...For we are the light. We must reap the daughters of Yanthea upon the threshing floor. The wicked must not be allowed to prosper. The corrupt must not oppress the virtuous. So root out all those who wield the unnatural arts for their own selfish desires, and purge them with cleansing fire. For if they are allowed to flourish, woe will befall all.
The Tenants of the Order of Thelris, Chapter VII
On the island of Fen, nestled thirty miles off the coast from the mainland of Itaria, the old beating heart of the Empire laid the Bastion. Both a naval fortress brimming with cannon and a prison with walls so thick and strong that even the most calamitous storm would not dislodge a single stone. An unmoving symbol of the church’s strength, and the Emperor’s will, each stone was laid with precision and inscribed with the sigils taught by Mheriam, Goddess of Love and Miracles, to anchor the divine cords and keep the witches contained within.
While many women of the church who vowed their life in service of the divines longed to become Provosts; who served as guards, escorts, protectors and executioners of the witches, Athia Monn did not.
Though she served the same sect and she now served as a Provost, she was cut of a different cloth. Her life’s purpose was to hunt witches, and she swore that she would again. She sat in the heavy black runed armor of the Provost, resting on her legs in a pose of supplication and prayer before the steps of the Altar of the Seven Divines. The armor seemed to absorb the light of the room like an inky void; segmented pieces of blackened steel laced together with thick rivets and leather bands dyed scarlet. Upon each and every large scale was etched a various rune, derived from ancient holy symbols taught by Mheriam from the first age, when the Divines still walked upon the firmaments. She wore the armor like a second skin, spending countless hours within its stiff and rigid confines until they felt molded to her. While heavy armor as a whole had been all but made obsolete by the advent of gunpowder and modern weaponry, the church was not concerned with such attacks. They were concerned with those of a much more wicked and deadly kind.
The room she sat in was vast with heavy white marble ornamentation laid in perfect alignment, and painted in hues of alabaster blues and greens; A large red and gold carpet separated the hall, running from the altar to the heavy wood doors at the entrance. Statues representing each divine lined the chapel hall while Astram’s pedestal, head of the Pantheon, was laid bare with a large glass window that allowed the Sun’s light to shine upon it. Who could depict Astram’s sight with as much majesty as the morning light of the Sun itself?
Her smooth ebon skin shimmered in the Bastion of Fen’s empty chapel, the blue tribal line markings tattooed on her face twisted in a grimace as her feline-like eyes glowed in search of some hidden danger. Her cat-like ears flicked atop her head as her armored knee grinded against the cold stone-floor. She lifted her knee and bowed her head, snarling as she did so.
“Blessed are you ever-knowing and all-powerful Astram. For bringing me to such an accursed place so that I may learn peace.” Athia Monn spat the words of prayer.
She gripped the handle of her Biehefdan sword, hanging from her side, with instinctual familiarity. The blade made a faint metallic hum as it slid from its soft scabbard before she hefted the 6 pound blade onto her armored shoulder. She began to practice her combat forms from memory though the chapel was not meant for such exercises, she did not care.
The Biehefdan sword was an ancient executioner’s weapon, passed down through her family, generation to generation; With three decorative holes cut in a triangular shape to represent her tribes’ false gods at its flat squared point, the blade itself was especially wide, running a hand’s palm width nearly the whole five feet of razor-sharp rectangular length. It had small spiked brass quillons and a long cord-wrapped handle worn ragged with use and age. While a smaller and lighter blade would be more than effective for her work, she still preferred the heft of a Biehefdan. It had once belonged to her father and had served her tribe well, and against an unarmored opponent, decapitation came as easily as the wind, and at the least, the wounds it created were catastrophic. She slid back and forth along the blood-red carpet of the cathedral as her morning prayers to the Six continued.
“Blessed are you Terfinos, patron god of our order, for your wisdom knows no bounds. Though I fail to see the wisdom in my fate.”
She twisted, throwing her shoulder and hips into an overhead swing that would have bisected most men. It had, as a matter of fact, on two different occasions.
“Bless you Arrenoth, for stripping me of my position and privilege. The god of war who removes warriors from battle and their purpose, how quaint.”
She gripped her blade with her gauntleted hand, half-swording the weapon to block an invisible blow before using the momentum to spin the blade in her palm, and bringing it slicing across horizontally with a resounding hum.
