The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

Prince Siegfried watched them from his window, his fingers playing with the crisp new leather belt around his trim waist.

Their horses clopped through the main gate of the palace, and Siegfried thought he caught their whinnies in the breeze. The palace horses seemed happy to be home. The two riders passed into the shadow of the Sky Tower as they approached a group of guards and stable hands. The minotaur dismounted from his massive shire and his human companion paused, waiting for orders.

The minotaur said something to his human companion. Siegfried recognised the man, even with the hood over his head. It was Dietrich the Deathless. Siegfried was quietly grateful when the gaunt man nodded and took his friend’s reins in his hand. He turned and led both of their horses off to the stables, ignoring the hands that had been sent out to perform this service for them.

That was good. That was excellent, frankly. Dietrich unnerved the Prince, and had a similar effect upon all others who came into contact with him. He looked like a corpse that had forgotten it was supposed to be in the ground. The minotaur turned then, drawing Siegfried’s attention back to him. The guards returned his salute and led him inside. Siegfried quickly rushed down the hall to beat his guest to his destination.

The Prince was seated and waiting for his guest in the Round room, a lushly adorned study. Half its walls were lined with maps few people consulted these days, while the other half held shelves creaking under the weight of books no one read. He was young and handsome by human standards, bedecked in the red of the royal household. Decorum dictated the minotaur come to him. As soon as the door closed, the Prince was up on his feet and all but running over to greet his visitor.

“Eisengrim!”

“Your Grace,” replied the minotaur, taking the younger man’s hands in his.

“It’s good to have you back,” said Siegfried. He squeezed his friend’s hands, or tried to. The old bull's hands were the size of dinner plates and dwarfed Siegfried's in the way his own would dwarf a child's. That made it difficult to tell if Eisengrim noticed. The witch hunter bowed to him as Siegfried released his hand. They walked over to a pair of large sitting chairs, extravagantly large by human standards but comfortable to a minotaur's sensibilities. The minotaur removed his cloak before unbuckling and setting down his warhammer by the bookshelves. The faintest tremor ran through the hardwood floor and into the soles of the Prince's boots.

“I keep forgetting how massive that thing is,” said Siegfried.

“It’s not so big to me, Your Grace,” replied Eisengrim with a shrug. “Nor so heavy.”

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? I could have anything you’d like brought in.”

“I am grateful for your hospitality, your Grace, but I am fine for the moment.”

They sat then. Eisengrim reclined, became still. Prince Siegfried fidgeted.

“Did you find any?”

“Not this time, your Grace.”

“Oh,” said Siegfried, becoming somewhat deflated.

“This is a good thing, your Grace.”

“I know, Eisengrim. I do, really,” Siegfried replied with a somewhat guilty smile. “It’s just…I’ve been head of the Order now for more than a year.”

“I am aware of this, your Grace.”

Siegfried looked away suddenly, his face turning red. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Of course. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologise for, your Grace. The King felt that you were a better choice.”

Siegfried did not reply. He bit his lip until he was sure he would taste blood. He couldn’t look at his companion just then. Yes, it had been the King’s - his uncle's - decision. It was not one which Siegfried had approved of, not that he would have ever have dared say so publicly. He did not feel himself fit for this task, and knew all too well all those nominally under his command felt likewise. Only the massive minotaur that sat before him treated this usurper to his station with any semblance of respect. Eisengrim had accepted the King’s decision with the same silence he now filled this room with. It was a frustrating, frightening sort of silence if one let it linger too long: the calm before some terrible storm that refused to break.

“Did you find anything else while out ranging?” Siegfried asked then, uncertain what else to do or say.

“We encountered a small group of bandits out near the Shadow Woods. They had been raiding some caravans in the area.”

“Were there many?” Siegfried asked, his attention drawn.

Eisengrim shrugged. “Ten, your Grace. A few villagers joined us in the hunt. We discovered their camp and surprised them. The man they had watching was asleep. A few tried to resist. They died. We placed the remainder under arrest, and Dietrich and I brought them back to town for trial. That was about a month ago. The business should be long concluded now.”

“Sounds like quite an adventure,” Siegfried said with a sigh.

Eisengrim shrugged again. “It is our duty, your Grace. Witches are rare, thankfully, so in the interim we hunt outlaws.”

“I should be out there,” Siegfried grumbled. “I should be ranging with you, and Klara, and Theo.”

“With the greatest respect, your Grace, what is stopping you?”

The man looked up at Eisengrim with surprise. “I’m the Master of the Order,” he replied, perhaps just a little too quickly. “My place is here, surely?”

Eisengrim nodded. He would have said nothing more, would have left it at that, if Siegfried could have.

“I have to stay here and…oversee things.”

Eisengrim nodded.

“Klara’s apprentice is being trained here.”

Eisengrim nodded.

“Gerda’s here, too. She arrived last week. I was thinking, perhaps we could all gather and have a meet of some sort. We could…you all could trade stories.”

Eisengrim nodded.

“Will you say something, please?”

“Your Grace, my Master, your predecessor, spent all of eight weeks in the Palace after he assumed command of the Order. Eight weeks in fifteen years. We would joke about it on the road quite often. At times, he used to forget if your uncle was King, or if his father still reigned. Ultimately, it mattered little to him. To him, wearing the star meant protecting the kingdom and its people.”

