The Fall of the Witch Hunters E-Book

Anita Wolf

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Witch Hunters
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 507

Beschreibung

The land of Caldon is in the iron grip of the Witch Hunters, who mercilessly persecute Dark Folk, unlicensed magicians and freethinkers. Only a few dare to oppose them. One of those few is Kenzie, whose activities on behalf of the Resistance become a lot more complicated when her best friend, of all people, joins the Witch Hunters. With a lot of black humour, The Fall of the Witch Hunters pokes fun at common fantasy tropes and turns them on their heads, while also holding up a mirror to our own world.

Leseprobe

Anita Wolf lives in Berlin with her two cats. She began writing her first book because she didn’t have the patience to draw it as a comic.

There are times when people think that things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Wolcod used to think that, too; but he didn’t know how wrong he would turn out to be.

This was two years ago. At the time, he still lived with his mother and his permanently drunk bully of a father in their run-down house in a run-down neighbourhood in northern Burgh. That was when the thought first occurred to him. Things simply couldn’t get any worse.

And then one day his father had hit his mother once too often, and this time his mother never got up again. There was no choice for Wolcod but to run away from home immediately if he wanted to avoid a similar fate. He was fourteen at the time.

With a little luck he got a job with a soft-hearted innkeeper who hired him to do the dishes, and even allowed him to sleep under the kitchen stairs.

He was on his own, but he had work and a roof over his head. Things could have been worse. And then, of course, they got worse.

That day, he happened to see a couple of ruffians bothering a girl who had been stupid enough to come to a place like this alone and unarmed. He stepped in.

At least he girl had the sense to seize her chance to run away and never come back. So she missed a rather spectacular fight, during which a skinny boy beat three men to a pulp, all of them older than he was, and about twice as big. Afterwards, Wolcod couldn’t remember their faces; to him, they had all looked like his father.

When the dust had settled, he began to realise what he had just done. Wolcod felt sick. He felt a dull throbbing in his hand. Maybe he had sprained his fingers. Or even broken a couple. He didn’t care. He stumbled over his unconscious foes, who lay on the floor in unhealthily contorted positions; all he wanted was to get away.

But then he heard a slow rhythmic sound behind him. Someone was clapping. Wolcod turned around hesitantly and saw the rider. He was dressed all in black, with his hood low over his face, astride a large black horse.

Wolcod remembered that his mother had warned him against those fiends who would drag him off, never to be seen again. Afterwards he had been on the lookout for such men, but none of them ever did him the favour of turning up and taking him away from home. Now, of course, he understood why his mother had been so anxious to warn him. He turned away, ready to disappear as quickly as possible.

“Don’t worry, they won’t be getting up again anytime soon.”

The stranger’s voice wound its way into the boy’s ears, smothering any fear and loathing. No human had such a voice. Wolcod didn’t move.

“You seem like a very angry young man,” the rider went on conversationally.

Wolcod eyed him warily, and decided to go for aggression.

“How is that any of your business? There’s plenty of that anger left for you, so push off!”

The stranger let out a low laugh. Wolcod felt as if his ears were melting.

“Believe me, you had better not pick a fight with me.”

The boy believed him.

“You seem to have great potential. We could make something out of you.”

This confirmed Wolcod’s suspicions, and he got ready to bolt.

“Have you ever considered becoming a Witch Hunter?” asked the stranger.

Wolcod was so shocked that he floundered; and instead of a sprint, he only managed an awkward little sideways leap.

“What?”

“You know who the Witch Hunters are.”

Of course he did. Everyone knew. That is why he stayed away from those people. The Witch Hunters were the king’s elite troops, and their task was to stamp out black magic, warlocks and demons. They took the stamping out part quite literally.

“Yes, I know. And I certainly don’t want to be one of you.”

“It would be a way out of your misery.”

“I’m happy with things as they are. I’ve got work and a roof over my head. That’s all I need.” Wolcod realised that he had just refused to comply with an actual Witch Hunter; so he quickly added: “Er… but thanks for the offer, all the same.”

The stranger made no reply. Wolcod expected to be cut to pieces any moment now in a fit of pique - or just for the fun of it. But the Witch Hunter didn’t move, and only looked at him from the shadow of his hood. Wolcod could almost feel that gaze drilling into his skull.

“Fine,” said the rider. “As you wish.”

He turned his horse around.

“But think it over. I will return next month, and repeat my offer.”

That was the last thing the boy wanted.

“Thanks, but…”

“See you then, Wolcod.”

Wolcod watched as the darkness swallowed the rider. Only now did he realise that the man had known his name.

The next day, Wolcod lost his job. The innkeeper seemed in a hurry to get rid of him. He didn’t answer when Wolcod asked him what he had done wrong; he just ran him out of the inn as quickly as possible, using a butcher’s knife for emphasis. Wolcod thought it best to leave, and suspected that the innkeeper must have gone mad.

But that was just the beginning. People panicked the moment they saw him. No one would give him work; everyone avoided him, as if he had troll-rage1. Wolcod wondered if people were giving him a wide berth because of something he’d done or if everyone had suddenly come down with some sort of brain fever. He thought he looked the same as before, and he was polite and didn’t smell. So if the whole of Burgh had lost their minds, he would have to go elsewhere.

But it was the same in the surrounding villages. Doors and windows slammed shut as he walked down the street. Farmers lunged at him with pitchforks when he sheltered in their barns.

Sometimes Wolcod had a feeling that he was being followed. He could guess who was creeping after him. He swore to himself that those Witch Hunters would never get him. But with no food and no money, his fierce resolve slowly dissolved into a stubborn little heap of defiance.

So now he was sitting in the rain, hungry and soaked, somewhere on a godforsaken country road; he was too tired to go on, and he had had enough.

At least I can’t sink any lower, he thought with a wry smile.

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Not this time. A shadow loomed over him. He looked up reluctantly.

“So, Wolcod,” said the Witch Hunter casually. “Had enough time to think it over yet?”

Wolcod hung his head.

Twenty years later, in a small wood near Burgh, the undergrowth creaked and snapped under the weight of the living bundle being roughly dragged towards the forest edge.

They must have caught him unawares. That was it. How else could a few puny humans overpower someone like him? There were only six of them. First-year Witch Hunters, probably; they were more expendable than the seasoned ones. He had caught one of those a couple of months ago, and they still hadn’t found a replacement.

