The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

Dawn came, and with it the cold, crisp air that filled his lungs. Lances of sunlight plunged their way through the cracks in their curtains to light upon his face, and turn his closed eyelids red. Kurt Bauer instinctively rolled onto his side, trying to ignore the light and all that it and the dawn meant. He let out a long, lazy yawn and murmured Sabine’s name as he reached out for her without thinking, like always.

And, like always, there was no one there.

He did not swear, as he once did. Nor sigh, nor sob. He lay still as he had done for many years in the half dark. His eyes remained shut. Memories of her hands caressing his body, her voice whispering in his ear, were still real in the dark. Time pressed him but he ignored it for a little while longer. Time was meaningless so long as he clung to the dreams.

The cock crowed. Kurt ignored him. All around him, he could hear the stirrings of the farm as the minutes passed. These, too, he ignored. The mechanical clock struck six in the hall. On the other side of the far wall, he heard the creaking of youth awoken. He ignored them too, and the sound of opening doors and voices calling to one another. Let them all go about their business. What did he care, anyway? He held onto the dark and the dream as someone drowning would a floating timber. The dreaming dark was all he wanted, all he could ever need.

And then the knock on the door came, as always, and the dream died in the loathsome light.

“It’s time to get up, papa.”

*

The stairs creaked as Kurt descended. He turned left, opened a door and paused for a moment as the strong mingled aromas of fresh coffee and cereals, and fruit rushed to meet him. He closed his eyes and took them in, thinking secret thoughts. Bracing himself, he took a breath and entered the kitchen.

Everyone was far too polite. They were all seated but waiting for him before they would start. Kurt felt a pang of guilt mixed with hunger as he smiled and wished everyone a good morning. He bid them all break their fast before it all got cold. The girls had outdone themselves once again. Kurt took a deep draught of coffee thickened with sweet honey and crunchy toast covered in a thick layer of the raspberry jam made right here on his farm. Afterwards, he had porridge with cereal and sugar, and a side of fruit with freshly squeezed orange juice and yet more sweet black coffee. This was going to be one of his bad days. He could feel it already. Kurt did little conversing this morning. Instead, he listened like he always did. Sabine would have been proud of him, and little Martin too. Martin…

His little boy was growing up so fast. Twelve summers now, and here he was, sitting at Kurt’s right hand, chatting and laughing with their farmhands and servants and their families. This had been Kurt’s idea. He had been born poor and would never forgive Sabine’s father when the old rat found out who was courting her. Kurt’s son would not be like that, and clearly was not. He had none of his parents’ natural shyness. The little boy could talk to anyone about anything...and often did. Kurt sipped the tankard of coffee which hid his smile as the one star left in his sky went from talking about lessons with the hands’ children, to discussing schedules with Bader. The big grey minotaur sat across from him, five times the boy’s age, size, and weight, and yet was the very embodiment of deference. A little voice in the back of his head told Kurt this was unfair to Martin, that he was growing fast enough without his father forcing him to grow yet faster still. Yet the pride he felt right then and there hushed it. Every day, getting up was a little bit harder, and this was such great experience for the boy. Leadership was a role Martin seemed a natural fit for. Kurt watched his son in action as he sipped his coffee and dreamed wonderful things about his son’s future.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur. With breakfast over, Kurt's employees wished him a good morning and good luck at market before setting out to the fields for the day. Kurt thought he returned the kindness but couldn’t be sure. He kept drinking his coffee, yet the tankard never seemed to drop below half full. There seemed a greater buzz of activity about him than usual. Was it a holiday? Kurt sipped his coffee indifferently, until he became aware of the short figure next to him. Martin was staring at his father with a weary look.

He can already tell I’m going to be useless today, Kurt thought, hiding his guilty expression in his tankard. He apologised, though he had not done anything yet. Martin smiled and hugged him, trying and failing as he had for the last few years to get his arms to fully circle his father’s growing middle. Kurt returned the embrace with his free arm, unwilling to part with his coffee just yet. They eventually broke their embrace, and Kurt mussed his son’s hair affectionately. Martin smiled but his stance was beginning to show the tell-tale signs of impatience.

“What?” Kurt asked.

“It’s Sunday, papa.”

“Is it?”

“Yes papa,” said Martin. “We have to go to Church now, remember?”

Why? Kurt thought bitterly. Where the hell was God when your mother died? “Oh, yes. I suppose we have to go, don’t we?”

“Only if we want business,” Martin replied shrewdly. “Like Bader says: atheists and heathens don’t earn much coin in these parts. Please come along now, papa. They must have loaded the cart for market by now.”