“Bless you Mheriam, Goddess of love, though you have never shown me any compassion. May you ever weep over Arrenoth’s half-rotten form forever.”
She twisted the blade behind her back, allowing the momentum of the heavy blade to continue its travel, and letting it sail into her open palm. She thrusted the flat tip forward, crushing an imaginary opponent's ribcage.
“Bless you Peltra, for trapping me on an isle surrounded by a sea of your endless black tears!”
Her dark-skin was covered in sweat, her heart beating like a drum as her sword’s movements began to make a reverberating, thrumming song that vibrated through the small chapel. It was a melodic and haunting tune for which the Biehefdan sword was known for, Oran a ‘Bhais, the song of death.
A song that would strike fear into any enemy who fought against the Basador, the veteran warriors called from the various tribes of Talyia to fight invaders in times of war. It was said that a line of Basadors swinging their Biehefdan blades caused whole armies to flee in terror. Her father had been a Basador, and had trained her in the deadly art of her people before his life had been brutally snuffed out.
“And to you great Volkentan, you noble hairy mongrel! I pray that your divine storms will someday tear this place asunder along with all Yanthea’s accursed!”
“...Quite an interesting take on your prayers.” A matronly voice interrupted.
Athia lost her concentration as she spun the blade, and twisted, carrying the blade’s full heft into a standing and unlit brass candelabra nearby. She winced as her sword chopped cleanly through the brass stand, and stuck deeply into the stone flooring below. She turned, releasing the sword, and glanced at the woman who spoke before bowing with forced reverenance.
“Mother Renis, I thought I was alone.”
“Obviously.” The elderly Provost said with an uptight smile, “It seems that these two months at this accursed Fen have done little to temper you, your fighting prowess, or your hatred of the Witches.”
Athia frowned, “But they have! I am more than capable of-”
“Oh I know it. You are one of the finest witch-hunters that the church has, but your skills are only matched by your renowned brutality. You have a reputation of making things too personal, and you’ve made many enemies of the Provosts here. They describe you as a caged and starved animal ready to consume anyone who approaches. While you should be studying the scriptures, you practice war arts. When you should be praying, you are instead destroying our chapel and blaspheming the Seven.”
She wouldn’t argue with Mother Renis, head of the church’s Provost guard at the Bastion, everything she said was correct. She had no love for any of these ‘protectors’. She had been forced to reside here as punishment, and she made that known at every opportunity. So what if she made them upset? They may have been two branches on the same limb, but they were an anathema to everything Athia believed.
“Six, Mother Renis.” Athia corrected, “There are only six deities that deserve our prayers and respect.”
The matronly Provost, armor plates squeaking, walked to a deity’s statue that sat apart from the rest. A skeletal-like smiling woman with an exposed breast nursing a malformed babe and wrapped in a flowing decayed dress. The fringes of the dress revealed large tentacle-like appendages sprouting from underneath where her legs should have been. Athia felt a sudden revulsion as Mother Renis placed a hand on the altar.
“If not for the Goddess Yanthea, how would the dead be led to find peace? How would we appreciate the goodness of life if not for her pestilence and disease? There must be a balance to everything in life. For all that is good, there must be evil. The shadow makes the light all the warmer.”
“You don’t expect me to bow down and worship her do you?”
“No, of course not.” Mother Renis chuckled, “But to deny her existence as a Divine in the Pantheon is just as foolish. Don’t get swept up in that reformist dogmatism that Arch-Father Herndon has been pressing from the pulpit. I’m sure that your time here has at least taught you that.”
Athia nodded politely, but felt sick in doing so. To give Yanthea any praise or to even acknowledge her was bordering on heresy in her eyes. If she were still a Witch-Hunter, she would have had the Mother stripped and flogged for that, but alas the Six decided to put her subordinate to this witch lover. She yanked her sword from the stonework with a frown. She was tempted for a brief moment to behead the foul effigy of Yanthea just to prove a point, but she thought better of it. She inspected her blade for any damage, noting a few nicks that would need to be mended, before returning it to its soft leather sheath. She turned towards Mother Renis and crossed her arms as she felt frustration towards the head provost’s intrusion into her prayers growing.
“So why are you here?”
“I have decided, after conferring with the other senior guard, that you can no longer stay here at the Fen.”
Athia could not hide her surprise. Could her prayers have finally been answered? “So I am returning to my sect? To the Mainland?”
