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[Rough Draft] Chapter 104: A Bow of Reckoning
Fragments of glass and ice crunched beneath Percy’s boots as he strode through the ballroom—now a battlefield littered with dead, mostly decapitated witch hunters, though a stray noble or two could be found among the casualties. The Witch King moved to where Kirsi stood on the royal platform, one arm protectively wrapped around the rescued, trembling Viscountess, both of them staring down at the bloody remains of the Pope.
Percy eyed the crimson butterflies that meandered away from their victim. Their swollen abdomens trailed blood across the marble floor as they moved drunkenly over the veils towards the Duchess and her troublesome friend.
Satisfied the ferocious creatures were off no threat to him, the Witch King moved closer to the dead Pope. The swollen bite marks around the stump on the man’s right hand, arm, and face suggested a painful, agonizing death.
‘He deserved far worse.’ Percy smirked cynically as he stepped around the body, then froze as his winter-grey eyes narrowed in on the dead man’s face. “No. No, that’s—Impossible!” He barely recalled the slave’s face, and yet here, the cripple lay, dressed in the garments of the Divine Heir.
A familiar, mocking laugh echoed in his ears as a large black crow flew past his shoulder to land on Nicholas’s abandoned seat. The Witch King turned to face the immortal’s crimson-red eyes with an accusing glare.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Veles squawked out an amused laugh and shook his head. “I did warn you. I told you this was a fight Kirsi cannot win.”
“Bullshit! This is our Victory!”
“You are not the only one who knows when to sacrifice the lives of your subordinates in order to win a greater advantage.”
“What?” Percy glanced sharply toward the slave’s corpse and frowned as he scanned the floor around it. The false Pope’s holy relic was nowhere to be seen. ‘Some rat must have slipped through our nets with it. If we can find them, perhaps they’ll lead us to wherever Jericho is hiding.’
“This is your last chance to heed my warning, Percy Hawthorne. If you continue to meddle in the gods’ affairs and risk all to support Kirsi, then I can no longer protect you.”
“What are you so afraid of? Kirsi is no threat to myself or the Covens. She is our ally against the Church!”
“An ally who exterminated an entire Coven last night!”
The Witch King flinched as the crow’s piercing scream howled in his ears. “The Sisterhood of Crows is hardly a loss to us. They were trapped in the past. Their cannibalistic ways would only continue to threaten any attempts we made to peaceably transition the mortals to our way of living as we establish a new monarchy.”
“They were my Coven! They revered the old ways and offered their sacrifices to me! Their deaths have weakened me! And the weaker I become, the less likely that you or any of my Covens will survive Ramiel’s wrath!”
Percy could offer no reply. While he had wondered about the significance of the Covens to Veles, he had always assumed the transfer of power went one way, from immortal to his followers. The idea that any decision he or Kirsi made could in any way weaken a god he had been taught to respect and fear was both illuminating—and confusing.
‘Though the eradication of ice witches does explain why Viktor became so weak he had to hide underground. Perhaps that’s also why the immortal finally chose to name Kirsi as his successor.’
“But if the death of witches is such a detriment to your power, why allow the Church to hunt us for centuries? Why not create your own witch nation as Kritanta did through Emperor Arius?”
“It is not your place to question the accord of the gods! I have done my part to maintain the agreement while Kritanta does whatever she pleases—as she has always done!” The red glow of the immortal’s crimson eyes filled Percy’s vision as the god’s words burned themselves into his mind. “All you need to know is that if you wish to ensure the survival of the Covens—then Kirsi must fall.”
The Witch King clenched his fists as he lowered his gaze to the marble floor, unable to reject Veles’s order yet unwilling to comply.
“You have no idea how far the balance of power has already shifted since Viktor breathed his last. Withdraw from this place at once and leave whatever lingering emotions you have for the half-blood behind.” The crow swelled in size as it flapped its wings. Only then did Percy notice the slowly moving figures of Winifred and his sons in the background and realize that Veles had used his powers to slow down time. “Heed my warning, Percy Hawthorne. If you do not, I will find someone more worthy of leading the Covens with my blessing.”
The Witch King slowly raised his winter-grey eyes to offer the immortal a cynical smile. “Over my dead body, Veles.”
The crow launched forward, vicious black talons outstretched, but veered to the side instinctively before they could harm the pureblood. Percy’s smile sharpened as he turned to watch the immortal fly away, certain of at least one thing.
‘If the extinction of an entire Coven can hurt an immortal, then Veles can’t afford to lose the one bloodline he’s tied his power and blessing to.’
“What—but how?” Winifred stammered, grasping his youngest son’s arm as he stumbled beside the bloody slave’s body. “I don’t understand—did we not kill the Pope?”
The Witch King glanced down at the corpse once more, ears sharpening to the strained remnants of magic that hovered above the man’s remaining hand in a discordant tune. He knelt and removed the already ripped glove to reveal a single good ring embedded with a strange clear pearl-like stone that appeared to contain a strange golden fluid.
“It was probably this,” Percy growled, yanking the ring free and sniffing it briefly. “Smells like an artifact.”
“I don’t understand,” Eustice protested as he steadied the Marquess. “How did we miss this?”
