Witch Hunter Read online

  WITCH HUNTER

  By Domien De Groot

  For Eline

  Thank you for being who you are, and for being there with me every step of the way

  FOREWORD

  This story started out as an audio drama called The Witch Hunter Chronicles. You can still listen to it online on www.audioepics.com. If you are one of the listeners who enjoyed The Witch Hunter Chronicles and want to learn more about Sevenpeaks and its inhabitants, I thank you for sticking with us. With this novel, I intend to present the ultimate version of Ludlov’s story. If, on the other hand, you just picked up this book unaware of the audio drama, I thank you for giving the story a chance and I hope you will enjoy your stay in Sevenpeaks.

  The book you are holding is part of a larger project that includes Witch Hunter: the dramatized audiobook. It’s a production that was made possible thanks to the generous crowdfunding contributions of a group of true believers. If I’ve just made you curious about the dramatized audiobook, good! You can find out more about it on the Audio Epics website.

  The story of Witch Hunter has been living in my mind for a long time. To you, dear reader, I wish it will stay with yours for a little while as well.

  All the best,

  Domien De Groot

  “In the last days of this Age, the tongue of the Goddess will flow away from the earth. Her words will be murdered and forgotten, and men will scorn and burn Her.”

  -Scriptura Sancta, Pre-Woronitzian edition

  “I see a burned man rise. He crushes the heart of the Storyteller and casts its ruin into the Abyss, calling forth the Evil! He will rise! Lucchus!”

  -Dying words of Sancta Margaretha the Seeress

  “On the edge of the Abyss shall the Last Age dawn. The Blood of the Maiden shall take up the weapon of Lucchus, evil no more. Her sacrifice shall end his reign. But the burned man shall rise and be king.”

  -From The Word of Wolfen

  PROLOGUE

  “So now the darkness is complete,” Ludlov said. He wasn’t sure whether he was talking to himself or to the impenetrable gloom that enclosed him.

  “You know who I am... Don't you?”

  The unexpected voice was deep and warm and unmistakably ancient. Not croaky or hoarse at all, it sounded like the speaker held the knowledge and experience of many centuries of history, like he had been present at the rise and fall of whole kingdoms and civilizations and the words and deeds of many thousands of lives. It was as if Ludlov was having a conversation with history itself in this dark and unknown place.

  “Yes, I know who you are,” Ludlov said, as the realisation of what this meant to him steeped in.

  A candlestick was lit. The bright, soft crackle sounded comforting and fresh in the midst of the inky blackness, but it left no hint of the scent of sulphur.

  In the tepid, yellow glare of the little flame, he could now see the face and hands of a male figure with a pale, round head who was using the flame to light a single white candle between the two of them. He was of indiscernible age, this man. Sitting there, he had the appearance of a monk, clad in a heavy woollen cloak, wearing an expression of contented and immobile patience. The warm, inviting eyes of the old man looked weary, as if he hadn't slept in days.

  Ludlov looked defiantly into the candle flame, letting his fierce, hawkish eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. Beyond the two men, there was only an all-encompassing darkness.

  “Are you aware of your position?” the ancient one asked.

  “It's all over... Yes, I am aware of that,” Ludlov said, drawing a smile from the old man.

  “Don't be so gloomy, friend. Do you find this darkness disturbing?”

  Ludlov looked around, truly taking in the darkness that surrounded him for the first time.

  “No,” he said. “I find it strangely comforting.”

  The old man nodded. It was clear he had heard this many times before.

  “You are now in the womb of the afterlife. You have reached the end of the temporary and will soon embark upon your journey into the eternal. But first, there is the time of our candle.”

  He gestured towards the light source between them.

  “This is the time you have been given to answer to me for all you have done and all you have forsaken to do. The measure of the life you have led will now be taken and then – if you are found worthy – you will look upon the countenance of our beloved Goddess.”

