The Witch Hunters, Book 1: The Prophet of Ash

The rain that fell on them and threatened to turn the road to Anderswo to a mire under the hooves of their mounts had begun as they packed up their impromptu camp. The mud squelched under the horses hooves as Eisengrim thought of how much harder it must be for their prey beyond the river. The thought should have brought a sense of satisfaction to the ageing bull, but it didn’t. They had inflicted far more damage than he’d expected against their quarry. More importantly, they’d driven their prey across the river, trapping them there. But would the survivors stay together? What was the relationship of the black minotaur and those that followed him? If they scattered, they would be harder to find. Of course, even if they stayed together, there were still many ways they could make Eisengrim’s task difficult. If they guessed the hunters’ next move, the monster and his lackeys might be able to bypass them somewhere in this forest: the river had to have another crossing, whether it be a bridge or simply a ford. What if they decided to stay on that side of the river, leave Sturmwatch, and strike for the Dead Lands from the wild lands beyond the border? What was their schedule? What final goal was the monstrous bull with the strange eyes working towards?

The bodies of their fallen enemies revealed little, other than a surprising amount of money. Gerda had automatically scooped the coins up, though it had taken some encouragement from Eisengrim to get her to divide the windfall and share the wealth with the lot of them. Some of the men who had fallen were unusual. Foreign. Their jewellery bore strange designs and combinations of metals and jewels not currently in vogue back home in Gozer. They all wore their hair in strange fashions, too. Strangest of all were the thick, drooping whiskers covering their swarthy faces.

“They look like Men of The Hold,” Theo had said, disbelief thick in his voice and etched quite distinctly on his features. “What in God’s name are they doing this far north?”

Eisengrim had heard of the place, as had Klara. Her father had done business with them, and had encouraged his daughter to even learn their tongue, to help with his affairs. They were an old people: mostly raiders and marauders of a kingdom in the vast steppe far beyond the mountains and forests of Sturmwatch. They had been lackeys of the elves, and their boot-licking had earned them lands and titles and riches in the part of the world that eventually became Sturmwatch and the other new lands after the Last Day. Sturmwatch and its new-born allies had driven them back to the place where their wretched people had first come from after their masters disappeared. Their involvement troubled Eisengrim more than the sword his quarry had wielded. They spoke of movements and plans hidden by distance and shadow he could not comprehend just yet. The Hammer was not in the habit of leaving questions unanswered, but their encounter in the woods had added more to the running tally he’d been keeping since leaving Bauer’s farmhouse.

Someone out there knew what was going on. Was it the black minotaur, or the hetman Theo had promised was not counted among the dead they’d left in their wake? What of the old woman at the deserted plantation house? Where had she come from, and how had she learned to wield her magic? What of Martin Bauer? How could they even have known about Martin? He was but a boy. Furthermore, during Eisengrim’s quick investigation of the farm, Kurt had insisted his son had never displayed any signs of magical power. So what had happened? How had their foe known to go there, of all the places on the earth? Why did they want Martin? Was he to be a recruit? And if so, what for? Eisengrim returned to the initial question, and found himself no closer to the truth. He hoped to find prince Siegfried in Anderswo. Even more than that, he hoped the human had found some answers for them. He spoke little, lost in thought and trusting to his mount and his companions to carry him towards their destination.

Whatever is at work here, whatever intelligence is planning this, it can definitely be said to be evil. It has a goal I do not yet know, but it is willing to destroy anything and anyone that gets in its path. It will be stopped at all costs. When next I meet my opposite number, I must try and ring a few answers from him before I deliver judgement, the old bull swore to himself.

“It’s getting late,” Eisengrim heard Dietrich say, at some point.

“We can ride awhile longer,” Klara answered him. “We’re nearly there.”