“What is it?” Ernest, the Marquess’s eldest son, approached them, supporting his left arm with a nasty cross-bolt through it. “What’s wrong?”
“Looks like his Holiness pulled one over on us,” Serilda commented bitterly as she joined them. The Marchioness frowned, then moved closer to the Witch King and whispered, “Why does he look familiar?”
Percy clenched his jaw and the artifact in his hand. “It’s their blood.” He nodded toward the Charu butterflies, now frozen on the ground around Kirsi and Hana. “He must have carried some of the Saint’s bloodline in him. Enough to fool even those primitive insects.”
“They forced him to drink it.” The purebloods turned to where Madam Maylea still knelt on the platform. The Spymaster clawed at the golden choker around her neck, her horrified gaze boring into the dead man’s body. “I thought they were merely testing its potency. To see if it would allow Jericho to unlock the holy relics’ powers.”
“Whose blood?” Winifred countered sharply.
“Who else?” Percy retorted as he rose to his feet and turned his suspicious gaze on the pale Viscountess. “But the Pope’s dear sister.”
Kirsi shot the Witch King a warning glare as Linby joined them, passing the Duchess her cloak, which the ice witch hastily wrapped around Hana’s shoulders. “If we’re done here, I should be getting Hana back to Bastiallano.”
“But—what about the Pope?” Eustice protested. “What about the Palace? The King?”
Percy exhaled and shook his head. “Since your army is grazing on Hawthorne land as we speak, it’s probably best you take Lady Hana to Rose Palace as planned while we hunt down the Divine Heir—see what sort of game he’s playing.”
“I can send my purebloods to scout the nearby towns and villages,” Serilda replied quickly. “Even if the Pope has disguised himself—we’ll run him to ground.”
“I’ll send crows to the borders to ensure he doesn’t escape Lafeara,” Winifred joined in quickly.
“Send the crows,” Percy affirmed calmly. “And have your sons search the nearby towns and villages.”
“But—”
“Marchioness, I’d like you to take personal responsibility for our prisoners. Specifically, Nicholas and his mortal wives. See to it they are given comfortable accommodations in the prison towers.”
“What about the Duke?” Eustice pressed quickly. “And the other nobles we’ve corralled outside.”
“Members of the Noble Faction will be given a briefing as to what to expect and then released,” Percy explained confidently. “The rest will be imprisoned in the lower dungeons until we’ve had adequate time to interrogate them and determine the depth of their involvement with the Church. Those who haven’t grievously sinned will be pardoned, brained washed, and returned to society to serve our will.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ernest grunted, turning a bit pale as blood dripped from his fingertips to the floor below. “But can we trust the Knight Commander in charge of the Garrison?”
“Knight Commander Quentin is firmly on our side.” The Witch King gestured to the pureblood’s injury. “You should get that tended to first before setting out, Lord Ernest.”
“Y-yes—my King.”
“Eustice, see to it he does,” Winifred urged, sending both of his boys off with a reassuring and proud smile. “Thankfully, we suffered very few losses and only a handful of serious injuries.”
“I’d feel more gratitude if we had at least captured the object of our mission,” Percy muttered darkly.
“We’ll find him, Percy,” Serilda replied reassuringly. “He can’t have gone far. And he can’t outfly our crows.”
The Witch King nodded, then exhaled slowly as he turned to face Kirsi. “I’m more worried as to why Jericho would take such a risk. Not only has he suffered an enormous loss in terms of witch hunters slain, but his Commander has been taken captive, his sister as well, and Kirsi has escaped his trap.”
“Are we still sure this was a trap?” Linby countered with a frown.
“It wasn’t a bloody banquet,” the Marchioness snapped.
“You’d be singing a different tune if Kirsi hadn’t dealt with that anti-magic shield as quickly as she did,” Winifred retorted with a faint scowl. “Speaking of which, your Grace. It might be best to go ahead and call Bastiallano’s army to surround the palace and capital. I’ve sent purebloods to secure the fortress gate, but we can’t know for certain if any of Duke Stryker’s spies managed to escape.”
“It would be better if our army reached us before his,” Percy agreed.
“Wouldn’t that make us seem like the oppressor?” Kirsi countered with a frown. “Marching an army through the capital so soon after removing Lafeara’s monarch from the throne won’t endear us to the common people.”
“No matter how we spin this, witches will always be the oppressors,” Serilda snorted with a mocking smile. “That’s what mortals have always believed—even when they were the ones burning us at the stake.”
“The common people have a healthy respect for both Dukedoms,” Percy reasoned. “We will tell them the Knights of Bastiallano are here to ensure their peace and safety. Knight Commander Quentin, myself, and the Covens should be able to maintain control of the palaces as long as the prospect of a siege is avoided.”
“Even then, we won’t be the ones that suffer.” The Marchioness scratched her neck absently as she eyed the bloody stub of the slave’s severed arm. “We have Anthraticus below and the skies above at our command.”
“Good, then we are in agreement?”
The purebloods all exchanged looks and nodded.