Kurt pulled himself up, the chair creaking loudly under his slowly shifting bulk. He felt like such a hypocrite. “Alright.”

*

Outside, the children were running around, laughing and chasing each other between the legs and skirts of their mothers. Their fathers and husbands finished loading the last crate onto a large and heavy wooden cart. Kurt looked apathetically at the scene as Martin tugged him forward. He noted the BAUER JAMS logo on the crates with disdain, choosing to forget for the moment that it was he who commissioned the design and not anyone else. Bader yelled orders to some hands while presenting an inventory to Martin. Kurt saw jars and tools and timber amid the lists of necessaries while Martin took one look at his father before expertly forging his signature. Kurt sighed. Why was he here, again? Martin’s tugging brought him back out of his reverie as the boy led him to the cart. A couple of spare hands waited for them with a team of four horses hitched to the cart. They merely needed their boss' orders to get underway. They had an hour and a half ride to the edges of Gozer, Capital of the Kingdom of Sturmwatch, and its grand market.

*

The aisles rang out with the animated, frothing condemnation. Legate Pastor Hahn theatrically slammed his fist down upon The Book which was spread open beneath him, a violent punctuation to his sermon before he continued. The bearded, bejewelled man moved along the altar, his every step punctuated by the sharp echoing crack of the point of his golden staff slamming hard against the polished white marble beneath his slipper covered feet. His vestments were deep red and the circlet upon his head was silver, shaped like a crown of laurels. He spoke with the air of someone used to total obedience.

“What’s he saying?” Kurt asked.

“Nothing important,” Martin replied, yawning. “The same thing he says every week. I’m surprised you haven’t picked this up by now, papa. Hahn never talks about anything else besides witches.”

Hahn swiped his heavy staff through the air as though it weighed as much as a walking stick, cutting the air loudly. There was fire in his eyes as he went on, speaking in the High Script, his eyes burning as flecks of spit glistening in his beard. The golden staff stabbed the expensive marble loudly, leaving not a scratch.

“Why does he bother?” Martin said, not really expecting an answer as he shifted about in their pew. He fingered the small envelope with coins in it he had ready in his jacket pocket, their names and address scribbled hastily on the front. “All he ever talks about are witches and the elves.”

“Witches are dangerous,” Kurt said.

“Have you ever met one?” Martin replied.

“Well, no,” Kurt admitted, trying to whisper just loud enough so only his son might hear. “But if I did I’d probably be dead.”

“If that’s the case, why is he telling us this in the High Script? Are there even a hundred people here who knows what he’s saying?” Martin growled back, gesturing with his thumb at the thousands behind them who weren’t wealthy enough to be allowed seats. “And if this is so important, why the hell is he the only one allowed to lecture us about it? And in a language that nobody speaks anymore?”

“It’s High Script,” Kurt offered lamely, shrugging. “It’s the language of the Old World. It was how people spoke before the Elves came.”

“Exactly,” his son whispered angrily back. “The dead world, the one that left us nothing but old ruins and a daft religion. For all we know, that’s what killed them all in the end! This is so stupid.”

For just one second, Kurt was a father again. He grabbed Martin tightly, a little in anger, but more out of sheer terror, and hissed,:“Don’t say those things here! Hahn may be loud but other people could hear you.”

Martin squirmed, angry and unafraid. He and Kurt must have made quite a spectacle wrestling on the pew with each other. Over Hahn’s ravings, they both could hear the wood creaking as nearby occupants of other pews turned in search of the reason for the minor disruption. Before any prying eyes could catch them, they had stopped and resumed their places. They looked for all the world as attentive as seminary students on their first day at the Theological College.

“Even if they could hear me,” Martin hissed back, “do you think any of them would be disagreeing with me? This whole thing is stupid, and people who believe this are stupid, too. I’m only here because we couldn’t trade otherwise.”

Would it be hypocritical to say anything that might defend Hahn, or any of the people that surrounded him? Kurt hated these people and all they claimed to represent more than Martin could know. Still, wasn’t hypocrisy a parent’s prerogative at times? Kurt thought of a response that might best put Martin in his place, but then he felt the stranger sitting to his left shift about in their place on the pew. Sabine should have that spot. All the children they had wanted should have been at her side. Kurt dwelt over the names of each of them, conceived only in his and his wife’s mind before that future was taken away. Bauer remained silent. The melancholy had him now and it would not let him go. Time ignored him. Did Martin say anything more? Did the collection basket pass him yet? Kurt did not know and could not possibly have cared less. He drifted, lost in dreams and memory, and yet at when called for, his body stood, knelt, and then ponderously dragged itself back up to sit again upon the pew when the time came. He must have muttered the words in tandem with those around him too, as he knew Martin was doing. Would Sabine have approved of all this? Kurt dared not dwell on it, for he knew the answer well enough and it made him feel all the worse for his effort. He felt the ground tremble around him and saw the red of the Legate’s robes pass them by as Hahn stalked towards the main entrance while the congregation started abandoning the service. Kurt knew then with unequivocal certainty how today was going to end for him, once he had rid himself of his farm hands and his son. Sabine would not approve of his plans, but it was the only way he might sleep without dreaming. It was definitely time for him to have one of those nights, again.

