A Woman Burned

Alaine slapped a hand over her mouth, crouching in the shadowy hollow of an ancient oak tree. She couldn’t afford for them to hear her gasps. Her dress was blackened and her feet ached from the cold that pierced the thin fabric of her slippers. She should have worn sturdy winter boots like her Ma’ always insisted, but there hadn’t been time to grab them. 

“She went this way, didn’t she?” The words whipped through the air, chill as the winter wind.

“Dunno,” came the grunted reply.

Resting her fingertips on the moss and mulch that clung to the rotting tree, Alaine peered out at the two men following her. The skinny one, Vassal Frank, had his sorcerer’s pistol ready. She’d seen what one could do—a blast that scorched the air, leaving behind ringing silence and the scent of burning flesh.

“Ma?” Alaine whispered.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the memory away from her. 

The vassal’s superior was less prepared. Partisan Brottle’s scratched plate armour barely fit over his thick frame, and his pistol remained sheathed at his hip. The ammunition sling filled with short, fat cartridges stretched across his wide chest. Sorcerer’s pistols shot something far more dangerous than arrows. Bolts of lightning had chased Alaine from her home, blasting black holes in the trees and turning the last lingering patches of snow to hot steam.

“You’re a lousy tracker,” Frank grunted.

“And you’re a lousy shot,” Brottle replied. “Why don’t we leave her, we caught the rest of them. She’ll probably freeze to death overnight in these woods.” He slung an arm around the novice’s shoulders, ruffling his composure. “Look over there, it’s started already. Why don’t we go warm up by the bonfire?”

Alaine stared past them through the distant trees. She could make out dark smoke rising from Haarlen. 

“It’ll stink.” The vassal wrinkled his nose as the pistol in his hand dropped towards the forest floor. 

Alaine’s heart stopped. She was going to be sick. Only the fire of fear coursing through her veins kept her steady. Who had they caught? Had it been her little brother, Hugo, or her father? Had they just come to her house? She didn’t know why any of this was happening.

“I’ve slept with pigs for the warmth.” Brottle shrugged. “Can’t smell worse than that.”

Frank curled his lip, his eyes searching the trees. “He’ll be mad if we come back empty-handed.” 

The darkness of the hollow kept her hidden, the skeleton of the once great tree offering her sanctuary.

“Well the High Priest ain’t our Knight-Commander, is he?” Brottle rolled his eyes, dropping the arm from his vassal’s shoulder. “He don’t pay our wages either, ’cause he ain’t our Prepostor.” He frowned at the trees. “Come on young vassal, let’s head back before we end up in the Wilds.”

Alaine’s vision brightened. The High Priest had come to their village barely a moon ago. She remembered his words at the last temple service. “Tell me, villagers of Haarlen, is there a witch amongst you? You may speak to me of it, there’s no need to fear my good people. The All-Father himself blesses the men and women of Eldaland.”

Frank still hadn’t moved; he was green enough to do a thorough job. “What about the Witch?”

“If Alaine Falridge was a witch…” The partisan raised a thick brow. “Don’t you think she would have cursed us by now?” He glanced back towards the village. “Would be a waste, burning a little thing like that. If she survives a few days starving in the woods she’ll be easy enough to catch.”

“You ain’t a good man, Brottle,” Frank glowered.

“Being good isn’t a requirement to enlist in the Civic Regiments, kid,” Brottle replied. “I heard the commander himself say that it usually gets in the way.” His face split into a slow grin. “Wonder if they’ll still be screaming when we get back.”

Alaine’s spotting vision cleared as a horrifying certainty consumed her. They’d caught them, Da and little Hugo. They’d caught them, and now—she looked to the dark smoke on the horizon, a cloud of ashes. The world blurred as a force ripped through her pulling a howl from her throat. Bright little arcs of lightning sparked across her skin, filling her with a power she’d hidden for too long. The soldiers’ hands flew to their pistols as she pulled herself from the tree’s hollow, but it was too late. 

“I’ll kill you,” Alaine promised

 Raising a pointed finger she released the force inside of her. Her anger set the air aflame. Lightning struck and the ancient oak that had protected her splintered into a thousand wooden shards.

Cold cobblestones pressed into Alaine’s cheek. She rolled onto her side, blinking at the familiar towering buildings of Haarlen. Had she fainted in the town square? As her senses cleared, the stink of burning meat hit her nose. She tried to sit up but her hands were tied behind her back. Why were they tied?

“Throw it on the flames with the rest of them.” She recognised the voice of the High Priest.

She was wrenched to her feet by an armoured partisan, and her words of protest froze in her throat as he spoke.

“All due respect, your holiness, we’re supposed to send the ones that show signs of The Goddess’ curse to The Tower.”

The man holding her was Knight-Commander Versen of the Haarlen Civic Regiment. He had been stationed in Haarlen for ten winters. She’d known him more than half her life—he played drafts with her father on seventh days. He held her arms tightly, and she dangled, exhausted in his grip. Something inside her was broken. She felt cold, so dreadfully cold.

“Come now, Knight-Commander.” The High Priest smiled. “There are no sorcerers here.” His voice was low, with a rhythm that slowed Alaine’s racing heart. “You bow to the All-Father above all others, do you not?” 

“I do your holiness.” Knight-Commander Versen’s voice was low. “But still…”

Alaine’s gaze drifted from the two men falling on the fire. She could barely feel its warmth. The bitter cold had suffused her heavy limbs. Her heart had frozen in her chest, unbeating. The pyre blazed high, and in the centre of the flames, four shapes hung limply from a post. Unrecognisable, save for the fact that one was so much smaller than the others.

“Hugo…?” Alaine whispered.

The world was too bright as the High Priest raised a hand, his black cloak billowing as he turned towards the crowd. Alaine looked over the faces of the crowd, people she’d known her whole life. Darkness stared back as if their pupils swamped their eyes. It was there in all but a few pale terrified faces, blinking at back her. Terror and anger filled the air so thickly she could taste it. Hope jolted Alaine’s heart as her gaze settled on her Aunt Maria. Her eyes were still a bright, clear green.

“Good people of Haarlen!” The High Priest’s voice filled the air with conviction as if it held the will of the All-Father himself. “What shall we do with the witch?”

One voice shouted from the crowd. “Burn her!”

Alaine watched the words spill from her Aunt Maria’s lips a second time. “Burn her!”

“Burn her!” A hundred voices howled. “Burn the Witch!”