“No. We were charged with tempering your animosity towards the Witches, but leaving you cooped up on this isle is not working.”
“Of course it isn’t! Why is it wrong for me to hate them?! They are wicked! They are very evil that festers in our Empire!”
“Regardless of what you or even some of my Provosts here believe, the Witches are still people. They did not choose to be cursed by Yanthea, but that is what they are. Many of the girls here have willingly chosen to turn themselves in; You should know that, you and your kind have helped capture all of them. If you just took time to talk to them, it might surprise you. There are some girls here who are more devout in their prayers and scripture reading than most of the priests I’ve known.”
Athia snarled in disgust, “If Arch-Father Herndon heard such talk, he’d condemn your speech as heresy. You’d probably be burned and flogged.”
“But he isn’t here, and he has no power over me in any case. I was placed here by the church council just as you have been. And as the Cardinal has personally tasked me with taming you, I feel a more drastic step is needed.”
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“Such as?” Athia growled.
“I’ve decided that you will be part of the upcoming Aegis.”
“WHAT?!” Athia growled as she slammed her fist against a pillar, “It’s bad enough that I have to reside next to them, but I am not going to play nursemaid to one!”
Mother Renis wrinkles deepened as she frowned, “You will be part of the Aegis! Or do you deem yourself above serving the Emperor himself? Every woman here would dream of having this honor, and yet you want to toss it aside for your own petty misgivings?”
“Then send one of them instead! I refuse to-
“I have permission from the Cardinal himself to strip you of your remaining titles and ranks if I deem it necessary. If you won’t cooperate, I will not hesitate! It is obvious that simply being in proximity to the Witches is not enough, and with you disturbing and causing discontent among the Provosts here, I feel that you serving as Aegis would do you well.”
“That would be a mistake! Strip me of my rank? After everything I’ve sacrificed?!”
“Be Quiet!”
“I’m the best Witch-Hunter the church has; I’ve never lost my prey, not once.The church will never strip me of my rank; I’m too important.”
“Are you finished?!” The elderly provost’s voice became shrill and harsh, “ Do I need to remind you that you killed a witch in custody, in chains no less, with no provocation?!”
“She was touching the strands! She was going to-”
“I don’t care! You’ve already argued your case before the Cardinal and he placed you here in my care!” Mother Renis spat angrily before letting out a long pent-up breath “I’ve been told what happened to your family, and I understand you wanting to lash out, but you must realize that not all the witches are malevolent. They are every bit the people we are, just given a heavier burden than the rest.”
Athia bit her tongue, but this borderline heretical drivel that Mother Renis was spouting only made her more upset. The church taught that all Witches were marked by Yanthea as her chosen daughters. By their very definition, the Witches were malevolent.
“Fine. If you want me as Aegis, you’ll have me.” Athia spat through clenched teeth, “But I warn you, if my charge so much as errs out of line, I’ll not hesitate to end her!”
“You will do no such thing! Despite your personal feelings, they are still the Emperor’s property. You know the law. Unless the witch attacks you or someone else without permission, you will not touch a hair on her head! Do you understand?”
Athia groaned in frustration.
“Do you understand?! You were already forgiven for your outburst that brought you here, uncharacteristically so, but if you do so again, I will have you stripped and excommunicated!”
Athia frowned and then conceded with a nod.
“Good!” Mother Renis said, “Then you will depart on the Sevren with the chosen Witch and you will serve as the Emperor’s Aegis together for the Great Hunt. Upon completion, you will return here with the Witch safely in tow. If you do as I ask, I will consider you tempered, and will release you back into the wilds, as a good hunter, all titles and positions restored. Do I make myself clear?”
“Completely.” Athia bowed slightly though she could not hide her obvious displeasure. At the very least it will not be much longer, she thought, “Thank you, your grace.”
The Aegis was an annual honor for which a Witch and her protector, known as a Dyad, would escort the Emperor on the Great Hunt. The hunt had grown larger and more garish with each passing year, being attended by the nobility from every corner of the Empire, since it had been organized over a century ago with the end of the Anatarian invasion. The hunt was usually conducted far from the safety of the walls of the Capital of Hevard, and traditionally, the Aegis was designed as a shield against potential attacks from the Divine strands, but that was no longer the case. Now the Aegis in attendance was more a show of power by the Emperor, a reminder to the noble houses that he still had the Witches at his disposal if he so chooses. Athia was surprised the hunt was still happening at all despite the recent fall of Basira and the disappearance of High Prince Abran, but perhaps a sense of normalcy in such trying times was what was needed.
