, “I should have been informed immediately.”

The witch hunter froze as his gloved hand clenched around the grip of his revolver. Louis was watching him wide-eyed, hunched as if ready to flee. He needed to calm himself.

“To think the trail is still warm-” the Malthorian hesitated, regaining his composure, “We're dealing with something far beyond the norm. As if it wasn't clear by her handiwork.”

He could almost hear the slight sigh of relief coming from the young rebel as he suppressed his rage.

“So you can track her down?” Korvin asked bluntly.

Roland nodded.

“Which way did she flee master Iru,” he said coolly.

“Back into the halls, fled out into the catacombs and to the streets above, simple as that,” the man shrugged.

“What of the lookout? Don't tell me Garnier's son thought this was intelligent to meet beneath the largest cathedral in this damn city without a watch?”

“This deep beneath Frolingen Roland?” Louis chuckled, “You really don't know this city, as much as you may want to think you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cathedral is deep inside Kaimoral territory,” the young insurgent chuckled, self-confidence surging back into his voice, “Our territory. Astanian patrols disappear here. The king's representatives don't come here without sizable force. And they don't want any more trouble than they already have. You don't need lookouts here.”

Roland swallowed, nodding as he followed along. The cross's burn was slowly dying down. He did not have long to wait as it vented the expelled wyrd energies back whence they had come.

“Leave. I want to see something,” he motioned for Korvin's departure.

“Are you sure?” the sorcerer asked.

“Of course I'm sure,” the witch hunter snorted, “Your presence is making it difficult for me to get a grip on this woman's trail, and every second is precious. Give it a few more minutes and my cross will have nothing left to latch onto.”

For once it was the Ruthenian's turn to be silent. He gave Roland a stiff nod of acknowledgment and vanished back into the catacombs, his footsteps fast departing.

“Should I also leave?” Louis asked warily.

“Stay with me, if I find something, I need someone to send back a report, and I can't exactly drop the trail whenever I please,” he said.

Roland shifted the protective totem back against his flesh as he retraced his steps, sparing little more than a final glance at the antechamber he left behind. This was a hunt, and he could feel his pulse quicken as he followed the witch's path. It was a simple process. As long as the cross burned from the malefic energies it dispersed, he was on the right trail, it was simply a matter of hoping the target's trail had not worn cold before he reached her.

“She didn't exit from the church?” he asked in surprise as the path turned a new corner, toward the unlit darkness leading away from Frolingen.

“Only God knows how many exits there are,” Louis shrugged, “She could have left through any one of them.”

“Very helpful,” the Malthorian shook his head in aggravation, “Just what we needed to know.”

Grabbing a lamp he led the way deeper into the catacombs. The woman could not have gone far before resurfacing. If the Kaimoral quarter was half as secure as Louis made it out to be, he doubted she would have stayed long, no doubt bolting for the nearest exit and fleeing the settlement as soon as prudent.

Fortunately, she didn't try to hide which way.

He smirked slightly as he saw several deep dashes in the thick layer of dust that lined the corridor. The witch had fled without caution, and it eased the pursuit greatly. A scuff here, a slight indent there. Even a novice tracker could have picked up the signs, and he soon had no need of the cross to provide him with guidance. It was simply confirmation. Its slow and steady burn affirmed that the path he followed was the one, and not simply the conduct of some other, more mundane visitor.

“Stop, this way,” he felt his voice echo as he spoke those words in the dank darkness.

He could feel a slight breeze caress his skin. They were close to an exit, that much was clear. Or really, the opening the witch had created. He could still make out the remains of boulders and rubble where the royal engineers had once tried to seal this exit off, blasted into smithereens amidst the target's flight. Roland gripped his revolver tightly, drawing it and holding it level before him. Whether witch or city guard, he was taking no chances facing opposition on the other end.

“Stay back,” he gestured at Louis, ordering the insurgent to stay clear as he approached the white-lit fork before them.

The man fell back in confusion, replacing his old flintlock into its holster and peering from the darkness as Roland made his slow crawl to the exit.

No chances. He had no doubt the man's mind shone brightly in the wyrd, burning clearly in a way Roland did not within the Malthorian crosses protection. Setting the lamp aside the hunter made his way down the final stretch of the corridor, stalking slowly and cautiously toward the exit. Every sound seemed to amplify, the slight shift of the small pebbles beneath his feet seeming like a hailstorm as they ground against one another.

Slowly.

Slowly.

Roland's breath caught as he swung his weapon around the corner.

Nothing.

He almost sighed at the sight. Whether in disappointment or relief, he was not sure. An exit from the catacombs lay before them, the fine white light of noon shining through the crag.

“We're clear,” he said calmly, gesturing for Louis to come out of cover, “Fled through the graveyard. Great.”

He frowned as he climbed his way clear of the underground. The Frolingen cemetery. Old, overgrown, far from the city center. And covered in snow. That made things difficult, masking any further traces of the witch's escape beneath a blanket of white. All he had was the Malthorian cross to follow.

Roland's face was screwed up in consternation as he tried to focus on the intensity of the Malthorians burn. It was an imprecise art, following the totem's path, but it was the best way of tracking a mage under such circumstances. The foothills. The hunter glared up beyond the city limits as he followed the path he was being led upon. So that was where she had fled.

He glanced about warily, eyes alert for any unwanted attention. This close to the city outskirts one could never be too careful about patrols, especially when they appeared like a pair of daylight graverobbers.

All clear.

Roland gripped the Malthorian cross tightly, his gaze inadvertently drawn back to the peaks of the Telos in the distance. Damnable mountains.

“Thought I was done with this nonsense,” he whispered wistfully.

“What's that?” his companion asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” he shook his head and began his march toward the cemetery's edge, hand clasped tight against the relic burning against his chest.

“She fled out there?” the young man asked.

“Yes,” Roland nodded.

Why flee there? Ruthenia was too far, the border secured, and the snows all but blockading the pass. What could have driven her out here, rather than back into the city? Why would an agent of Astana go there? None of the others had said anything about pursuing her outside the city limits. He moistened his lips as the wrought iron gates of the cemetery swung open, freeing them to the city outskirts. Beyond lay only the border road, and the long trek to Ruthenia beyond.

“Louis,” he said quietly.

The man did not respond.

“Louis,” he repeated, his voice louder this time.

“What is it?” the rebel answered.

“Go. Get my horse,” he said abruptly.

“Why? What's wrong?” Louis asked pensively.

“She's left the city,” he announced, “Get my horse. Get my things. Send a report back to Argus. I'm going to follow this trail as long as I can, then double back to meet you at the city gates.”

“What about supplies?”

“Already have three days worth. If I don't catch her by then, well she's too far gone to be an issue,” Roland smirked confidently.

“And what of the others? What do I inform them?” the insurgent asked, hesitant.

The Malthorian sighed and licked chapped lips as he gazed up at the mountains.

What was there to say, really?

“Let them know I've found the witch's trail, I'm in pursuit, and this problem should not persist for long.”