  Ludlov looked into the candlelight and felt sadness falling on his heart, not in a sudden or oppressive way, but dwindling down and gently accumulating like snow on a gravestone.

  “I do not think my soul is pure enough to deserve that,” he whispered, and then turned his gaze to the old one. “But before you judge me, please know that I have always tried to avoid the pain and hurt of others and I have always fought against despair. I did not always succeed. I know what it means to hate. And I know what it means to love. I have a name and I have a story.”

  The monk-like gentleman raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “I will not be as quick to judge you as you may think, good friend. Fear not. All who come to me are given the chance to sit down and tell their tales. That is the purpose of the candle.

  So please... Begin.”

  He paused, evidently waiting for Ludlov to respond.

  “Very well. My name was Ludlov and I was a witch hunter.”

  INTROITUS

  The razor-sharp tip of Ludlov’s rapier penetrated the dark fabric of the cloak, stuck through the softness of the man’s skin and made its way past a thin layer of musculature into his heart. There was no remorse to be found in the necromancer’s yellowish eyes as he looked up to the witch hunter’s stern face. Still on his knees, the man’s lips curled in a smile – no, a smirk, Ludlov thought. As the light of life left his unnaturally coloured eyes, the smirk turned to a crazed grin, revealing the necromancer’s sharp, bloody teeth. Ludlov didn’t waste any more time and placed his right foot on his victim’s shoulder, using it as a counterweight as he slid the blade in one fluent motion out of the body, which fell lifeless to the wooden floorboards with a dull thud.

  Disgust slithered through Ludlov. Even in his final moments, the Necromancer had kept his pride and conviction.

  Ludlov quietly wondered how a man could so stubbornly persevere in wilfully treading the path of damnation, even into eternity.

  The witch hunter bit his thin lips and slowly tried to relax his muscles and let the tension flow out of his body. He started towards the wooden ladder that would lead him to the ground floor of the windmill when he heard something that sounded like an angry serpent hissing. The sound distracted him for a moment. He paused to inspect the weapon in his hand. The dark purple liquid from the necromancer’s veins that stained his blade had begun to bubble and foam, no doubt corroding the steel of his weapon. Blood tainted by dark magic. He gazed at it for a moment, wondering what kept him from simply hastening towards the nearby creek and cleaning the blade in fresh water before the blood could damage it any further.

  Then he remembered that he obviously couldn’t allow such a vile liquid to mingle with the drinking water of these hapless villagers. A sudden wave of weariness brought him down, forcing him to throw his weapon aside onto the wooden floorboards.

  He sank down onto a pile of burlap meal sacks and sighed deeply. His gaze wandered around the room to take in its quiet solitude and finally settled upon the fresh corpse he had made. Even now, that horrid grin remained carved in the pale, dead face.

  If anyone had been able to look beneath the wide brim of the witch hunter’s hat, they would not have found any hint of triumph in his eyes, nor of satisfaction or smugness. He ran his left hand over his coarse facial features, wiping off his sweat. Then he simply remained
where he was and listened to the sounds of his heartbeat and his breathing as they gently returned to their ordinary rhythms, meanwhile observing the aftermath of the violence he had brought into the world and the slow corrosion of his rapier’s blade. He could easily get a new one. Men such as Ludlov had unlimited access to weapons of every kind. As he sat there, lost in thought, the sound of footsteps on the straw downstairs could be heard, followed by the unmistakable wooden creak of someone climbing up the ladder. Ludlov looked up.

  A young man appeared: a pasty, big-eared face beneath a woolly green hat. The eyes and mouth of the young miller's son were wide open with amazement. The boy's expression reminded Ludlov of a hungry fish.

  “Master Ludlov!” the boy exclaimed. “He's... He's dead, you've done it!”

  “I had no choice, lad.”

  The witch hunter's tone was flat, his voice almost a whisper.

  The miller's boy nodded, clearly unable to understand why the witch hunter was maudlin rather than proud.

