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[Rough Draft] Chapter 68: The Lost and the Faithful
The fragrance of cherry blossoms filled the morning breeze as Hana’s carriage moved steadily along the country road. Bastiallano was now far behind her, and the low gray clouds on the horizon did little to settle the unease that filled the empty carriage.
Hana was no stranger to the pull of fate. Her one and only interaction with Ramiel’s power in the past had left her with a deep impression of the God who had granted it to her. The fact that she had been cursed with that power again only confirmed that impression.
If Ramiel could be described in only one word, Hana would use the word was heartless.
The collar of fate had never felt heavier than it did in that moment as she felt the strings of Ramiel’s will pull tighter around her. More than once, she swallowed down a desperate scream to turn the carriage around.
‘I can’t expose Kirsi to Jericho and his witch hunters now while she’s most vulnerable. If meeting him means I can buy her more time, then it’s worth the risk.’
The swaying canvas of autumn leaves fell away to reveal a barren field of muddy ground and severed stalks. The carriage jolted suddenly, knocking Hana’s elbow from the window ledge as the sound of horses around her changed.
“Guard the carriage!” Isaac’s bellowed command only confirmed the cold sweat already breaking out along Hana’s body. She switched windows and stared numbly at the line of witch hunters stampeding towards her carriage.
The front line of silver and scarlet clashed as magical firebombs exploded beneath the feet of her men. The panicked scream of horses followed as the carriage jerked to one side and then another. Hana clasped the side and bottom of her seat and stared at the small window behind the driver’s seat, which was now empty.
A Bastiallano knight rode past to seize the harness of the runaway team. He managed to pull them to a halt and moved to jump from his saddle to the front carriage seat. Then a whip curled around his neck and dragged him down onto the road out of her view.
The clanging of steel and crackle of magic seemed to wrap around the carriage as small trails of smoke slipped through the cracks beneath the door.
Hana bit her pale lips and then unclenched her fingers from the cushion beside her legs. She reached up and pulled her veil aside before moving with a strange calm to the carriage door.
When she stepped out, the world felt strangely quiet. The knights and witch hunters barely registered at first and then moved to a strange, awkward standstill.
“My Lady,” Isaac panted as he pulled his blade from the ribs of a fallen witch hunter. “Please return to the carriage!”
Hana’s turquoise blue eyes settled on him for a moment and then took in the countless fallen knights strewn upon the road around her. Her side was clearly losing, but that had always been the way of things.
“Stop now, please.” The desperate whisper moved past her lips as she scanned the witch hunters until she found one she recognized. “No more, Terik. Spare the rest, and I will come with you willingly.”
The witch hunter blinked in surprise and narrowed his silver eyes at her. “Have we met, Lady Hana?”
Hana’s lips curled into a sad smile as she swallowed the hope already dying inside her. “How I know you doesn’t matter. What’s important is that you know who I am.”
Terik inhaled slowly and then turned to consider the two sides who faced each other uncertainly. “The fight is already won—but I was ordered to spare no one.”
“Ordered by who?”
“Our Commander,” Terik replied with a raised brow. “Ripper.”
“And does the authority of a witch hunter supersede that of a Bozidar?”
Hana smiled as her words had their intended effect, and several of the witch hunters closest to her backed away from the knights pinned in around her carriage.
Terik offered her a cynical smile as he took in the shift in power. “The Witch Hunter Order is naturally loyal to the Bozidar family. However—you have been in close proximity to the Witch of Calamity. Perhaps these words come from her and not from you.”
Hana laughed mockingly as she tugged her glove away from her wrist and pulled the small dagger from her sleeve. “I won’t play games of words with you, half-witch.”
Terik’s face twisted in anger as the Viscountess pressed the blade against her throat.
“You will spare them, or you will explain to my brother why you have brought him my corpse—or at the very least—my unconscious body.”
“Terik!” growled one of the older witch hunters present. “Enough. Let them go. We have the Pope’s sister.”
Hana smiled as she kept her steady gaze focused on Terik, who rolled his eyes in annoyance.
“Fine,” Terik barked. “If they drop their weapons, we will let them go. All of them—except him.”
The Viscountess followed the witch hunter’s pointing blade to where Isaac stood, still hidden behind his helmet. ‘I suppose I should have expected this.’
“This isn’t a negotiation, Terik,” Hana snapped as her turquoise-blue eyes returned to the witch hunter. “This is an all or none trade-off.”
“If your eminence truly wishes to see them all die, then go ahead, cut your throat.” Terik smiled calmly, ignoring the looks of unease that spread among his men.
Hana’s grip on the small dagger’s hilt tightened as his meaning became clear.