Of the legendary Thirteen Witch Hunters, only twelve were left; and if he could have it his way, he would kill a few more.

A little voice in his head whispered that he wouldn’t actually mind getting out of this alive.

Dargh cursed himself for his cowardice. Such thoughts were unworthy of a shadow alp. If death awaited him, he would meet it proud and undaunted.

That’s all very well and good, said the little voice; but seeing as the Witch Hunters almost wiped out your entire folk, it might be better for the shadow alps if you actually survived. Ouch!

A branch struck him in the face. Wherever these idiots were dragging him, he hoped that they would arrive soon. If only they released their grip for a second, Dargh could spread his wings and… They threw him on the ground, but unfortunately without letting go of him.

“You filthy scum!” Dargh growled. “Just you wait until I get out of this! I will…”

“Don’t worry, you’re not getting out of this.”

He knew that voice. That damned, beguiling, deceiving voice! Dargh’s head snapped up, causing the local Witch Hunter to jump.

Before him was a dark figure, clad all in black, on a large black horse, which flicked its ears nervously at the sudden noise. The rider patted its neck soothingly.

“You!” roared Dargh.

“So, we caught you at last,” said the figure. “You’ve caused a fair bit of trouble, Dargh. Tearing Floyd apart like that, that was naughty of you. We had to look around for a long time before we found a replacement.”

“If you’ll just come a little closer, Lachlan, they can start looking for your replacement, too. You backstabbing traitor! You are of the Dark Folk, just like those you have been murdering!”

Lachlan cocked his head, dismounted, and threw his hood back. Like all his folk, he had dark hair, very pale skin, and was eerily attractive. He squatted so close to Dargh that he needed only have lunged forward to rip out his throat. Dargh would have done it at once, had he not known how pointless it would have been.

“The Light Folk are constantly slaughtering each other. Humans kill dwarves, dwarves kill elves, everyone kills orcs. No-one calls that treachery. And you’re telling me that a banshee who kills a shadow alp is a traitor to his people? Nope. That doesn’t hold water with me.”

“You are revolting, Lachlan! You are even worse than the humans whom you serve.”

“I serve them?” Lachlan gave a mocking snort and turned to the Witch Hunters. “Did you hear that?”

There was a bit of embarrassed throat-clearing. Most of them had spent the last few hours wishing they were entirely elsewhere. This had nothing to do with the shadow alp they had wrestled down – although he was over seven feet tall, black as the night, and endowed with very sharp claws and teeth. The one the Witch Hunters were really afraid of was Lachlan, their chief. None of them would ever dare disobey his orders. Dargh knew that sort. They were like so many humans. Cowards. Weaklings. Sheep. That was one of the reasons he hated them so much. He gave Lachlan a withering look.

“You will get your come-uppance. Perhaps not from me; but you will get it in the end.”

“Well, I certainly won’t be getting it from you, Dargh. For you, it’s over.” He lowered his voice confidentially.

“Believe me, I should know.”

Dargh turned away.

“Kill me if you must, but rid me of your presence.”

“Oh, you want to make a heroic end. For the sake of your people, eh? Well, let me tell you something. You haven’t got a people anymore. All the shadow alps are dead. You’re the last one.”

Dargh raised his head and looked into his face. Lachlan’s eyes were such an icy grey that they seemed to glint in the dark.

“No. That cannot be true.”

“Oh yes, it is. You’d better believe me, my friend. All gone. How shall I put it – you should have killed a few more Witch Hunters, eh?”

Dargh sagged, as if they had let the air out of him. The Witch Hunters who were holding him down sank a little.

“So have done,” he said in a broken voice.

Lachlan gave a cruel smile.

“That would be noble, wouldn’t it? The coup de grâce. But I’ve thought of something better for you. Seeing as we’re such old friends.” He leaned forward and said quietly: “I’m not going to kill you, Dargh. You shall live, knowing that you are the last of your kind, and that you couldn’t save them. The last shadow alp in the world. All alone. For all those long centuries, until you die.”

Dargh closed his eyes. Lachlan rose. Silently he went back to his horse and mounted up.

“Oh, there is something else.” He half-turned. “You’ve been a bit of a pain in the neck lately, if you catch my meaning. I can’t simply let you get away with that.”

He turned to the Witch Hunters.

“Cut off his wings.”

Dargh raised his head in dismay.

Lachlan smiled sweetly at him.

“We can’t have you flying about the place causing trouble, now, can we? See you around, Dargh.”

He turned his horse away. Dargh reared up. The six men could only just restrain him.

“You won’t get away with this, Lachlan! Curse you! You shall get the punishment that’s coming to you! I…”

The wind was knocked out of him as the Witch Hunters threw themselves on him with renewed zeal.

Lachlan shook his head disapprovingly. When people like Dargh ran out of options, they always fell back on this preposterous cursing.

He rode away, and paid no notice to the screams that echoed through the night behind him.

Seth lounged around on his horse, watching the ships in the harbour. Two ships had already arrived from Goidelia; but there was still no sign of the new Witch Hunter who was supposed to take Floyd’s place.

Seth was positive that he would have spotted him instantly. He may not have been a Witch Hunter long, and may not yet have taken part in any major mission; but he was sure nobody could ever sneak past him.

Seth peered toward the harbour again. Apparently, this new fellow was something special. Not only was his father a Northman; he had also discovered a whole new continent called West Vineland. Seth didn’t know where that was. He didn’t know what a continent was, for that matter. But he was impressed. If the father had achieved something like that, then the son must be even bolder. Apparently the Northmen were built like giants, were constantly setting things on fire, and should not be allowed near the ladies. Seth wasn’t sure why that was, but he was very impressed.

“Are you supposed to pick me up?” said a deep voice.

“Sorry, but I’ve been watching you wait for me for the past quarter of an hour. I’m getting bored.”

Seth turned around and saw a young man with blonde hair sitting on a huge cream-coloured horse. He was leaning casually on his mount’s neck. The horse appeared to be napping. Seth was dreadfully embarrassed.

“Where did you come from?”

The man gestured vaguely towards the harbour.

“I… I didn’t see you. Ahem. So you must be… er… I forgot your name.”

“Mazacan.”

“Right. I remember now.” Seth realised that he was addressing a superior. “Er – sir. I – er – I’m Seth, sir. I’m supposed to… if you would follow me, sir, I’ll bring you to Headquarters, sir.”

Mazacan gently smacked his horse, which emerged from its snooze and snorted.