The exhausted hunters said little as they carried on. The road grew progressively damper, sucking at their horses’ hooves, but Eisengrim pushed them on with a dark, silent resolve. They had to reach Siegfried tonight. Perhaps he had discovered something that might help answer some of the questions that rose like a wall between Eisengrim and the peace of mind he had grown so used to. It had been such a long time, a decade or more, since his last encounter with magic. That day had been a nightmare. Even now it dwelt, unwanted, at the edge of his thoughts, just like the rest. Looking back was not something he had been in the habit of for the longest time, and now the old bull found himself doing it constantly. The ride was wearing on him like it never had before, and he knew instinctively it was not just the fault of his wounds alone. He had suffered worse and carried on regardless before.

Years ago though, he thought, fighting the sudden melancholy that threatened to slow his purpose. When I was young.

The sun set, casting a sinking veil of red that burned between the scant gaps in the trees that surrounded them. They were nearly there, now. The dark might catch them, but they would spend the night in Anderswo. At least, that had been the plan.

“Fire ahead!” Gerda called out, snapping Eisengrim out of his maudlin mood.

The minotaur was the master of the situation at once, years and wounds be damned. He ordered them to dismount and advance along either side of the road once they’d tied their horses up among the trees. It only took a few minutes. The fire blazed on a low hill that probably provided an excellent view of the road that snaked past in its shadow, not to mention the treetops of the valley beyond that hid the road to Schweigen. They had barely begun their approach, sweeping through the trees in a cautious, ragged skirmish line when they were hailed from the top. It was prince Siegfried, who showed himself in the light of the bonfire on the hilltop and waved to them. There was much relief among the party of hunters, until Kurt Bauer, and a grinning Janus made themselves known as well.

*

Klara had moved to strike Janus, but Dietrich got between them. An argument, loud and violent was in the offering, but Eisengrim silenced the pair with a single cold command to sit down and shut up. The pair obeyed at once, finding places to sit. Eisengrim sent Gerda back for the horses. Kurt rushed over to see to Theo, who had fallen behind a little. As the friends talked and Eisengrim set everyone to work to see to the fire and food for the night, he took the prince aside some steps away from the fire so that they could converse in the shadow of the dripping trees.

“Report.”

Siegfried told him everything. Probably more than he intended, actually, if Eisengrim were any judge of the man’s character. He looked strange to the old bull, on edge in a way the young and pampered man had clearly never been before.

His mettle is being tested at last, the old bull thought, nodding as his comrade revealed the details of all that he’d learned in since departing. The tale of the fallen temple in Eichen sent a trickle of ice down Eisengrim’s spine, but he said little. One threat at a time. At least the head of that one had been cut off before they fled, thanks to Janus’ arrow and Urba’s death. It did raise yet another question, but the mention of the black minotaur’s preaching in Anderswo brought some semblance of an answer to the old bull.

“What is he preaching?” asked Eisengrim. “What promises is he using to draw people to him?”

“I don’t know,” sighed the prince. “Urba talked of the elves, but Janus might have been right, and he could have just been stalling to give his followers time to grab us.”

“But he has preached here, in that very town below us?”

Siegfried was slow to answer. He looked out into the darkening woods, his face hidden from the blaze where the others gathered. His body language was difficult to read in the circumstances, but Eisengrim was old and had seen fear enough to know it when it stood before him.

“Yes.”

“In the square,” the old bull said, repeating the intelligence that had just been given him. “In the poor house. Correct?”

The prince nodded, his hands clasping into tight fists, only to unclasp again. Eisengrim watched this happen over and over again. It stirred something in him not quite like contempt, but it was getting close.

“You did well, your Grace,” he assured his usurper.

“Thank you, Eisengrim.”

Eisengrim turned, then. He put a gentle hand on the smaller, much younger man’s shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze before he started walking to his massive charger.

“Where are you going?” he heard Siegfried call after him. With that noise, their small camp began to stir.

“All of you stay here and rest,” the old bull commanded. He untied his horse, but it took real effort to pull himself into the saddle. He hated being old. “I am going into the poor house to talk with the sisters and preacher running it. I am done with not knowing what is going on here. I’ll be back when I am done. Set watches. My password is ‘nail’.”

If there were objections to his decision, they all were prudent enough to keep them to themselves. Eisengrim kicked his charger’s flanks and he was off, heading down the muddy road alone into a town that, like him, had lived too long and had seen too much.