The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

The plates, glasses, steins, and cutlery were set. Beer, ale, wine and some fruit flavoured bottles of schnapps were chilled and at the ready. Candles blazed on every flat surface about the room, as well as on some ornate candelabras set along the table. The chefs had reported that all the food was prepared and would be served once word had been given that the guests had all arrived, which was expected to be around eight.

It was about half past eight, now. Prince Siegfried sat in silence, swirling a half empty glass in his hand, looking down the empty table with its six empty chairs. A number of servants stood to attention around the room, casting cautious, uncomfortable glances between each other when they thought he wasn’t looking. But he was. This had seemed like such a good idea at the time, a way to bring some of the most senior members of the Order together. It was an opportunity to get to know the people whose lives he was responsible for, and for them to really get a chance to know him, outside of Eisengrim’s explanations and excuses. Invitations had been sent to all of the hunters known to be in the city, the majority of whom Siegfried knew to be staying in the Palace. Hours had passed and no one replied, but Siegfried was a stubborn man, which he sometimes told himself was principle. He drained his glass and held it up. Someone filled it with wine again.

Finally, with nearly three quarters of an hour past, there was activity at the entrance to the small hall the Prince had claimed for this dinner. Dietrich appeared, wearing clean but faded clothes and a smile that looked stitched on. Gerda was a step behind, and the dwarf had not bothered to change out of her training gear. They both bowed and took seats in the middle of the table. Klara, and her apprentice Janus, arrived a few minutes later. A stern looking Eisengrim brought up the rear, mere steps behind the woman and her wolf-man. Eisengrim and Klara took positions to the Prince’s right and left, respectively. Janus paused for a moment, glaring at both Dietrich and Gerda, before his eyes shifted to the door.

“Sit down,” Klara growled. The half-naked wolf man complied, a necklace of bones Siegfried had not seen him wear before rattling softly as he shifted uncomfortably in the high back chair.

“I couldn’t find Theo,” Eisengrim said then, his eyes fixed on the squirming runner. Janus seemed to settle at once, finding his empty plate before him fascinating. “He won his championship bout last night. It is very likely he…is indisposed, at present.”

There were some chuckles around the table. Sly, knowing looks were exchanged between some of the guests. Siegfried raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Shall we begin?” Eisengrim said then.

Appetisers were served, roasted mushrooms stuffed with pork and onions. The correct wine was poured into the proper glasses. Siegfried watched his dinner companions carefully, suddenly recalling the days of his childhood, when he had received schooling for proper dinner etiquette. His teacher had been a pale, balding man named Tummond, who had treated the young heir to the throne of Weisenberg to a strap across the knuckles whenever the boy had selected the wrong fork, or glass, when learning how to dine with his peers. It had all been taken so seriously, as if the fate of the kingdom would hinge on choosing red or white wine with the fish course. Tummond had died, like so many of the rest of them, when the army finally turned on Siegfried’s father. He had grown up hating the old man, but apparently Tummond had spat in the soldiers’ faces, rather than tell them where the Prince had gone. His wife still lived in Weisenberg with their growing children. Siegfried always had a part of his allowance smuggled to them every month. The Prince could not help but wonder what his old tutor would make of the company he was keeping now. It made him smile.

Klara was using the correct fork, which was to be expected, of course. She was nobility. Eisengrim had dined with Siegfried’s uncle enough to know what was to be used for what. Dietrich had earned a dinner with the King, once, after he had earned the moniker of ‘Deathless’, and seemed to be copying everything Klara did. Gerda was using her own knife and grimy fingers to handle her food. The dwarf's behaviour baffled him. Did she think the utensils poisoned, or was she deliberately trying to annoy him? Janus had finished already, having stuffed his plate of appetisers roughly into his mouth. His bad table manners were excusable. A year and a half years in civilization after a lifetime in the woods, where not even what passed for the nobility knew what a fork was, was simply not enough time to persuade the runner to eat properly. He'd covered the table before him in crumbs, and those he soon swept into his palm to eat with his clawed fingers. If Tummond were here right now, the Prince wondered, would he be laughing at how low his student had sunk, or would he be trying to take his strap to the wolf-man?

“This is very nice,” said Dietrich. He looked awkwardly around then, pleading for someone else to fill the silence.

“Yes,” said Eisengrim stiffly. “This is very pleasant.”

Siegfried hid the scowl that threatened to cross his face behind his glass as he emptied it yet again, then gestured for more wine.

The soup was next. Janus burned his tongue after trying to lap it up. Gerda grinned, and looked as if she was about to say something, until Eisengrim tapped his fingers very forcefully on the table. Silence returned in time for the fish.

“How many more courses are there?” Dietrich asked, somehow becoming even paler.

“Seven,” replied Siegfried. He looked about the table and saw the flickers of discomfort and annoyance at the prospect at sharing his company for so long. What should he do? He glared at Eisengrim, who was sitting placidly now, using the proper fork and knife to cut his fish into almost dainty portions. Apart from keeping everyone’s manners in check, the minotaur seemed content to let this evening become a disaster. Siegfried bit his lip, fighting the urge to say something that would have left Tummond flushed and outraged. Eisengrim might not have approved of this plan, but as his subordinate he had to at least do something here to aid in its success. Siegfried brooded for a bit, letting the flow of wine give him courage, and ideas.

“Eisengrim,” said the Master of the Order. “Why don’t you tell us of your encounters with witches over the years?”

The minotaur stopped eating. The room grew arctic in its silence.

“Everyone here knows of my encounters, your Grace,” Eisengrim said, deliberately. “They do not make for good conversation over dinner.”

“Nonsense!” Siegfried slurred. He banged the table with his fist. He noticed the servants that surrounded them were looking nervously between them. Let them be afraid. He was Master here. “Come on! I know two were easy arrests, but didn’t one of them put up a fight? I remember you telling me there was a scuffle.”

“There was, your Grace.”

“Well, you never did tell me what happened,” Siegfried pushed. He looked to the rest of the table. “Have any of you heard how that went?”

“She was nine years old,” Eisengrim said, cutting the Prince off. He picked up his drink, sipped it slowly. “She was human, and had killed nineteen people. They were her entire family, and all the nearby neighbours. I wanted to take her to the Sanctum. She had lost her mind and would not listen to me. We fought. She lost. There is nothing else to say.”

The hall became silent, with neither servants, hunters, nor their master, stirring. When Eisengrim pushed his chair back, the wood scraping against the stone seemed to send a jolt of current through Siegfried and the rest of the company. The Prince stared at the minotaur as he drew himself up to his full height.

“I have had enough,” Eisengrim said. He turned to leave. Siegfried did not dare utter a word of protest. He watched Eisengrim depart, if only so he did not have to focus on the eyes he knew were watching him just then. This had been a mistake. Siegfried held his empty wine glass up, and someone filled it again.

The servants removed the fish as Eisengrim left the hall. A few minutes after the chicken had been served, he appeared again in the doorway, this time with a fat, hairy man at his side. The minotaur had a look on his face the Prince would remember for as long as he lived.

“Something has happened. Theo needs us. I need you all to come with me.”