“Less of that ‘sir’ business, all right? I haven’t even officially enrolled yet.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Mazacan sighed, and followed the nervous youth.

The Witch Hunters’ headquarters were located between Burgh and the surrounding villages. It had apparently replaced the capital, Burgh, as Caldon’s centre of power.

Seth studied Mazacan out of the corner of his eye. He was younger than he had imagined, perhaps in his early twenties – very young for an elite Hunter, but still older than Seth.

Seth had begun his training as a rank-and-file Witch Hunter barely a year ago; and considering how things were going, he could only dream of joining the elite by the time he was Mazacan’s age.

His new colleague really did look like a Northman – or at least what he’d naively imagined Northmen would look like. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern face and long blonde hair, and a dark beard that Seth thought was much too well trimmed and groomed for a Northman’s.

Seth looked away briefly, because something had moved at the wayside – you never knew. But it was only a couple of children staring wide-eyed at the two of them. Seth mistook their fear for awe, and straightened up proudly before turning back to Mazacan.

There was something odd about him. His skin was too smooth, his hair was too shiny, his eyes were too green under his dark brows. And his ears were slightly pointy.

“So it’s true, sir?”

Mazacan was miles away, dwelling on more pleasant parts of his life. He turned to the lad with raised eyebrows.

“Eh?”

“So it’s true that you are…” - Seth lowered his voice - “…elvenkind?”

“Oh, that.”

Mazacan shrugged. To him, this was perfectly unexciting. But the skinny youth looked at him so expectantly that he relented.

“My father was a Northman, my mother was an elf. Yes, I was made by mutual consent. I used to live here in Caldon, then I went with my father to stay among the Northmen, and then I moved to Goidelia for a couple of years. Yes, my elven blood gives me certain advantages.”

“Like what?” asked a fascinated Seth.

Good heavens, thought Mazacan. He leaned forward conspiratorially and winked. “I can't tell anyone, you know. Strategic advantage.”

“Oh, right, of course, I understand, sir.” Seth nodded eagerly, but then went on: “You’ll be replacing Floyd. He was a brave man.”

He stared ahead unseeing for a moment.

“A shadow alp got him.” He became animated. “They say the beast tore him in two with its bare claws, just like that! They say he was spattered all over the meadow! It was a huge mess, they say.”

Mazacan grimaced. He didn’t like revelling in the horrible things that happened to others.

“Yes, he was a really brave man,” said Seth once again, unaware of Mazacan’s discomfort. But then he turned to him awkwardly.

“Seeing as you’re now one of the Thirteen, sir, do you already have… the mark?”

“Hm? Oh, I see. You mean the tattoo. Yes, I have it.”

Mazacan hoped the lad wouldn’t ask to see it.

“Can I see it?”

Mazacan wished that the mark had been located somewhere embarrassing; as it was, he couldn’t refuse to show it to anyone. He loosened the cuff of his left sleeve and showed Seth his wrist. It was a twelve in the numerals of the old tongue – an X made up of two crossed swords and a blood-red II, with a skull that stood for the leader of the Thirteen.

Seth stared at it as if it were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Ooh,” he said.

Mazacan pulled his wrist back, lest the lad begin to drool with awe.

“So tell me,” he asked conversationally – perhaps to avoid any more questions. “Who are those famous thirteen elite Witch Hunters of yours?”

“Well, at the moment there’s only twelve, that’s why you’ve…”

“All right, all right, those twelve elite Witch Hunters.”

“Well, there’s the boss, you’ll meet him soon, then there’s the two lasses…” The boy actually blushed. “…and the nine la- men.”

“All human?” asked Mazacan who didn’t particularly care.

“All except Lachlan.”

He’d heard that name somewhere before.

“And what kind of creature is he?” What kind of folk would willingly join the Witch Hunters, anyway? “A dwarf?”

Seth stared at him as if he had just blasphemed.

“No! How could you… Lachlan is a banshee of the highest lineage!”

One of those, thought Mazacan. How callous would he have to be to join the elite Witch Hunters when he was one of the Dark Folk?

“Well, I don’t know,” he drawled, “the banshees I’ve met so far were all very gentle, quiet people… Besides, male banshees don’t have any interesting powers.”

Mazacan almost expected the boy to point at him screaming ‘Heretic!’

“Lachlan is the best Witch Hunter there is! He’s got incredible powers! He’s an Extracting Unkillable!”

Mazacan knew the technical jargon. ‘Extracting’ meant that he was able to suck the life out of someone. And ‘Unkillable’ of course meant that these people would not die from violent causes. He’d once read a scientific article about what happened when you tried to decapitate an Unkillable. That must really be a memorable occasion.

“Bloody hell. I’d heard that some banshees can have either of these powers; but both at the same time? That must be quite rare.”

“He’s the only one,” said Seth proudly, as if it was his doing. “He really is the best.”

“Hm,” said Mazacan.

He decided he would give this unique specimen a wide berth.

“We’re here, sir.”

The grey walls of the Witch Hunter headquarters rose before him.

“I hope you will soon feel at home within these proud halls, sir, just like I do.”

Mazacan looked at the massive, cheerlessly monastic walls, and felt a sudden regret that he hadn’t gone down with the Northmen.

Seth led Mazacan through a grand hall, up a massive flight of steps and into a high corridor above. Everything was calculated to make visitors feel small and unworthy. It certainly worked on Mazacan, who was not used to such proportions.

Seth stopped in front of heavy double doors and knocked hesitantly. A faint growl was heard from inside; with a lot of imagination, it could have been interpreted as a yes. Seth opened the door, and they went in.

Contrary to what Mazacan had expected, the room did not match the dimensions of the rest of the building. In fact, one large desk was almost enough to fill it.2

Behind the desk, a broad-shouldered man stood with his arms crossed behind him, looking out of the window.

“I bring you Mazacan, my lord,” said Seth eagerly.

“Very well,” rumbled the man at the window without turning around. “You may go, Seth.”

The lad gave Mazacan one last reverential look, which he found slightly worrying, and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Do sit down.”

Mazacan sank into one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

The man finally turned around and looked at him wearily. He was as tall as Mazacan and powerfully built, as if he were a lumberjack or something of the kind. He wore his black hair tied back and his chin-beard trimmed short. His eyes were a dark blue, so dark that they too seemed almost black; and his gaze was so inscrutable and resigned that Mazacan felt like he was attending his own funeral.