Athia raised her head, expecting to see the Mother gone from her presence, but instead the woman gave a cursory glance around the chapel before leaning towards her conspiratorially like she was about to reveal some great secret.
“Now there is another matter we must discuss. I’ve heard that you have a unique talent that has aided you in finding witches. I was told you can hear the Strands, but you cannot see them or touch them, is that true?” She whispered.
“Why? Did something happen? Athia teased the woman as she twisted her head.
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t actually hear them, but I can feel them vibrating if they are touched. The moment a Witch begins touching the strands, I’ll know.”
“And that is why you don’t have the wards etched on your skin?”
Athia sighed. It was the same issue that her superiors had when she chose not to take the sacred marks on her face. Although they kept a witch from influencing her mind, that would come at the cost of cutting her off completely from her talent to feel the strands. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make, and her previous superiors could not argue with the results her talents brought although they were unconventional, “If you're worried that a Witch may try to influence my mind, you shouldn’t. My helmet still protects me from their influence if needed.”
“So can you feel them before the armor’s wards begin to glow?”
“It depends, sometimes seconds, sometimes minutes, but I always feel it before they strike.”
“What about afterward?”
“After what?
“After the strand is touched, can you still feel it?”
Athia was confused by the question “Why would that matter?”
“Satisfy my curiosity.”
“Have you ever plucked a taut string? The divine strands do the same. I can feel them for minutes, hours, even days afterwards if enough are played. That helps me track witches on the run, but I don’t see how that’ll aid us here. None of these witches here have fled, have they?”
“Follow me.”
Before Athia could even respond, Mother Renis was already heading quickly out the chapel doors. She followed at a brisk pace, trying to keep pace with the older woman, but she was surprisingly agile for her age. She avoided eye contact with the other Provosts as she led them through the courtyard, down the stone steps leading past the dinner hall, and towards the holding cells for the Witches. A few Witches noticed them passing, one was tending to flowers inside a dirt bed, and another was reading quietly in a chair, but neither met her gaze directly. Why aren’t they in their cells? Athia thought bitterly. They walked through a stone doorway inscribed with hundreds of divine marks and down into the labyrinthian and dark hallways of the prison. Some of the rooms were sparsely decorated, containing only a bare modicum of effort from their occupants, while others were filled with enough furniture and decoration for a small house. Athia had never had any reason to travel into the cells since she arrived, but the fact that the Witches were allowed to live in such lavish and comforting rooms was upsetting. They should have been locked away in small gray rooms with beds carved from rock and nothing else, or better yet, burned at the stake. The Empire and Church were wasting so many resources catering to these wicked creatures when they should have just rounded them up and burned them as they once had. Mother Renis led towards a small cage door near the corner of the highest wall, but Athia already knew why as she stopped outside the door.
“This room belongs to one of our witches here. I want to see if-”
Athia held up her hand and stepped inside. She hadn’t even needed to step into the room to feel the thrum of the strands, she could feel them as they had walked down the hallway. It felt like there were bundles of millions of strands reverberating around her, but yet the wards of her black armor didn’t react at all. Strange. She could feel the very ground vibrating ever so slightly beneath her feet, and the air was so heavy and dense with energy that she almost had difficulty breathing. She stepped out of the room gasping for breath, “What has happened here?”
“A young Goblin woman named Brenna resides here, she claims she’s been having dreams and she’s been using the strands while she sleeps.”
“She’s lying.”
“What makes you think that?”
“That amount of strands weaved together is unlike anything I’ve seen. Even a highly gifted Witch would have difficulty weaving with that complexity without intense concentration.”
“I would agree with you, but her Nightwatch has caught her in the middle of one of these dreams a few nights before. The girl couldn’t be roused, even with cool water, and she had such an intricate weave of strands put together in her sleep that they were pulling her from her cot.”
Athia felt a shiver run down her spine and into her tail, “Then she must be incredibly powerful, I’m guessing one of the most talented here?”
Mother Renis shook her head, “Actually quite the opposite, she refuses to even touch the strands willingly. She spends most of her days praying or reading scripture or other texts. Have you seen weaves like this before?”
