The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

Janus threw his bow on the bunk that had been appointed to him in the lower levels of the Palace. His quiver followed, thrown down with such spite that it rolled along the top of the mattress, arrows rattling, before it fell off of the other side and onto the floor, scattering the missiles across the stonework.

Janus cursed again. He sat on the bunk and buried his face in his hands, making the world dark for just a moment. He needed the dark. It calmed him. Out here, beyond the trees, there was too much damned light. He tried to perform the breathing exercises as Klara had taught him, but he couldn’t focus. Gerda and Dietrich were grinning mockingly at him in the blackness. Damn the pair of them, the smug, ugly, hairless bastards!

Janus put his hands on his knees and growled as he opened his eyes and looked around the barracks. He hated this place. It smelled of damp and stone and people. Back in his village, when he had been a pup, it had been so easy to see the stars after the sun had vanished from the skies, in search of his lover, the moon. She would sneak out sometimes, and hang in the sky in her husband’s place, to play with the thousands of blinking stars that were their children. Janus and his friends would spend hours among the trees at night, listening to the elders as they told them tales of the stars, or hung about together making stories up on their own.

And then Klara had come into his life, and everything had changed. Janus did not want to think bad things about his mistress, but it was difficult. So very, very difficult.

They said ‘yes’, he reminded himself, trying to fight the rising hatred. It was their choice. They said everyone would be proud of me. I wanted everyone to be proud of me.

He pushed the bow off of his bed. It bounced heavily off of the stone floor. Janus lay down on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He tried to picture stars in the monotone grey stones above him, but Gerda’s words still stung at him, and Dietrich’s judging look.

“Fuck the pair of them,” he muttered, letting his hands play with the handle of his knife and the head of his axe. They lingered there for a moment, before his right hand travelled up to caress the pendant he wore, with the metallic grey stone that had a star elegantly carved onto it. It didn’t look like much of a badge of office, but it was how hunters knew each other out on the road. It was meant to keep them safe as well, somehow, from the things that they hunted. Janus’ clawed fingers played over the old stone and tried not to think about all the weight it carried. He was supposed to be the first runner in generations to successfully make it into the Order, and yet here he was, a year and a half later, still an apprentice.

What’s wrong with me?

It was an uncomfortable question, a question which he was usually able to ignore, but right then it lingered over him like a pall, darkening the room and making it hard to breathe. He sat up again, his fingers wrapped about the stone. It was cold, even though it had been resting against his chest since his initiation. Klara told him that they were always cold, no matter where you went or what was done to them. There was supposed to be a hint of magic in them, if one were inclined to believe in those sorts of stories.

Janus had been raised among the runner tribes of the Black Woods, where magic was as real as the coloured smoke in the religious festivals they had. The wrinkly elders would daub paint over their bodies, shake their rattily staffs and call for the rain to feed the trees and the lightning to destroy their enemies. It always worked, they assured the rest of the tribe. Janus had believed, and had wanted to be a wizard like they were. Then Klara had come, and told him what real magic was, and what must be done to stop it.

Janus closed his eyes again and thought of his people. They wouldn’t like this world. There was too much light and too many other kinds of people, strange, alien people that smelled weird and made his flesh crawl. Klara had promised his elders that their young hunter would see many new parts of the world if he left with her. That promise, at least, Klara had definitely kept. She had promised him that there would be adventure though, and that he would see real magic at work. She promised him that by joining her, he would be protecting not just his own tribe, but all tribes everywhere, and peoples everywhere. Perhaps they had just been words, but they had worked on Janus like a spell the elders cast sometimes to make people lovers. So much had been promised, and so little had been delivered these last two years.

They had travelled much, and he had seen many parts of this vast, strange world, but he had not seen magic. He had performed no feats worthy of stories, and could not go back to see his people until he had at least one. Janus growled as his claws pressed against the rock around his neck. What were his people doing, right now? Had the hunters brought in enough food for the coming winter? Was the peace with the neighbouring tribe still holding? What if there was a war, or a raid against their stores while he was here, doing nothing? Klara had told him he could be the first runner in living memory to be part of the Order, but what good was that if the people he was doing this for needed him, or had been wiped out while he was away? His people survived as it were on a knife edge. The runner remembered how a bad winter had decimated the People of the River when he was a pup. His elders had let the young, and those still fit to hunt and scavenge into their own tribe. But as for the very old, and the sick…

Janus opened his eyes and went back to looking at the ceiling. He tried to think of more pleasant things, but this path led to bitterness as well. He missed the females of his tribe. He'd caught the eye of several of the prettier ones, and gone on his share of trysts in the shadows of the trees at night. The pleasant memories toyed with him, filled his nostrils with scents he missed more than anything. Nyx came into his thoughts then, black furred and devious. She had loved to torment him, and he, usually so proud, had loved being completely in her power. Where was she, now? What was she doing, and who was she doing it too, now that he was out of her life?

Janus kept his eyes closed as he thought of her. His ears perked as his left hand began teasing his soft, smooth belly. His right released his badge of office, and moved down to undo the heavy, tightening pants Klara insisted he wear out here, among the ignorant and the savages.

*

“Black and strong, just like my baby’s apprentice!”

A heavy stein was laid before her, filled to the brim with hot, glorious smelling coffee. Klara breathed it in and sighed. “He’s not got black fur, father.”

“Brown then?” he asked, sliding down to sit opposite her. From this angle, it looked like his head reached up to her shoulders, just. “Klara, please tell me, is he at least strong?”

No. “Of course he is, father. He comes from a tribe in the Black Wood.”

“So he’s a bit of a savage, then?”

“No, he’s perfectly civilised. Why are you so interested in him?”