  “Your rapier, master,” the boy said, trembling as he picked up the weapon and offered it to Ludlov. Reluctantly, the witch hunter took the handle and rose. He towered over the boy, a tall shape of two colours: the dark brown of his leather, copper-buttoned jerkin and the black of his riding boots, his long, shoulder-caped coat and his tall, broad-brimmed hat. Hawkish eyes, an aristocratic nose and dark shoulder-length hair completed the picture.

  He noticed the boy was staring at him with fearful admiration. Before Ludlov had come to this town, the lad had probably never seen a witch hunter, but the hat was an icon so recognisable that even townspeople in remote villages found themselves in awe when they saw one up close. Ludlov patted the boy on the back, trying to defuse his veneration. It wasn't like this back in the city.

  “Come on,” he said, “your village is waiting. It's time to tell them of Rubert's death.”

  The witch hunter was received as a conquering hero as he emerged from the mill into the cool, grey morning air. They all cheered him, thanked him and praised him but Ludlov did not even smile. He descended down the hill and went to the babbling brook by the edge of the woods surrounding the village. The villagers followed behind him, still jubilant. Ludlov kneeled and took off his gloves. He started to wash his face in the cold autumn river water. The water felt bright and invigorating. Ignoring the townspeople, he pulled a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his leather jerkin and started cleaning the blade of his weapon with it. If he might be able to salvage it after all, why shouldn’t he make the effort as long as he didn’t allow the corrupted steel to touch the water? The handkerchief was perfectly resistant to the biting venom of the blood. No doubt the necromancer had induced his own blood with the properties of Silverfire, an alchemical concoction known to affect metal in strange ways. It was not the first time Ludlov had encountered its use as a defense against mortal weapons. He had never before met a foe insane enough to have the evil substance coursing through his veins, though. The rapier’s blade looked scarred and damaged, but it was still sharp. He would still be able to use it – should he meet more enemies out here – although he would certainly need a new weapon once he got back to Sevenpeaks. The cheering behind him eventually died down and Ludlov put his gloves back on, stood up and slid his rapier into the leather scabbard dangling from his hip. Instead of the smooth sound he was used to, there was a metallic rasp as he did so. He walked through the crowd, absent-mindedly handing the bloody piece of cloth to a random onlooker. The woman who had received the handkerchief turned up her nose and passed it on to her husband.

  “Master Ludlov!” cried a man with a high-pitched voice from somewhere in the crowd. “Are you leaving so soon?”

  The witch hunter turned to face the villagers.

  “Yes, I am. Why? Do you require my service for another task?”

  The miller laughed. He was a jolly, heavy-set man with a round face half-hidden behind a lavish moustache.

  “Well, there ought to be some sort of party to celebrate our liberation from the necromancer, don't you think? And surely our saviour would be an indispensable guest of honour!”

  The witch hunter looked at the miller with a cold, grey stare that quickly threw a tense silence over the villagers. He looked some of them in the eye. Those who dared meet his gaze did so at first with a kind of merry anticipation, but then they quickly turned their faces. None of them seemed to understand why Ludlov was in no mood for a feast. How could they? The monster threatening their peaceful place had been vanquished and they could return to their lives. To them, there was only good news here. To Ludlov, it was different. Every time he killed, it hurt him. It was not a matter of remorse or guilt. Rather, he felt angry about it. He killed, and killed often, and he did so with conviction, but there was nothing enjoyable about seeing the light of life disappear from a person's eyes. It was something no one who had never taken a life could understand.

  “The man lying dead inside your mill was smart and talented but weak,” Ludlov explained, raising his voice so as to address the entire village. “He could have been many things. A notary, perhaps, or a priest, or a magistrate. Instead he chose to submit his soul to the darkness and thus became a threat to himself and to you. I have killed him because he was beyond all redemption. If this is a reason for you to celebrate, then by all means, celebrate without me.”