“There was a Witch in a small fishing village off the coast of Numbruk, near the capital of Jarrut’sk. She had been hiding for quite a while, at least two months without any sign. She was a widow, her husband had been stoned to death by the village for injuring a rich farmer’s prized calf in an accident. She had spent those whole two months weaving strands together for an elaborate ritual that she was waiting for just the right time to use. We caught her trail when she attacked a man who had discovered what she was doing, but by then it was already too late. She unfurled the weave a few hours before we arrived, and had created a tornado of razor sand so large that shredded everything in the village; people, animals, buildings, and it billowed into a dust cloud so large it covered half the firmament. We were forced to kill her when she attacked us, and between the three of us, she was still difficult to slay.” Athia frowned as she looked at the room, “In those two months, those weaves didn’t even come close to feeling as strong or elaborate as whatever this witch has done in her room. She has to have been weaving these strands for years.”
“And yet the other witches have never made any mention of this.” Mother Renis said softly, “What would you say this Witch is trying to accomplish with such a weave?”
“It’s hard to say, as each weave can be unique, and I cannot read the intention of the Witch or know which powers they hold, but at the very least, I would imagine escape.”
Mother Renis chuckled, “The walls of the Bastion of Fen are thirty feet of mortar, iron and black rock; every pillar has wards inscribed, every stone in its bedrock is sealed with divine text. A witch could try and rip this very island from the ground it stands and not even a single rock would answer her call. I do not use the word impossible lightly, but what you speak of is, in a word, impossible.”
“These walls may be immune to the strands, but what about Cannon Fire or Ballista? One well placed ball could smash through the wall and give enough of a gap in your defenses for a Witch to-”
“Unlikely. It would take a full naval complement with days of bombardment to breach our walls, and nothing has been attempted since the war with Anataria over a century ago.” Mother Renis smirked, “And if you knew this girl, you would think the very notion of escape would be a laughable conclusion. Brenna is content here; she has never volunteered to serve as a Dyad or even seen the mainland.”
“You seem to know her well.”
“I know all the Witches here. There hasn’t been one that I haven’t talked to at length at one time or another in my many years here.”
“You said she refuses to use the strands. Why?”
“In a word, guilt. A woman like her does not spend hours every day in a chapel praying or reading the scriptures without a burden, especially one as young as she is.”
“It is more often than not, our own guilt and burdens that inspire and drag us down.” Athia muttered, “For a man to redeem himself, cutting away his burden and accepting his folly allows him peace beyond understanding.”
“One of my favorite scriptures. In this way, I think you two are alike, and why I think you two will work well together.”
Athia stiffened, “Work together?”
“Brenna has also been selected for the Aegis.”
“A witch who refuses to use the strands is being assigned to protect the Emperor?”
“A witch you just said was one of the most powerful here.”
“You’ve picked her because of this weave; you want to draw her away from whatever she’s doing here.”
“Precisely. ”
Athia paused, taking in a deep breath, “Furthermore, the protective runes aren’t reacting to the weave, so-”
Mother Renis leaned in close, “You may be the only one who would be able to sense them. As you can see, the Divines have brought you to us at a fortuitous time.”
“Do you know why the runes aren’t reacting?”
The provost shook her head and held a finger to her lips, “Do not speak of this to anyone, not even Brenna herself.”
“She doesn’t know?”
“She doesn’t appear to and she’s said nothing of it to any of the others. As I’ve said, she doesn’t use the strands.”
“And who else is aware?”
“My provosts, myself, and now you. The seer knows of her weaving, but not of the failing runes as far as I’m aware. It is difficult to keep things from her. Regardless, the sooner we can get Brenna off this isle, the sooner we can begin testing this weave to determine what is happening here.”
“The implication is staggering. Do you realize how dangerous she is? Why not kill her now before she can-”
“Because she has not done anything to break the law or our tenets. If she had so much as even hurt one of my guards here, there would be no question as to her fate, but she has not. In fact, she is a model prisoner.”
“I think your love for the witches has blinded you to what is happening here! This girl would all but have to pluck one strand of this weave, and every single woman here could die!”
“Love?” Mother Renis shook her head with a smile, “I have no love for these wicked creatures. I merely have pity and empathy. Two traits you severely lack, Hunter. Prepare yourself for your journey tomorrow, you know what is expected of you, and needless to say, keep a close eye on her.”