“Well, dear, you won’t bring him around to meet us. Your mother is very curious about him too, so I have to ask, you see.”

“I don’t think you’d like him,” Klara said, looking at the Graf Saddler coat of arms on her stein, and her father’s.

“You said the same thing about Eisengrim when he was tasked with training you, love, and that wasn’t the case. He’s a gentleman, and look at the job he’s done with my little girl!”

Klara Saddler felt heat rise to her face. She tried not to smile. Her father leaned over, touched her face, and brushed a strand of rust coloured hair away from her forehead.

“You know, I wanted to be a hunter. I went right up to Grand Master Weber himself, or, well, he wasn’t the Grand Master then, but we’d been friends since we were boys, and I told him, I did, that I had what it took.”

“I know, father,” Klara said, smiling. She had been hearing this story for as long as she could remember.

“You know what he said to me?”

“I do,” replied Klara. She reached over then, put her hand over his, and squeezed.

Count Saddler squeezed back, his face red with happiness and love. It was a stark contrast to his milk coloured eyes.

“You’ve no idea how proud I am of you, Klara. I know you’re doing just as good a job on this fellow as Eisengrim did with you. Perhaps, dare I say, even better?”

Klara laughed then, without a shred of humour. Six months. It had taken Eisengrim six months to make a hunter out of her. Others had given their opinions about Janus, but Klara refused to give up on him. He was her first apprentice. Eisengrim himself had argued that she was ready for the responsibility with Weber, when he had still been alive. Klara stared at the proud, smiling face of her father, and thought things about herself just then which would do no good to mention, and yet…

“Father, I don’t think I know what I’m doing.”

“What do you mean?” he father asked, his wonderful smile faltering. It was nearly enough to stay Klara’s tongue. He had lived a very hard life, and she hated to see him sad, but just then, something compelled her to continue.

“Training Janus, father. I don’t know what I’m doing. Janus…you’re right. He’s been away from his clan for more than a year now, and there’s still something savage in him. Something he can’t control, or maybe doesn’t want to. His elders filled his head full of the worst sort of nonsense, and he won’t let any of it go without a fight. He gets angry a lot, and when he does, he either lashes out or broods for days.”

“He’s never threatened you, has he?” her father asked then, his grip becoming tight, his fury beginning to surface.

“No,” lied Klara. Janus had tried once, perhaps a year ago. It had been about religion, or more precisely, his religion. Raised voices had become raised fists. When it had ended, and he was lying in a bloody, weeping heap on the ground, Klara finally understood what the holy fathers meant in their sermons when they talked of the so-called shame of the victors.

“Have you talked to any of your colleagues about this?”

No. “Yes.”

“What did they say? Did you ask Eisengrim?”

“They all made suggestions,” Klara replied, being very careful with her tone. “I haven’t seen Eisengrim in nearly a year, father. He doesn’t linger in the city much. He’s always on the road.”

“If you see him, you need to talk to him about this,” her father said. He squeezed her big, powerful fingers in his hand. “He’s been doing this longer than most of the rest of you have been alive. I’m sure he’s had difficult pupils.”

“Yes,” Klara said, grateful for just a second that her father could not see her face. “I’m sure he has.”

“In the meantime, maybe you could ask the fellow that took over from Weber as Grand Master for some advice?”

“Siegfried, father? You must be joking!”

“Why?”

“That idiot’s not fit to clean my cloak, let alone Eisengrim’s!” Klara muttered, drawing back and grabbing her stein. She sipped the hot, wonderful liquid, gripping the handle tight enough it hurt a little. Her father sighed, shrugged, and picked up his own coffee. There was quiet for a moment, which Klara’s father eventually broke.

“Your mother’s worried about you.”

“I’m not going to stop, father. You know that.”

“I do,” Count Saddler nodded, the smile returning. “She’s pretty much given up on that part. No, her worries have moved onto you being a spinster.”

Klara said nothing. There had been children born before her, and children after. She couldn’t remember any of them. Life had been relentless in its cruelty to the Graf Saddlers.

“I won’t stop, but I can take time,” she said quietly. “I’ll find a husband, and I’ll have a couple of children with him, father. We’ll go on forever, I promise.”

“I know we will, love,” the Count said. A shrewd, mischievous smile played across his lips. “This Prince, Siegfried, who took over from Weber, you really think he’s stupid?”

“Completely.”

“Weak willed?”

“There are stiffer reeds than that man’s spine.”

“But he’s very rich?”

“Of course, father.”

“Easy to look at?”

“Definitely,” Klara replied without thinking. Heat quickly rose to her cheeks after, though. “Father…”

“Well, let’s face it darling, you’re not getting any younger, and you are a landed lady from an old, famous family. He may be a Prince, but he’s a foreign one, so he won’t be much use to the King, really.”

“Father…”

“And if he is as idiotic and spineless as you say, then you’ll not only be in charge of our money and lands, you’ll be in charge of his money and lands, too. Goodness, this would basically make you Grand Master as well, when you think about it!”

“That is outrageous!” Klara snapped, sitting back, her face red as a beetroot.

“Is it?” Count Saddler grinned slyly.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Klara said quickly.

“How can he not? You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Father, don’t say that, please.”

Count Saddler sighed, shrugged, and returned to his coffee. “Will you think about it at least, love?”

“Possibly,” Klara replied, her mind buzzing.

“Incidentally,” Count Saddler went on. “Your mother ordered some new dresses for you, as well as some new travelling clothes, of course. If you have a minute, we have the dressmaker and tailor waiting for you in the parlour.”

“Thank you, father.”

Count Saddler raised his stein before him. He didn’t have to wait long before his daughter banged hers against his.

“Anything for my little girl.”