“You are a lord now, you know,” said the man in that deep voice of his.

“I’m sorry?”

The man ran his fingers through his hair and sighed; his features became more alert, and harder.

“When you join the Thirteen, you automatically receive the title of lord. You can demand that people address you as ‘my lord’.”

“Oh – I’d rather not.”

“I understand. I don’t like it, either.”

“But Seth…”

“Seth is too keen. In their first year of training, the rank-and-file are always keen. I hope he will calm down when he receives his first wound; otherwise it might go badly for him.”

Yes, an exasperated Witch Hunter might end up murdering him, thought Mazacan.

“So, Mazacan, you are now one of the Thirteen. It is a dangerous profession; the Resistance grows ever stronger.”

Mazacan somehow had the impression that the chief Witch Hunter was almost pleased about this.

“You will be taking Floyd’s place. People will tell you that he was brave, but that is not true. He was a reckless fool, and he overestimated himself. Do not make the same mistake.”

“I won’t, sir.”

His new captain gave him an ambivalent look.

“You will answer to me. Not to anyone else. You’ve stumbled into an important position here. Not everyone will like that. Especially since you are the youngest among the elite. At your age, you should normally never have been accepted. I made this exception in your case, because you were the… least uncivilised of our prospective candidates. Most of the men will not take well to receiving orders from someone younger than themselves. So be careful.”

He saw Mazacan’s expression.

“When you have been with us for twenty years, you will understand what I mean.”

“Forgive me, sir, but you don’t seem so old yourself.”

“I have had to grow up very quickly,” said the Witch Hunter darkly.

Then he looked at Mazacan as if he had just remembered something.

“My name is Wolcod. Whatever gods you believe in, may they have mercy upon your soul.”

Seth showed Mazacan to his quarters, whilst eagerly supplying him with a flood of unnecessary comments and explanations.

“Sir, this is the room for newcomers to the elite corps. Of course, as soon as you’ve made it through the probation period, you’ll get a better one, sir…” mumbled Seth as he opened the door.

Mazacan looked around the room. It was furnished with a small bed3, a small wardrobe and a small chest of drawers beneath a small window. He sighed quietly. He was the largest thing in the whole room.

Seth felt ashamed, as if it were his fault that the room was too small and Mazacan too big.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sir… b-but…”

Mazacan turned around, and was faintly surprised that his shoulders did not scrape against the walls.

“Nevermind. I once spent months sleeping on a berth on a Northman ship, when I was still a growing lad. When the voyage was over and I could stand up straight again, I found I was half a head taller than before.4”

“Really, sir?” asked Seth in awe. “You’ve sailed on a Northman ship?”

“Er… yes.”

“Did you also run into sea-monsters so big that they could swallow a ship whole?”

Mazacan was about to give a reluctant answer, but Seth had already moved on to the next question.

“And is it true that the people of West Vineland are tattooed all over? Even the girls? And that they spend all their time laughing and dancing? And that they don’t wear anything except flower necklaces and…”

Mazacan interrupted the lad before he burst.

“No. That’s the South Sea Islands. In the places I’ve been to, it’s too cold for flower garlands; and the girls there would tear your heart out if you got too close.”

Seth was enthralled. “Wow!”

Mazacan rubbed his neck, and remembered that Seth was still very young, and that he’d probably never ventured beyond the borders of the county.

“Erm. Yes. Well – it’s been a long crossing and all that, so if you don’t mind…?”

“Sir?” asked Seth, not getting the hint.

“Well, I’d like to unpack and… well – shoo!”

He gestured as if he were throwing something out of the door.

Seth finally grasped that he wasn’t required anymore.

“Oh! Of course, sir! Sorry, sir! How could I…”

Seth slunk out of the room amidst profuse apologies and even more profuse ‘sirs’. Mazacan gave him a strained smile, then shoved the door closed behind the youth, and sighed.

The Northmen weren’t exactly known for their sophisticated conversation; but none of them had ever spoken as much at one stretch – not even Mad Høger, who was always ranting about the big white whale that would get them all in the end.

The Dark Folk were usually divided into two categories: the Abysmal Ugly folk and the Supernal Fair folk. The Abysmal, such as some sea-sprites or hobgoblins, had developed as repulsive an appearance as they could. This served to repel attackers, or to paralyse their victims with fear.

The Supernal, such as the alps or the banshees, were handsome to look upon, sweet-voiced, and fragrant. Thus attackers lost all desire to attack them, and their victims were lulled into a false sense of security.

Some of the Abysmal saw the Light Folk merely as food; and some of the Supernal needed the Light Folk to perpetuate their own kind.

For instance, alps had always had a fairly low birth-rate, so when times were hard, they resorted to humans to provide some fresh blood. Human hereditary traits were far weaker than those of the alps; which is why the offspring of those brief encounters had all the distinguishing features of an alp rather than a human, at least as far as the first generation of hybrids was concerned.

For the most part, the inhabitants of Two Isles had accepted this state of affairs. After all, there were worse things than waking up in the middle of the night to find an attractive alp in one’s bedroom.

And if someone was stupid enough to venture out on the last night of October, they had no one to blame but themselves if they got devoured by a Nuckelavee.

This liberal stance worked well enough, until the humans became too numerous. They started encroaching on the territory of the Dark Folk; there were more and more incidents.

Some folk, like the banshees, managed to strike a deal with the humans. Female banshees could foresee the death of those closest to them. Among the great clans of Two Isles, it was considered both practical and fashionable to consult with such a lady on a regular basis. Should she foretell an impending death, one could always try to avoid one’s demise – or at least get one’s affairs in order. Thus banshees were accepted by humans, and, by and large, left alone. Others were not so lucky.

As mentioned earlier, some of the Dark Folk enjoyed hunting and eating Light Folk. It was to protect humans from such creatures that the Witch Hunters were originally established.

They protected the civilian population against ghoul attacks, and provided assistance in case of an impfestation in their barns.

But over time, humans turned against the Dark Folk in general, without troubling to distinguish between those who were truly harmful to the Light Folk and those who were not.

Even the dark elves - who were elvenkind, and therefore belonged to the Light Folk - were perceived as a threat, simply because they had creepy grey skin and were devilishly good with curses.

Anything even remotely dark was considered suspect, and had to be wiped out – regardless of the fact that most of the Dark Folk had lived in Two Isles long before humans.