Terik dropped down from his horse and moved towards her, with little concern for the unresolved conflict around them. He stopped and raised his hands as Hana turned her head and pressed the blade against her jugular vein. “If you wish to see them all die, then, by all means, cut your throat.”
Hana blinked and flinched as he leaned in towards her with a mocking smile.
“If you are who I think you are, then we both know you won’t die that easily, Nesta Bozidar.”
‘He knows. But then, of course, he would. Teirk is Ripper’s second in command.’ The Viscountess could barely stop her hand from shaking as she turned her helpless blue eyes to Isaac.
“It’s alright, Lady Hana,” Isaac replied calmly as he sheathed his sword. “I would have insisted on coming with you either way.”
“There, that’s settled then,” Terik replied lightly as he took another step forward and held out his hand. “The safety of your other knights in exchange for your willing corporation, my Lady.”
“Swear it,” Hana replied breathlessly. “Swear it on Ramiel’s name.”
Terik’s silver eyes tightened for a moment and lowered to the blade at her throat, taking in the weight of her demand and his orders. “I swear, on Ramiel’s name, that we will allow them to return to Bastiallano safely and not harm them on this day.”
‘That’s—all I can do.’ Hana held back a cynical laugh as she lowered the blade and slowly handed it to the waiting witch hunter.
“Let them keep their weapons so they can protect themselves on the way back,” Isaac called over as he moved slowly to Hana’s side.
“They can keep their useless swords,” Terik retorted as two witch hunters hastily moved over to stand on either side of the Bastiallano Colonel. “If you will surrender yours, Isaac the Traitor.”
‘I should not have brought him with me,’ Hana realized belatedly as Isaac yielded his weapon and ordered his men to return to Bastiallano with all haste. ‘All that awaits Isaac is death. A quick death, if my brother is feeling merciful.’
***
Father Whistler wasn’t very partial to community work. He very much disliked the idea of getting his hands dirty with the same filth as the apathetic followers of Lafeara. Commoners, no less. However, he could not overlook that Pope Jericho had chosen him specifically to be part of the church’s missionary group. Whistler could wash his hands and robes later. Right now, he needed to focus on making the most of this opportunity and earn himself a favorable recommendation as the next Cardinal to replace Bishop Murdock.
The majority of Lafeara’s capital population was easy enough to please. Whistler set himself upon a white horse and paraded through the streets with his escort of witch hunters. Following behind him were four priests with swaying gold-plated incense burners. And after them came half a dozen servants lined around three carts bearing bags of refined wheat, buckets of candy apples, and barrels of medium-grade wine.
“My brothers and sisters!” Whistler called out with regal humility. “Do not give in to despair. The cloud of death that has descended upon your fair city will be shaken. The plague that has ravaged your homelands will be destroyed. Give thanks, oh ye humble of heart, for the Divine Heir has blessed this Capital with his presence.”
Gradually the boarded-up windows and sealed doors cracked open, and then, one by one, they came. Gaunt, sickly, tired, and frightened families. Men and women, young and all, all rightfully fearing for their immortal souls in the wake of this Witch Plague. Sunken, shadowed eyes now peering after Father Whistler and his offerings of hope, food, and alcohol with desperation.
“Be at peace, my good people. Raise your eyes and lips in prayer, for the Descendant of the Saints is among you. He will lift your request to his forefathers, who shall rain down their thunder upon the wicked and burn those who brought death and suffering to your doorstep!”
“Praise and Glory to the King of Zarus,” chanted the priests.
“Bless the Heir of the Divine Throne!” crooned the servants.
The dispirited crowd quickly took up the cry and raised their fists towards the heavens with their own pitiful prayers. Mothers and Fathers pressed towards him with their sickly children and babies. Whistler smiled and benevolently waved them through.
“Purify your hearts, body, and mind. Let not the corruption of the wicked sicken your mortal form. Blessed are the Faithful, for they shall find mercy and grace in the eyes of the Saints.”
He accepted each child in turn, held or seated them upon his lap, and offered them a sip from the golden flask of wine that also contained the blood of the Pope.
“Bless you, Father.”
“Thank you, Father!”
Whistler smiled and accepted their praise but signaled his witch hunter escorts when his arms grew tired of lifting the filthy brats. The parents and their crying bastards were quickly pushed back.
“Come to the city square. These are presents blessed by the Pope of Zarus. Eat, drink, and fill your bellies. Offer your gratitude through prayer and recommitment to your faith.”