“Excellent. Winifred, if you could take care of one crucial matter for me,” Percy continued briskly as Linby and Kirsi turned away, supporting Hana between them. “The Pope’s holy relic seems to have wandered off on two feet. Track it down for me.”
“Oh, certainly.” The Marquess nodded, dabbing at the sweat along his forehead. “But first, what do we do with the three witch hunters who surrendered?”
The Witch King glanced sharply to where Ripper and two of his subordinates knelt, surrounded by six pureblood nobles. “There is too much at stake to ignore even the smallest threat. Give them a quick death and move on to what needs doing.”
The Marquess exhaled slowly as he glanced towards the woman leaning against the Duchess for support. “As you say, my King.”
Percy understood the pureblood’s meaning all too well. Even with the Pope’s unexpected escape, Hana still remained the largest threat.
‘But convincing Kirsi as much is—’
A static prickle of magic stirred within the relic the Witch King had taken from Gus’s finger. He froze and looked down as the signet ring in his palm lit up like a blinding star, reacting to a powerful surge of divine power—‘coming from where?’
A deafening boom rang through the ballroom, shaking the entire palace as the gold-filled cracks along the marble floor chipped and splintered. Percy spun around, his bewildered gaze focusing in on Ripper, who held the Marquess impaled on the end of a long blade of dragon steel. The albino’s red eyes flashed ominously as he lowered his victim toward the ground, then dislodged the Marquess from his sword with a single undignified kick as he met the Witch King’s gaze.
The death of the only man Percy had admired as much as his late father took him by surprise. Rather than Winifred, bleeding on the floor, struggling through his last breaths, all the Witch King saw was the shadow of Ethan Hawthorne, betrayed by treachery. He embraced that anger and the clarity it brought as he summoned Veles’ power and blasted Ripper and his dogs through the palace’s northern wall.
“My mistake,” Percy growled as he strolled through the crumbling wall after his three stunned and unmoving targets. “I should have dealt with you personally.” He lifted his right hand, and the first witch hunter floated into the air. The paralyzed man uttered a long, strangled scream as an invisible wind peeled away his armor and flesh like the lumpy skin of a potato. “Losing Winifred is unacceptable. The best comfort I can offer his sons is the knowledge that you suffered as horribly as any mortal can possibly suffer before leaving this world.” The Witch King raised his left hand, and the shrill, broken cries of the second Witch Hunter joined his comrade as bone after bone was torn from his body and discarded onto the bloody courtyard. “All because your Commander refused to accept a merciful death.”
Percy raised a single indifferent brow as Ripper managed to lift his head off the ground. The sight of the albino’s red eyes and fanged smile was enough to snap his carefully controlled concentration. With a flurry of wind, blood, and flesh, the remains of the two witch hunters scattered like fertilizer over the lily beds as the Witch King advanced toward the Commander, lifting the infamous Witch Hunter into the air before slamming the man onto his knees.
“Though I detest them, I’ll save your eyes for last,” Percy hissed as he grabbed the albino’s long white hair. “Do you like puzzles, half-witch? I rather enjoyed them. Although, I’ve always found it more enjoyable to tear something apart rather than piece it together. Let’s start with the hands that have killed hundreds of my kind first—” the hollowing blades of wind moved at the Witch King’s command as Ripper’s stony grin flinched with the grimace of pain. “Even albinos bleed, it seems. Let’s move on to your feet, shall we?” The ripping winds returned as the Commander clung to his stubborn pride. “Followed by your arms and legs. You won’t be needing those anymore.” The pureblood’s smile turned sinister as the heavy limbs splashed loudly in the puddle of blood below them. “And finally—” his piercing gaze ripped away the plate of armor that remained between him and Ripper’s heart, “—the detestable organ that beats within your chest—”
“Take it,” Ripper snarled, his strained words laboring beneath the pain and oblivion his body wrestled between. “Just know—before I die—the last thing I’ll see—is the look on your cunt face—when she kills you.”
“What?” Percy’s bloodlust wavered beneath the dying man’s words. The sharp prickle of warning that ran down his spine came too late as the golden arrow burst through his chest, searing his lungs and heart in unfathomable heat. The pureblood blinked slowly, his lips sealed in a grimace of pain and confusion as his winter-grey eyes fell to the pale line on the naked ring finger of his right hand.
The Witch King and the albino fell together into the crimson pool of death. Ripper’s fangs coiled beneath a dark laugh as he watched the pureblood writhe in agony—anger and disbelief at war upon the young man’s face as he struggled against the inevitable. The albino’s red eyes moistened with tears as they came to rest on Lilaru, the holy relic in her left-hand blazing in full glory that could only mean Jericho’s prayers had finally been answered.
The last thing the Commander of the Witch Hunter order saw before darkness claimed his sight was the Pope’s mad sister pulling back one more blinding arrow. Ripper blinked as the Witch King’s body jerked beneath the impact of divine energy. He blinked again as Lilaru turned him onto his back and placed her hand over his slowly fading heart. He blinked one last time, his lips forming a twisted smile as he watched the black crow with crimson eyes that circled the darkening sky above them. A sea of storm clouds stretched across the horizon that rippled with a glimmer of lightning and rumbled with the promise of divine vengeance.