The Witch & The Witch Hunter

2

Though the hunter had suffered his fill of fire this night, The warm hearth of the timid villager's house offered welcome respite. He sat with the man, lurched over a pewter mug filled with ale, brooding upon his wounded pride. "You've done us a great kindness this night, Master Witch Hunter" said the villager. Though the hunter did not respond, for he did not care to explain fully the events which had taken place. Staring blankly into his undisturbed cup he sought to make himself comprehend the occurrences which had befallen him. For he could scarcely understand the nature of such things. How a mere woman - a witch no less, could dissipate his burning fury with but a glance. "Are there other places one could take refuge in these woods? Ruins, caves and the like" he said finally. "Well, sir pardon me for sayin' so but the woods are as large as they are deep. Could be any number of such places about" chuckled the villager, though he wisely ceased his idle tangent when he saw the hunters grip angrily tighten around the neck of his cup. "Though now you come to mention it, I once did spy a ruin not far from here in. Roman I reckon".

In the crumbling confines of the fort, the witch tended to her most severe wound, wincing in pain as she applied a compress. Her blood pooled in smatterings upon a decaying mosaic floor. Though of her troubles this was merely the first. Her powers were diminished now she was driven out. She could feel the magics ebbing away as the villagers dismantled her sacrilegious constructs from afar. "Damn them" she muttered "damn them all to hell". If she did not soon tend to her wound with herb and alchemy she feared that she may fall deathly ill. For a feverish sweat had begun to set in and the wound itself prevented her from venturing out to gather ingredients. Death seemed more and more of a certainty for if this pistol shot was not the end of her, the agents of the dark most certainly would be. Beyond the walls she could here the crunching and crackling of leaf and twig underfoot. For the price of witchcraft was no mere bargain struck in good faith. Things are drawn nearer and nearer with every passing moment. Things not born of this earth. Things that had no doubt caught the scent of blood. "Mother, forgive me" she whimpered. Though in this moment of despair, as she felt the looming presence of these spectres upon her, the approaching steps halted.

There was silence for but a moment, when in an instant she heard those same malevolent steps scarper like a frightened rodent would to the sewer. Upon her good leg she raised herself to an opening from which she could see outwardly into the gloom. There, silhouetted against a swirling cloud of moonlit mist, was no emissary of satan. The hunter had found her. And he had done so much more quickly than she had anticipated. Panic overtook her, she sped away knocking over bottles and pans she had lain about, she pushed open a makeshift door and sprinted away dodging branches and rocks and all manner of protruding roots. Every second step was absolute agony, she felt herself slipping in and out of lucidity. Yet she had no choice but to spur forth, as her very soul depended upon it. Tears of pain were blown from her face as she ran with all her might, falling into a state of almost animalistic survival, not paying heed to the poorly concealed line of rope between the two trees ahead. In but a moment she was launched into a ditch, falling harshly until she came to a rolling stop.

For the witch, consciousness seemed like a dream brought on by some horrendous plague. "What's this then lads?" Said an abrasive voice. The witch could no longer analyse her situation, even as three muddied, toothless woodsman slinked towards her motionless form from within the bushes. "Oh, she's a warm one" cackled one of them, "is she dead?" Another spat. "Nah, lads" said the final one "she's just alive enough". The man sneered as he looked her up and down, "I reckon we caught ourselves a witch, and d'ya know who sits at home worrying about the likes of witches?" He said, leering down to her, till his rancid breath could be felt on her neck "not a bleedin soul". The Witch was aware once again, but she could not move. "Wonder if witches got what other girls have" said one of the woodsmen with an insidious grin. "Suppose we ought to find ou - " before the man could utter even one more disgusting letter, the blade of a sword glimmering in the moonlight cleaved his rotten head from his rotten body. The next man turned and found himself looking down the barrel of a flintlock pistol - a flash and his wretched mind exited the back of his head. As for the final man, a pair of black leather gauntlets wrapped around his filthy neck, ringing it until the mans eyes turned up in his skull and his face turned a ghastly shade of purple. The last the witch saw was her sinister rescuer stand to his feet, with a familiar hat and cloak outlined in the cold and distant morning light creeping above the tree line.