  Nobody replied or followed Ludlov as he turned and left the village. He entered the stable adjoining the local inn and greeted his horse. As he was checking the saddle, he saw a little girl approaching, hardly more than ten years old. She held a small, rolled-up piece of paper in her hand, bound in a silk ribbon.

  “Master Ludlov! A message arrived for you from the city!”

  Ludlov nodded. He had expected this.

  “Very good, girl,” he said as he reached into the coin purse on his belt and produced a Copper Fox. Smiling broadly, the child accepted the coin and handed over the note with a grand gesture.

  Ludlov removed the binding and unrolled the paper. It was a message written in impeccable handwriting:

  Tomorrow, after the sun has set, the witch hunter known as Adomir will perish in his own flames.

  Beneath the words, there was a black mark made in expensive Parslavenian ink: a sickle with a large single drop, representing blood, dangling from the curve of the blade, ready to fall.

  The witch hunter immediately knew what it meant. He felt his heartbeat racing. He clenched his jaw and crushed the note in his fist, straining the leather of his glove with a creaking sound. He looked down to the girl.

  “When did you get this?” he asked.

  “Barely ten minutes ago, sir!” the girl said.

  If this note had indeed been sent by agents of the Black Sickle, there could be only one reason why they would warn Ludlov in advance: they wanted to lure him back to Sevenpeaks. It was likely to be a trap.

  Still, he knew he had no choice: he needed to go.

  “You did well. Go home now, child.”

  As the girl left the stable, he put the crumpled piece of paper in the breast pocket of his jerkin, mounted his horse and raced out of the little village.

  ***

  Samina pulled the cork from the jar and sniffed the herbs inside. Their smell was faint and dry, which was not right, not right at all. Freelongue Leaf was supposed to have an almost overwhelmingly fresh, minty scent. These had been in the cupboard for far too long and lost most of their potency.

  In addition, their dryness would make it difficult to extract the healing qualities within. In ideal circumstances she probably wouldn’t have used them anymore but she knew well enough that she didn’t have that much of a choice.

  Living in the city had changed so many things. Gone were the days of simply picking the fresh herbs she needed for her mother. Gone were the days of feeling the dewy moss beneath her bare feet as she wandered the woods and smelled the freshness of the morning. She had hoped the herbs in the jar would have reminded her of that but they didn’t
anymore. Living in the city had drained the Freelongue Leaf much as it had drained Samina herself. There was no fresh morning scent here, only an insane, ever-mutating clash of smells and noise. There had been noises in the woods, too, of course, and they hadn’t always been kind. Yet somehow, the sounds that would emerge from deep in the forest had always seemed less like noise than what she heard here: merchants praising their goods with bellowing voices, blacksmiths hammering their iron into shape, different street musicians all playing and singing separately, living in their own musical worlds. Trying to blot out the noise around them, each deemed themselves to be the only voice of harmony. That was why they all only contributed to the cacophony.

  She heard her mother going into another coughing fit downstairs. She'd better use these herbs after all. It would be better than nothing.

  It was impossible to stand up here in what she and her mother jokingly referred to as “the pantry”. They lived in an attic, but they kept their ingredients in the attic of the attic, a tiny crawling space right beneath the pointy rooftop of the building. It was chock-full of bottles, jars, boxes and kegs. The heavy wooden beam above served as a hanging rack from which burlap sacks dangled, filled with spices and seeds. Holding the jar of Freelongue Leaf in her left hand, she pulled a strand of long, dark hair behind her right ear and crawled towards the ladder.

  Her knees hurt, as she noticed only when she came down the ladder.

  Her mother was lying in her bed by the window, looking exhausted. The coughing had stopped but her breathing was still heavy and slow.

  “They're dry but I'll give it a try,” Samina said, perhaps too honestly.

  “Try and make -” her mother began, but the mucus in her throat kept her from finishing her sentence.