The numbers of the Dark Folk and the dark elves diminished rapidly; and the Witch Hunters extended their sphere of influence. They now moved against humans suspected of practising dubious5 magic.

They claimed they were evil, called them witches and warlocks, and said they should be stopped. And whoever objected needed to be stopped, too.

And so the Witch Hunters ceased to be a protection force, and became a force of oppression. They grew so powerful that even the official rulers of Two Isles became concerned.

The Thirteen Witch Hunters, to whom Mazacan now belonged, were the highest-ranking of all Witch Hunters, and came from all across Two Isles. They dealt with the chief suspects and the important missions.

The run-of-the-mill Witch Hunters tended to be a ragtag bunch of villainous scum; but the elite Witch Hunters were highly disciplined. They had to make sure that the troops didn’t get out of control, and held them to account if necessary.

Under Wolcod’s predecessor, the Witch Hunters had struck hard against the population. But he had met a mysterious end6; and when Wolcod became chief Witch Hunter, he took drastic steps to ensure that the Thirteen kept the rank-and-file on a short leash. And they did - except that the leash was never short enough.

In any case, the average man in the street understood little of these things. The Thirteen were feared, on account of the authority invested in them.

The ordinary Witch Hunters held them in awe. It was an honour to be offered a place among them. One did not refuse such an offer – if only because those who did often vanished without a trace.

Mazacan wouldn’t have to report for duty until later, and he still had a couple of things to take care of before that; but first there was one thing that he simply had to do first. He hadn’t seen her in such a long time.

He hadn’t been to Caldon in years – let alone Rigby. She was bound to have changed a good deal, just as he had.

Mackenzie, his best friend, knew nothing about his new job. Mazacan guessed darkly that she wouldn’t be thrilled when she found out.

He reached the hill from which he could see her house. Here at least, everything looked the same as he remembered.

That much could not be said about the rest of Rigby. It used to be a separate village; now it was one of Burgh’s furthest suburbs. Everything here had seemed so much bigger and prettier when he had been a boy.7

Mackenzie came out of the house. Mazacan hesitated for a moment. The last time he had seen her, she had been little more than a child; now she had become a young woman.

Yet Mazacan immediately recognized her walk, and that way she had of brushing her red hair out of her face. He found that incredibly reassuring.

She was going to the clothesline, to hang up a fresh lot of washing.

As Mazacan approached the house, he wondered what sort of appearance he ought to make. Perhaps she was cross that he had been gone for so long. Perhaps she wouldn’t even recognize him. He was only a few paces away, and she still hadn’t noticed him. Mazacan decided to greet her as he had always done.

“Meep!” he said, and prodded her in the ribs.

She squeaked and turned around.

At first, she just stared at him in disbelief. Then she asked: “Mazacan?”

“Hi, Kenzie. I’m, er, back, as you can see.”

For a moment, he feared she would box his ears. Instead, she squealed with delight and threw her arms around his neck. Mazacan hugged her, and was surprised when he realised just how much he had missed her.

She let go of him and he put her down again. He had never noticed that she only reached his chin. Presumably that had not been the case earlier.

She grabbed him by the arms and looked him up and down.

“My goodness, Mazacan,” she teased him. “Look at you! When you left, you looked like an elf-brat; now you could almost be mistaken for a grown man. You even acquired a bit of a beard! That’s quite rare among the half-elven. It must be the Northman in you coming out.”

She slapped him on the stomach with the back of her hand. Mazacan only just repressed a girlish giggle, and cleared his throat.

“That’s about the only place, though.”

He showed her his elvishly smooth forearm.

“I like that better than all these ape-like types you get around here. Not that I wouldn’t like you if…” She broke off, pushed him back a little, and crossed her arms.

“And to what do I owe the extraordinary pleasure of your visit?”

Kenzie seldom showed her real emotions. Mazacan knew that. The hug she had just given him had been a huge exception. She usually had a firm grip on herself.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her father was an earth elemental. They were said to be unshakeable. It was only her large yellow-green eyes that gave away the fact that she was a half-breed, like Mazacan. He, with his ebullient nature, admired Kenzie’s self-control. To be honest, he admired everything about her.

“This isn’t a visit, Kenzie. I’ve started a new job here. I’m staying.”

She beamed for an instant, then composed herself again.

“What do you mean, here? In my garden? Did you get a job as a scarecrow?”

He looked down.

“Not exactly. Something like that.”

“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

“No, no,” he assured her hastily. “No need to guess. I’ll tell you. Only – in good time, all right? Actually, I have to go… I just wanted to… I just wanted to let you know that

I’m back.”

“Well, I know that now.” She smiled at him. “The suspense is killing me. Off you go, or you’ll get kicked out on your first day. Hup hup.”

She shoved him towards the garden gate.

“I’m really glad to be back.”

“You’ve been away long enough, Pointy-ears.”

Pointy-ears. That was the nickname she had given him. One of his father’s Northmen had heard her call him that once. From then on he had been known among them as ‘Wee Elfy-lugs’. At least until he had been strong enough to beat them senseless.

“See you soon, Kenzie.”

He turned to leave, but Kenzie held him by the arm.

“Mazacan, I don’t want you to think that I’ve become paranoid over the years, but… Be careful, will you?” she said, in earnest now. “Things have changed over here. Don’t pick a fight with the Witch Hunters.”

Mazacan swallowed. “Don’t worry, Kenzie. I won’t get into trouble with them.”

He gave her hand a squeeze and left.

He stood in the shade of the oak-tree on the little hill, and watched as the blonde man left the house and mounted his horse. He saw him wave goodbye one last time and ride off. She stood at the gate and watched him go. For a suspiciously long time, he thought. Then she went back to the house.

Let’s find out what that was all about, he thought, and started down the hill.

Kenzie was in a state. Mazacan just had to come back now, of all times. She hung a sheet up on the clothesline. Of course she was pleased. Very much so.

Mazacan had been her best friend since she was six years old. She had nearly drowned, but he had dived in without hesitation and dragged her back to the bank. To this day she was afraid of large masses of water, of any kind. He was the only one who knew that.

Mazacan had moved to Nordsk with his father when he was seventeen. She hadn’t seen him since.

But she was glad that he was finally back. Maybe he would even be able to help her. Now that Dargh had disappeared. She was getting really worried about her friend. It wasn’t like him to give no sign of life for weeks on end. She was convinced that something had happened to him.

