The Witch Hunters

The freshly falling snow was very soft and easily gave way even beneath Orla's slight weight so she was soon shoulder deep and sinking fast within the thick drifts that caked the mountainside. She tried to claw her way out but her head felt woozy and her limbs so weak and sore she could scarcely move them. In a few moments, she was up to her neck. Through frozen lips, she shut her eyes and concentrated, finally managing to incant a minor healing spell upon herself. Shimmering eldritch light corruscated over her body, soothing away all her bruises and strains from her earlier crash landing.

Instantly more puissant, she climbed up from the snow, nearly swimming her way through the fine powdery crystals, until she could regain her footing and brace herself against the buffeting of the unremitting gusts. The heavy flurries obscured her vision and the brutal cold again gripped her in its icy embrace. She hunched her shoulders and hugged herself, shivering uncontrollably. She had dressed that morning for a seasonably warm spring day in the valley—not a fiercely frigid mountain snowstorm. The blistering gale cut through her flimsy tunic dress and pointed sandals like a knife.

Orla was searching her mind for an appropriate spell to ward against the inclement elements, when her elven ears caught voices faintly over the howling wind. There were some men conversing outside the fortress, though it was hard to make out what they were saying. Pausing almost directly beneath them, she craned her head to listen and heard mention of a Black Witch. Her brow creased thoughtfully. There used to be someone called that in Dalen, someone who also happened to be a cryomancer, if her memory served. Was that who was responsible for creating this bone-chilling blizzard?

Sighing at her bad luck, Orla ran a despairing hand through her snow-coated hair that was by now plastered unbecomingly down around her head. Miss Xaulder had once expressly warned her to stay well clear of the Black Witch. Before the fall of Dalen, the ruthless woman had been one of Queen Thalia's top enforcers and was just about the last person one wanted to ever meet alone in the middle of nowhere. Renewed fear flooded through her, but Horo was in dire need of a healer and she knew she was completely out of options. She would just have to try to appeal to the Black Witch's good nature, or failing that, strike some bargain. As she carefully ascended the treacherous, snowy escarpment, she tried not to think of the last person she attempted to negotiate with. Tried not to think just how horribly that had gone awry.

Conserving her small store of magicks in case she would need to effect a quick and expedient escape, Orla eventually gained the top of the slope in front of the crumbling stone fortress. She discerned moving shapes in the thickening snow and daring to creep closer, saw they belonged to a pair of armoured men on horseback who were hanging back outside the structure. Did they work for the Black Witch or were they in fact foes of the woman? They had the look of professional fighters and the distinct bearing of knights, but she could tell they were not Verdish nor—Fernoia forbid—Seekers of the Verdish Inquisition.

Unaware of Joseph's presence, Orla gathered her courage and abruptly stepped out in the open before the two knights. “Pardon me, good sirs, but I need your help most urgently!” she entreated them plaintively. “My friend's life is in terrible danger! He has fallen gravely ill and I know not what to do!”

Sir Lanker's eyes widened at sight of the small, bedraggled, young maid who had suddenly appeared out of the storm. “Who are you and where did you come from?” he demanded in surprise.

“My friend and I we are just, well, we're travellers,” Orla managed, trying to make herself be heard over the wind and ruckus. “Might I prevail on you to--”

“Take care, brother, she is a trick of some sort! An apparition to distract and waylay us!” Sir Adder interrupted, spurring his mount around.

“No – please, I am as real as the both of you are!” Orla turned to address the other horseman, stumbling as the wind tried to push her over.

“Your accent is peculiar,” Lanker said interrogatively. “Where are you from?”

“Verden, sir,” Orla answered with honesty. “The Skeldergate Forest.”

“The Skeldergate,” Adder growled, as if the name were a curse and the two men exchanged a wary look.

“The Lake Istal region or thereabouts,” Orla quickly amended, trying to reassure them. “From whence do you hail, good knights?”

“We're of Courlimar,” Lanker responded coolly.

Courlimar? Orla knew that was where the High Church of Sarnia was based. Horo had told her that magic was not banned exactly, but tightly regulated by the religious authorities there, which had even enacted a Magical Healing Prohibition Act of all things. Therefore if these were soldiers of the High Church of Sarnia they were likely what was known as Witch Hunters. Horo had spoken of using them in his machinations to liberate her from Ceriden. Her stomach dropped, realising from all she had heard that they would be even less disposed to helping her than the Black Witch would be.

Lanker noted her disheartened reaction and smiled beneath his black helm. “You know who we are then?”

“I have heard of you,” Orla said subduedly.

“We know the elven witch fled here alone, so the question is where did you come from?” Adder glanced toward the fortress. “Are you one of the ghosts that haunt the ruins of Gray Haven?”

“I told you already that I'm a traveller from Verden,” Orla protested, then blinked up at them. “Wait. Did you say Gray Haven?”

“That's it behind you.” Lanker leaned down from his saddle and tilted up her chin with a gloved finger. “If you're telling us the truth you're a long way from home, girl. What are you doing up here, and dressed like that in this climate?”

Orla tried a disarming smile on the man. “As chance would have it, my friend I were picnicking in the valley far below this mountain when, as a I said, he fell ill and collapsed. I came hieing up here for help and was caught in the storm unprepared. It's as simple as that, really.”

“How long did it take you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How long did it take you to reach this peak from the valley?”

Orla was taken off guard by the question even though it was a perfectly valid one. She shrugged delicately as if it were no consequence. “I've never been very adept at keeping track of time, but I reached here a lot sooner than I should have thought possible.”

Lanker stared down at her with eyes that had grown baleful and doubting. “We are in the high mountains. It would take many hard days to journey here from the valley beyond the ridge, and it would be greatly taxing for even one of the Silver Snakes, let alone a slip of a thing like you!” He grabbed her painfully by the arm. “You mendacious wench!”

“Ow!” Orla cried out, wincing. “You're hurting me!”

“How did you get up here?” he demanded. “Was it with your pagan magic?”

Orla didn't answer, for she was calling upon that selfsame pagan magic and reciting a quick spell to break free from the horrid man, but to her consternation her spell refused to form. Something was negating her powers! She swiftly realised it was the very fingers of the man's hand pressing through the thin poplin of her sleeve into her arm—or rather the iron rings of the woven chainmail glove he wore. Despite all the great many changes wrought in the world, iron it seemed still remained the inveterate bane of faerie-kind. As long as he had her in its cruel, cold grasp, her magicks were gone.