He felt Martin’s hand tug him and he moved as his son directed, into the crowd heading outside. Hahn must have felt his preaching had gone especially well today, for he was shaking the hands of any parishioner he saw. As he and Martin neared the old bastard, Kurt noticed a scar shimmer in the sunlight on the left hand side of Hahn’s jaw. It started at the lip and wormed its way down his neck until it vanished under his collar, old and much faded by the years. The melancholy was cracked for just a second by genuine curiosity, as Kurt remembered the rumours he had once heard about the Pastor Legate’s former career as a witch hunter. What was the story behind that subtle yet terrible scar? Was it the reason Hahn had turned from the Star to the Cloth? Before he knew it, Kurt found himself before the Legate and could not muster the energy to draw his eyes away from that terrible hint of the preacher’s former, gruesome life. Hahn must have said something, for Martin’s booted foot was suddenly and rather forcefully stepping hard on Kurt’s own. The spark of pain that nearly made him jump and cry out right in front of the chief representative of the country’s Church. He recovered in time to realise Hahn was staring at him with those burning eyes of his.

“I’m sorry, your Holiness,” Kurt said, his toe smarting. “I’m afraid I missed that.”

“I said,” Legate Pastor Hahn replied somewhat irritably, “that I am rather a great admirer of your products, Mr. Bauer. Your jams are one of the few little indulgences I allow myself.”

“You honour us with your attention, your Holiness,” Martin replied smoothly. “And by your business, of course. Your sermons are an inspiration to both my father and I, and we hope it shows in our contributions to the parish.”

“Yes,” Hahn replied, his attention drawn to the boy at Mr. Bauer’s side. Kurt knew from experience that the aged cleric was not given to speaking with children much and had little tolerance for them personally. The old man did not trust young people, and Martin's impertinence was clearly a cause of shock to him. “Your father’s generosity to the Church has been happily noted, child.”

“As has your skill with High Script, your Holiness. You speak with an eloquence not heard since The Great Master.”

Hahn paused, clearly pleased. “You know The Master’s work, boy?”

“Of course, Your Holiness. My father has seen to it that I’ve been educated in all the Classics. I caught you quoting him in your sermon today and you’re right: ‘The Deed is everything, the glory naught.’ My father has that quote carved above the entrance to our home. He lives by it, don’t you, papa?”

“Yes,” Kurt said automatically. He had no idea what was going on. “I really like that quote.”

“Do you know the Classics Mr. Bauer?”

For just the slightest instance, Kurt caught the look of apprehension in Martin’s face before it vanished at the question. It suddenly dawned on him that something important may be riding on what he said next. If he paused to think, he’d ruin everything, so he said the first thing that came to his head, and was amazed at how easily and smoothly the lie came.

“Not in the High Script I am afraid, your Holiness. I was never taught it. These days, I cannot find the time, with business being the way it is.” He offered a toothy, embarrassed smile. “My son Martin here is the scholar.”

“And he does you proud,” Hahn nodded, eyeing the boy quizzically. “Yes, indeed. Wise beyond his years, this child.”

Martin replied instantly, an impish grin on his face as he spoke the High Script back to Hahn, leaving his father to watch the pair smile and nod approvingly at one another. Not for the first time that day, Kurt wondered why he was still here at all.

Hahn let out a little chuckle, pleased. “Yes, most definitely wise beyond his years. Mr. Bauer, you must be very proud of this fine little fellow of yours.” Hahn nodded to himself, the wheels in his head clearly turning. “Next month,” he said after a moment’s careful consideration. “After the Feast of Saint Gerhard, I am having a gathering at my estate – just a few of my fellow clericals and a few peoples of import around the kingdom. There’s to be hunting and feasting, and possibly even a little singing, if we can get the Prime Minister drunk enough. Would the both of you be interested in joining us?

Kurt felt Martin’s foot resting heavily on his aching toes again. “Delighted, I’m sure.”