“There’s more than one way to do that,” Siegfried said, as if he had rehearsed this line quite often.

“I agree,” Eisengrim said, nodding again. “So, if it is your will, we shall all gather together, dine, drink, and exchange stories. You are a man of letters, I have heard. Perhaps you can write them down, so they may be relayed to the next generation later.”

Siegfried was sunk deep in his chair when the minotaur finished speaking. Eisengrim rose then and picked up his hammer and his cloak.

“I made you an offer when you assumed command of the Order,” he said, standing over the human. “It stands, and it always will.”

Siegfried said nothing.

“I’ll see myself out, your Grace. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Eisengrim left, but his patient, terrible silence remained.

*

The large straw man rocked back from the impact of the arrow, which would have impaled his chest if he were real.

“Not bad,” nodded Gerda as she slid a bolt into her crossbow.

“I can do better,” Janus said back, only half hearing the dwarf. He drew another arrow from the large pile arrayed beside him. He chose a farther target this time. The arrow struck the curved helmet the target wore with an audible plink, before it deflected off and snapped against the stone wall behind. Janus swore loudly and nearly threw his longbow to the ground before he stopped himself. He shut his eyes, his arms trembling as he fought to get control of himself. Klara had often warned him about his temper. They might work for the King, she would explain, but didn’t mean they could expect him to pay for every piece of equipment lost or broken. The tall, lanky grey runner breathed in through his nose, counted to four, and then exhaled through his mouth. This was what Klara had taught him to do the very first day she had taken him on as her apprentice. It had been the first lesson of many she had to repeat.

A loud, brutal thunk drew Janus’ attention back to the now, and the same target he had shot at and missed, which now sported a crossbow bolt in its face. He cast his narrowing eyes down to the dwarf that was looking smugly up at him.

“Bitch.”

“Do you lick your mother with that mouth?”

Janus ground his teeth but said nothing. He tried focusing on hitting the targets again, but gave up after a couple of close misses. Gerda made his quickly souring mood worse when she hit the target he had been firing at right in the crotch.

“I can fire off a dozen arrows in the time it takes you to fire that clunky thing and reload,” he snarled, putting his bow down lest he snap it.

“I’m sure you could,” the dwarf said back. “And you’d probably miss with every shot!”

For just a second, the civilisation in Janus’ demeanour vanished. His predator’s eyes narrowed, and the fangs in his maw were bared as the beginnings of a lethal growl rose up out of his bare chest.

Gerda took a slow, cautious step back, her free hand hovering over one of her many knives.

“Easy pup, I’m only playing.”

Janus didn’t seem to hear her. For several glacial seconds the runner and the dwarf stared tensely at each other. Gerda slipped another step back, and then another. Janus remained where he was. It wasn’t like he couldn’t catch her if she ran for it. Gerda seemed to sense this, for the noon sun began to catch on the blade of one of her knives as she slowly began to ease it from its scabbard…

“Watch yourself, pup. She’ll geld you before you know what’s happening.”

The tension in the air eased a little at the familiar voice. Janus’ head snapped to the right. Gerda’s eyes followed. Only when the claws eased their way back into the runner’s fingers did she finally relax.

“Does your mistress know you’re in heat?” Dietrich asked.

Gerda couldn’t stop herself from chuckling. Janus’ ears went red, the rage on his face faltering, before turning sour.

“Fuck the pair of you,” he growled. He scooped up a quiver of arrows and stalked off, going further down the yard to find other targets. Gerda and Dietrich watched him go.

“Does he get like that often when it’s just him and her out on the road?” Dietrich asked, after Janus had picked a spot on the firing range very far away from them.

Gerda snorted at the idea of the runner trying to get rough with his trainer. “With Klara? She’d crush his balls faster than I’d cut them off.” She eyed the male carefully. His control over his body had vanished. Even from this distance, she could see that rage tremble in his hands as if it were a reed in the breeze. “He’s awful sensitive,” she said, thinking aloud more than anything else.

“Aye,” Dietrich nodded, watching the male runner as well. His brow furrowed. “How long has he been Klara’s apprentice now?”

“A year and change, maybe a year and a half,” Gerda said, knowing where this was going.

The two watched the runner as he slowly calmed himself. Finally, Janus centred himself enough to steady his longbow. He notched an arrow, picked a target.

“That’s a long time,” said Dietrich.

“Well, Klara’s a stubborn girl,” Gerda said. “He’s her first apprentice.”

Janus’s bare, slim chest trembled just a little. His ears flicked, as if touched by the breeze. Gerda watched him closely. Yes, Klara could be very stubborn at times. Anyone else would have stopped wasting their time, and dropped this poor boy a long ago.

“His temper’s too quick,” said Dietrich, watching Janus too. “He lets wrongs linger.”

Janus let loose with his arrow. It hit the wall behind the target. He cursed, a colourful streak of profanities in his native tongue, before he glared at the pair of them as if it were their fault. Breaking eye contact, the wolf-man stalked away, disappearing into the halls of the Palace.

“Klara’s stubborn,” sighed Gerda.