Quite aside from her own dismay, the Resistance depended on Dargh. How could she keep the movement alive in Rigby with so few people? She vaguely hoped that, maybe, if she explained things to him carefully, Mazacan might…

“Well, sunshine?”

Kenzie’s heart skipped a beat. Lachlan stood behind the clothesline and decoratively laid a hand on it.

“What are you doing?”

Kenzie smoothed her hair and composed herself. Every time she saw Lachlan up close, like now, part of her screamed Hallelujah! and fell over, grinning happily.

Yet she had nothing but contempt for who he was, and did her best to nip any attraction she might feel in the bud. She tried hard not to let him see her inner conflict.

“None of your business, Witch Hunter,” she said curtly, and hung another sheet on the line, right in front of Lachlan. Then she turned around and took one of the empty washing baskets, careful not to turn her back completely on the concealed banshee.

“Come on, Kenzie.” Lachlan emerged from under the sheet. “You’re not telling me everything. For instance, who was that young blonde oaf waving at you so wistfully?”

She felt her hairs stand on end. He had been watching her.

“No-one. Just an old acquaintance.”

“If you greet all your acquaintances that warmly, you’ve some catching-up to do with me.”

She put the basket down, hoping that he couldn’t see how her hands were clenched around the handles.

“You’re not an acquaintance. You’re a government official.”

“Not today, sunshine. Today I’m off-duty. I’m here as a civilian.”

She glanced at the two intimidating knives that hung from his metal-studded belt. He could easily have performed major surgery with those. He probably had.

“Civilian? With those things?”

He raised his hands innocently.

“Believe it or not, but there are a couple of people in this world who might want to harm me.”

“You don’t say. It must be an occupational hazard.”

She took up a pair of shears and began trimming the rosebushes. She didn’t need to, but she somehow felt better holding those shears. Perhaps there were bits on that man that didn’t grow back when they were cut off.

Lachlan leaned on the wall of the house and watched her fuss uselessly with the bushes.

“So, where does that… acquaintance of yours come from?”

“He’s from here. He’s…just returned after a long voyage.”

“Has he indeed. And why is that?”

Kenzie lowered her shears for a moment.

“Well, doubtless, in your deluded mind, to overthrow the King, the Government and the Witch Hunters. It’s a well-known fact that every Resistance fighter washes up at my place. Oh but of course, it’s because I’m the head of the local Resistance! Silly me, I’d quite forgotten.”

Lachlan only raised an eyebrow.

“Lachlan, how many times do I have to tell you? I’ve got nothing to do with this whole Resistance thing. I don't know what gave you that idea.”

He waved his hand eloquently.

“You’re completely paranoid,” said Kenzie.

“No. Just watchful.” He was suddenly standing next to her. “I know that you’re involved with the Resistance. I’m going to prove it; you’re going to tell me everything you know, and that will be the end of your little rebellion, sunshine.”

Kenzie made a wrong movement with the shears and accidentally cut off a rose. She tried hard to conceal her nervousness, fished the rose out from amongst the twigs and smiled sweetly. She could not think of anything to say, except a speech that a former comrade-in-arms had once made to her.

“Goodness me, Lachlan! Don’t be so hostile all the time.” She pinned the rose on the hilt of his knife. “So much hatred and violence. Relax! Embrace the nature of things. Let peace flow into your heart.”

He looked at the rose, and then back at her. Then he reached into the rosebush. There was a soft hissing sound, like that of a candle being snuffed out. The whole bush seemed to wither and to shrivel, until only a dead stump was left.

Those were my mother’s roses, you bastard, thought Kenzie.

Seemingly unmoved, she told him: “Fancy that. I didn’t know you could do that to plants.”

“I can do that to anything that lives, sunshine.”

He let go of the dead bush and laid his right hand over her carotid artery.

“With most folk, this is the best place to Extract. It’s quicker than people think. With long-lived folk, it takes a little more effort. Too much life in them, don’t you know.”

Kenzie looked straight at him.

“Well, in that case I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your valuable time Lachlan.”

She pushed his hand away, walked past him and resumed hanging up the laundry.

“But next time you wish to show off, do try not to use my roses, will you? There’s plenty of weeds that could do with your attention.”

Lachlan looked at her irritably for a while, then grinned and stepped towards her.

“I’ll get you, you’ll see.”

He walked out of the garden. Kenzie waited until he had gone before she dared to breathe again.

When he reached his horse, Lachlan noticed that he still wore Kenzie’s rose in his belt.

He took it out, meaning to crush it and throw it away. But he stopped, looked at the flower, hesitated, then placed it carefully inside the inner pocket of his coat, before mounting up.

“Come on. Time to take a look at Floyd’s replacement.”

He rode off towards Headquarters.

Mazacan soon acquainted himself with the other Witch Hunters from the elite unit; and Seth always trailed after him, eagerly waiting for an occasion to be of service to his new hero.

The Thirteen Witch Hunters weren’t the sort of people you would want to run into on a deserted road. They all wore the Witch Hunters’ characteristic black garb – as he now did, too.

The two ladies in the unit - the ones Seth had been so embarrassed about - looked pretty enough, though no more confidence-inspiring than their male colleagues.

The one Mazacan found the most congenial, besides Wolcod, was Morgan, a giant of a man; he had been around even longer than the boss, and was already going grey. He had probably killed more people in the course of his life than Mazacan had ever met; but at least, unlike some of his colleagues, he didn’t boast about it.

None of the Thirteen was married or had children. Mazacan could think of quite a few reasons why. He wouldn’t have married himself as a black-clad official, who would vanish every night to arrest entire families, and do goodness knew what else with his insane bloodthirsty new friends, behind the walls of a place everyone avoided like the plague.

Although he wouldn’t have married himself before, either.

He thought of Kenzie, for some reason, and felt a twinge.

To distract himself, he began counting the Witch Hunters he already knew. He counted twelve, including himself. Of course, the banshee was still missing.

“And where is Lachlan?” he asked Morgan, which probably broke Seth’s heart. The boy was hovering in the background.

The older man looked down at him.

“Are you in such a hurry to meet him?” he said darkly.

“Don’t worry. You’ll soon be seeing more of him than you’d wish. Lachlan is in charge of the induction for all new Witch Hunters. In the beginning you’re practically his.”

Mazacan felt his heart sink at the news.