They followed his honeyed words with all the ignorance of their position. Whistler imagined himself a shepherd, guiding the tattered and lost sheep back to the fold, and laughed at the image. If he was being honest with himself, this was but grunt work. Still, as long as the streets were packed and ringing with praises for the Pope by tomorrow morning, he would have done his job, and hopefully, the Cardinals would remember his name.
The cheering cries and desperate pleas followed along behind him. The scent of death was temporarily buried beneath the exotic fragrance of heavy incense that coated the air behind him. None of the people present presented any sign of the plague, but Whistler made a show of blessing them in the name of the Pope all the same.
Cardinal Hailstone had assured him that the plague inside the Capital had already been burned out. Whistler would never have accepted this task otherwise. After all, what good would it do him to earn the favor of the Pope and his cardinals if he would just drop dead a weak later?
It was the sight of the silver flag, bearing the image of a white wolf, hanging over the window of a shop that pulled Whistler from his smug daydream.
‘Isn’t that the new symbol of Bastiallano?’
The Father frowned and snapped his fingers to get the attention of Witch Hunter Richter. The sour-faced half-witch glanced at him in annoyance and followed Whistler’s pointed nod to the flag.
A child appeared through the shop door, hugging a doll in silver armor against her chest as she gazed up towards him with wide eyes. “Mommy, Mommy, come look!”
Whistler narrowed his eyes at the doll’s painted plated chest, which bore the same symbol as the flag. His lips quickly curled in disdain. ‘Witch Sympathizers.’
A woman appeared, her smock covered with wood shavings, and stiffened as she took in the priest and his witch hunters. She quickly picked up the child and retreated inside her store, firmly locking the door behind her.
“My brethren, pray for the fallen who have been led astray by the beguiling promises of a witch,” Whistler lamented loudly as the procession continued past the simple woodshop. “Pray that they repent and return to their faith before the fires of purgatory rise to purge their souls.”
Richter dropped back to tap the shoulder of the newest recruit and nodded for the young man to follow him.
“What is it, Richter?”
“Father Whistler wants us to make an example of this shop,” the witch hunter replied as they moved through the thronging crowd towards the nearest alleyway.
“Why?”
“Because their witch sympathizers, obviously.”
The young witch hunter stopped short and clenched his gloved hands tightly. “What sort of example, Richter?”
“Hag’s tit, Declan. Do I have to paint the bloody picture for you?” Richter snarled as he pulled a small bottle of flammable oil from his pouch and dug around for some flint. “We wait till the crowd passes, then set the shop on fire.”
“That—there’s a woman and child inside!” Declan protested.
“And they’ll run out once the blaze gets started,” Richter replied with a shrug and a growl. “Hand me your flint. I can’t find mine.”
“No.”
“No?” Richter echoed and then narrowed his eyes at the angry recruit’s face. “I’m your bloody superior, and you’re telling me no?”
“I’m not burning my city just because some priest says so,” Declan replied firmly.
“Oh yes, you bloody are!” Richter grabbed Declan’s left hand, shoved the oil bottle into it, and stepped in close. “You’re going to set fire yourself, or I’ll be reporting your insubordination to Ripper myself.”
The recruit olive-green eyes blinked but did not lose their steel.
“You really are a piece of work,” Richter muttered. “It’s just burning a building. I’m not asking you to kill anyone.” He ripped open the pouch on Declan’s waist and grunted at the organized contents. “Still acting like this is your city? Still think you’re some pathetic knight in shiny armor? Ripper will be so disappointed.”
Declan said nothing but stepped back with a smile that quickly set Richter’s teeth on edge.
“What are you—” the senior witch hunter lunged forward, only to watch the bottle of oil speed past his hand to drop into the grate of a sewer. “Fucking Bastard!” He spun around and quickly slammed Declan against the nearest wall, let out a grunt of surprise, and then looked down at the dagger that had pierced his gut. “You—little cunt! I’ll fucking kill you—”
The blast of air from Declan’s hand, pressed against Richter’s throat, silenced the witch hunter, who slumped down to the ground with a gargled curse.
“Ripper can come hunt me down if he likes,” Declan whispered as he leaned down to pull the dagger free. “Whatever you, he, or anyone else thinks, I am still a Knight of Lafeara. And I have sworn my life in service to my King!”
The muffled cries of the frenzied crowd echoed through the sky above as Declan wiped the bloody blade against his scarlet cloak and turned down the alley, away from the main street.
‘I need to get word to the Crown Prince as quickly as possible! But Ripper and his men will be monitoring the palace gates carefully. That means my best bet is going to be the knight’s compound and Lord Commander Quentin.’
The Knight Lieutenant had no problem navigating his way through the Capital streets he had grown up in. Above him, hidden in the blinding light of the sun, a single crow flew past, then circled around to follow.