Death of a Witch
Ezra bolts upright on his bed. The sounds of dogs barking, people screaming, and clanging metal ring throughout the encampment. Ezra pounces from his bed to the window of his ramshackle hut. “Gods and hells! They found us,” he says. Crimson flames roar at the edges of the settlement. He sees a banner, lit by the flames, depicting a burning ash tree flanked by wolves. “Goddess help us, the High Inquisitor is here.”
Ezra lifts his straw mattress and collects an old leather-bound tome and a staff of gnarled yew. He darts out the door and opens the tome to a page littered with runes and sigils written in golden ink. He places it on the ground and touches his staff to the parchment. The markings pulse with golden light and flow onto his staff.
Ezra stands and takes a step but then turns back to the book. “I’m sorry Mother, I can’t let your work fall into their hands,” he says. He snaps his fingers, and flames spring up on the page.
Ezra strides into the center of the camp. In the pale moonlight his face looks more like carved stone than human flesh. His eyes glow with soft amber light. The wind changes and the din of the raid seems muffled and distant. He looks at his people bound to trees by iron chains at the outskirts of the camp. They must live. Even if I cannot, they must go on.
“You have no business here, Mordred,” he says. The dust of the earth rises from the ground with every word.
The High Inquisitor, clad in ornate plate drags a woman in chains out of a house and tosses her aside to look at Ezra. “You shall not address me by my name, witch. My business takes us where God wills,” he says. The clamor dies down as the inquisitors turn their attention to Mordred.
“And God demands that we bring you and your heathen people to the fold for his most holy judgement.”
“You are here for me. Your god has no quarrel with these people. Take me and let them go,” Ezra says.
“You are all blasphemers and idolaters! Your very existence spits in the face of God!” Mordred nods to his men and they form up beside him.
Ezra drives his staff into the ground, the runes crawl from his staff and onto his hands. Crackling threads of golden light form between his outstretched palms. “Then you will learn why your god dares not stray this far from his holy city.”
“My God rules the lands, stars, and heavens, witch!” Mordred says. He raises his sword overhead. The inquisitors form a circle around Ezra, spears trained on their quarry. The captain points his blade at Ezra, and his men close in.
With each step they take Ezra feels the inquisitors’ whips anew. With each step they take he feels the brands sear his flesh. With each step he remembers the night that he led his people to freedom. Ezra chants, “Lig tine iad a ithe.” The air dances to the rhythm of his words. A fiery orb forms betwixt the threads. His eyes shine like a sunset on the plains. “My people have survived worse than you and your false god. You will not be their undoing!”
As the inquisitors lunge at him, the thread of magical energy ruptures. Flames engulf them, searing flesh from bone. The blast hurls Ezra into a tree. He falls to the ground and gasps for breath.
Mordred staggers to his feet and lurches toward Ezra. He scrambles to doff red hot armor. His right hand is welded shut around his sword’s hilt. “Your black magicks are no match for God’s righteous,” he says.
“You have lost, murderer. Your men are dead. Your god has failed you! Bas a fhail.”
A smoking red rune appears over Mordred’s heart. His eyes burn in their sockets and he falls dead, smoke rising from the seams of his armor.
The people of the camp rush to Ezra’s side, chains rattle on their wrists. “My people,” he says. “My soul shall soon dance in the Goddess’ forests. But you must carry on. Remember our old ways.” The light leaves Ezra’s eyes and they drift shut. The people sing in unison, “Teigh I suaimhneas chuig ar mathair.” The wind howls and the trees drop their leaves as nature itself seems to mourn the death of a witch.