“But Wolcod said that I would answer only to him…”

“Yes, that’s right. As soon as you’ve grasped how we do things.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Depends if you’re a fast learner.” Morgan shrugged. “If you are, maybe a couple of months. If you’re not, you’ll be dead before that, anyway.”

Mazacan sighed quietly. He could have had such a great life among the Northmen. He had left because he was a landlubber at heart, and because he had had a terrible argument with his father; but compared to his present circumstances, it seemed like heaven on earth. A rather cold, pitching heaven among a bunch of roaring blokes, true; but still.

“I guess I’d better learn fast, then.”

“You’d better,” Morgan muttered. “Be careful with Lachlan. He’s been with the Witch Hunters for an awfully long time. He and Wolcod don’t get on at all.”

He glanced around briefly.

“It was Lachlan who recruited the boss, at the time. He isn’t best pleased that his former pupil is now giving him orders. And he won’t be pleased that a rookie like you got appointed to such a high position, either. He’ll think you’ll only meddle.”

“I thought he was supposed to be so great. Why didn’t the King name him Chief of the Witch Hunters?”

“Even the king isn’t stupid enough to give Lachlan more power. He might as well hand him the crown. That’s why he appointed Wolcod, even though he thinks his methods are too soft. Wolcod is the only one who isn't afraid of Lachlan.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

The huge man nodded, and Mazacan felt something tighten in his stomach.

“Listen. It took us long enough to find a replacement for

Floyd. Try not to die right away.”

Morgan clapped him on the shoulder and left.

Mazacan shook his head, baffled. How much worse could it get?

“So you’re the rookie,” said a voice.

He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Lachlan standing behind him. Mazacan knew the voices of Dark Folk by now.

“That’s right,” he answered, slightly annoyed, and turned around.

He thought that for a banshee, Lachlan’s features were almost too hard. Normally, male banshees also looked delicate and ethereal. This one looked like he had actually bathed in the blood of virgins.

Lachlan frowned. “So it is you…”

“Have we met?”

Mazacan would have remembered if they had. Lachlan was a little shorter than he was, but he still felt like he had to look up to him.

“Met? No… not exactly.”

Lachlan folded his arms over his chest.

“So – Mazacan, right? – as long as you’re… new here, it’s my job to make sure that you… manage.”

The way Lachlan stressed his sentences was unnerving. He could say the most innocent things and contrive to make them sound suggestive, mocking, menacing, or all at once.

“I’m sure I’ll soon know my way around.”

“I’m sure you’ve already found your way around… some places, at any rate.”

Now what is that supposed to mean? Mazacan thought irritably.

“I know you’re from around here, but how about I give you a little tour to begin with?”

“Why not.” How does he know that?

He followed Lachlan into the yard, and a comatose-looking stable boy brought them their horses.

Lachlan’s black stallion was leaner and more sinewy than Mazacan’s Northland mare, Skadi. Something told Mazacan it would be better not to go anywhere near the beast. Lachlan had no such qualms about Skadi.

“Hello there, big girl!”

He stretched out his hand to pat the mare. Mazacan grinned to himself, hoping that his horse would snap at the banshee. Skadi was a very diffident beast, and would not allow many people to handle her. Mazacan often thought he had a bad influence on her.

But instead of biting that snotty banshee’s fingers clean off, Skadi let herself be petted, and even looked like she was enjoying it.

Floozie, thought Mazacan.

“Looks like we have a few friends in common,” said Lachlan, and mounted his creepy black horse.

None of my friends would willingly have anything to do with you, except this stupid nag, thought Mazacan; but he muttered: “Possibly.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along,” said Lachlan; but it rather sounded like: It would be better for you if we got along, that way I won’t have to rip your guts out right away.

“I’m sure,” Mazacan grumbled, and mounted up.

He already cordially loathed Lachlan.

Mazacan rode next to Lachlan, and took in the surroundings. He watched people’s reactions as they rode past. Most glanced up at them, and then quickly away again, as if that short glance had already been too much. Many were afraid, but in some faces Mazacan also saw ill-concealed hatred.

He felt extremely uncomfortable. The Witch Hunters in Goidelia, of which he had been one, were very different from their counterparts in the kingdoms of the great eastern island. In Goidelia, there had always been more elves and Dark Folk than humans. So the Witch Hunters had never succeeded in becoming all that powerful. They were still very much like the protection force they had originally been. True, he’d had some unpleasant experiences, but nothing so bad that he couldn’t suppress it.

Here, on the other hand… Of course, there had already been Witch Hunters before he left, but they had never been a problem for him.

Almost as though he had been reading Mazacan’s mind, Lachlan said: “You’ve travelled with the Northmen. You should be used to seeing terrified folk.”

“I never took part in the raiding. My father was past all that.”

“I see. Peaceful retirement. Or perhaps he thought you were too soft for that sort of thing.”

Mazacan stared at Skadi’s ears. His father, Magnus, had actually said that to him. Then he had gone on about great explorers and that stupid new continent. They had had a blazing row. Mazacan shouldn’t have asked him how he could claim to have discovered a continent, when advanced civilisations had already been flourishing there for centuries. His father had been heartbroken.

Now Mazacan understood why. It was the only great thing Magnus had ever achieved in his life. And his son was making a mockery of it.

“I’d rather be soft than dead inside,” he muttered.

“How cute,” said Lachlan. “Have you ever actually killed anyone?”

He asked that as casually as if he were asking about the weather.

Mazacan stared at Skadi’s ears again. He didn’t like to think about it.

“Couldn’t be avoided.”

Which was true. Sometimes people just came charging at you screaming and waving a sword around.

The banshee gave a mocking laugh.

“And you presumably still feel bad about it, don’t you?”

“In my opinion, every death is a waste,” growled Mazacan angrily.

On the other hand, he wasn’t entirely sure whether his new colleague’s dying would really be much of a waste.

“Oh, I can see that you and Wolcod will get on famously.” Lachlan let out a contemptuous snort. “He’s really losing his grip. We’re not allowed to touch women, children and old people. If he saw any of us slap a woman across the face, he’d have our guts for garters. But he doesn't care what we do to men aged twenty to sixty. He really seems to hate them. And all that fuss just because his daddy clobbered his mummy to death. Sheesh.”

Mazacan glared sideways at Lachlan.

I’m sure you wouldn’t mind. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind chopping a small child’s head off, you bastard. You wouldn’t know decency and morals if they poked you in the…

“So what’s the Resistance like over here?” he asked instead.

“Ah, the fabled Resistance.” Lachlan gave an evil smile.

“They’re no real trouble. Besides, I believe I know who is behind it all.”

Mazacan wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that achievement.

“Really. Well? Who is it?”

“Oh,” drawled Lachlan. “This young lady from Rigby.

Name of Mackenzie.”

“Gasp!”

“Something go down the wrong way?” Lachlan asked innocently.

“’m fine,” Mazacan wheezed.

“You know her, don't you?”

“Erm – er… well yes, from way back… we were friends when we were kids…”

“Well, I guess that’s the end of that. She’ll never speak to you again when she sees you dressed like that. But since you’re only vaguely acquainted, you would never have got anything out of her, in any case.”

Mazacan only made a sad little noise.

“Don’t worry about it, Northman. I’m on the brink of a breakthrough in this matter. And I’ll get her to talk, one way or the other.”

Mazacan felt dizzy. Kenzie, a member of the Resistance… how could she be so foolish? And then the shock: I’m a Witch Hunter… She’s going to kill me…

“Come on,” said Lachlan, startling him. “There’s something we must take care of. A routine check. You might learn something.”

He dismounted and tethered his horse to a post. Mazacan pulled himself together and did the same.

Kenzie was walking down the village road, trying to bring some order into her wildly confused thoughts.

But then she saw a familiar scene out of the corner of her eye. Lachlan was standing in front of the forge, with the whole family gathered in front of him.

The big, strong blacksmith was hanging his head, like a little boy who had eaten all the cookies and now feared punishment.

It looked like Lachlan was once again spreading a little terror: he liked to pick people at random, claiming he had good cause to suspect them, and then proceeded to question them about various crimes and misdemeanours.

Kenzie noticed that the smith’s teenage daughter was staring at Lachlan as if he were a young Hellegrecian god. He must have noticed that. If he spoke the right honeyed words now, he would have a willing new informant. There had been girls8 who had betrayed their entire family for one of his smiles. Without thinking, Kenzie went up to them.

“…even though you’re telling me you’ve got nothing to do with the Resistance, how do you want to prove that?” she heard Lachlan ask. “You understand that I’ve got to do my job properly.”

“Of course,” the smith answered. “B-but I…”

“That being said… it is entirely possible that someone laid a false trail, in order to deflect attention from themselves.” Lachlan play-acted an inner conflict, then appeared to relent, and shrugged.

“I shall let the matter rest; but let me know at once if you see anything suspicious. Understood?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you, my lord; thank you.”

“It’s quite all right.”

Lachlan gave an angelic grin, and winked at the smith’s daughter, who nearly fainted.

“So,” he said, turning once more to the smith. “I’m relying on you.”

The smith nodded eagerly, and shoved his family back into the house, though his daughter seemed rather uncooperative.

Lachlan turned away – and nearly ran into Kenzie, who was standing there with her arms crossed, giving him a silent look of contempt. Lachlan seemed pleased, but not surprised.

“Sunshine! I knew you would turn up.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, isn’t it true? Everywhere I go, you end up too, sooner or later. Don’t you think we might read something into it?”

He gave a big theatrical shrug.

Kenzie wasn’t having any of it.

“Are you terrorising innocent people again?”

“How do you know they’re innocent? Not on your

Resistance membership list, are they?”

“I’m getting really fed up with this, Lachlan.”

“Oh. We can’t have our Kenzie getting fed up. Come, I’ll introduce you to my new colleague.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the crowd. She tried to free herself, but his grip was like a vice. Banshees were stronger than humans and earth elementals. She wished, not for the first time, that her father had belonged to a more powerful folk.

“He’s replacing Floyd, you know,” said Lachlan conversationally. “Technically, he is also my superior – or will be when he’s found his feet. A real bigwig. Not just one of those hangers-on for whom you could find excuses.”

Kenzie didn’t care about Lachlan’s colleagues; she didn’t know what he was playing at. But then the crowd parted before them, and she saw a broad-shouldered Witch Hunter who seemed somehow familiar. The man was tall, and his long blonde hair had an otherworldly sheen.

A new job… Kenzie felt sick.

She dug in her heels. Lachlan gripped her with both hands and shoved her before him.

No, she thought. I don’t want this man to turn around! I don't want to know! I…

“Hey!” Lachlan called.

Mazacan turned around. He saw Kenzie.

He paled – how did she see him now? Dressed all in black. Lachlan’s colleague. A Witch Hunter. He hung his head and stared at his feet.

Kenzie wanted to run away, but Lachlan was behind her and wouldn’t let go of her.

“Come on, you two,” he chided. “Show a little more enthusiasm! This is supposed to be a happy reunion after an awfully long time! This must be a terrific surprise for both of you.” He turned to Kenzie and spoke into her ear: “How do you like him now?”

Kenzie closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and turned to Lachlan.

“Of course I like him. He certainly looks better in black than you do.”

Mazacan’s head shot up. Lachlan frowned in disbelief, and briefly relaxed his grip.

Kenzie shook him off and went up to Mazacan.

“Don’t let on!” she whispered so quietly that only he could hear her. Then she went on, in a loud and cool voice: “So that’s why you’ve come back. I would never have thought. But it’s your first day; don't let me detain you. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of things to do. Gentlemen.”

She gave the two men a curt nod and walked away briskly, but not too quickly.

Kenzie felt their gaze on her until she had turned a corner. Once she was out of sight, she hid her face in her hands and suppressed a sob. Then she pulled herself together and walked on.

Mazacan’s eyes followed her until she rounded the corner. He turned towards Lachlan, who was still gazing in the direction where Kenzie had gone. There was a look on his face that Mazacan didn’t like at all. Lachlan turned around all of a sudden and gave Mazacan a significant look.

“Fancy that,” he said with a crooked grin, then went to his horse and mounted up. “Come on. She’s right, you know. You still have a lot of things to do.”

Mazacan reached for Skadi’s reins and heaved himself into the saddle. When he looked up, he saw that the banshee was studying him, scowling.

“As if you would ever look better in black!” Lachlan huffed, and rode off.

Mazacan swallowed, wondering how he was going to get through that day, until he could go to Kenzie and explain everything.

She didn’t get it. He had been sitting in her living room for three hours, trying to explain it to her; and she was really trying to understand. But she still couldn't grasp how someone like her Mazacan could have joined the Witch Hunters of his own free will.

He hung his head. The more he spoke, the less he himself understood how it had come to this.