Earthwitch

6. Wenyanga

Chief Sanele waited for them in the front yard of the manse, hands behind his back, copper discs gleaming on his vest like miniature suns. "You're not under arrest."

"Good for us," Wenyanga said as a burly Firemage ushered them through an open gate.

Sanele's brown eyes flashed hot enough to singe hair, and a scowl crawled under his thick beard. It was a rash display of power, and a regal one -- a warning.

"Chief Sanele," Thula said, grabbing Wenyanga's arm. "Thank you for welcoming us into your town."

"And graciously letting us pay for Tello's funeral," Wenyanga said.

The heat radiating from the chief was impressive. It exuded the suffocating pressure that only came from a Perfect soul forged with the most potent aura. Wenyanga stared at him until it ebbed.

His chiefly face turned anxious. "You've been summoned for your council. We should talk in private."

"You have a coterie of three Seers," Wenyanga said. "Someone's always listening to something, albeit on your behalf."

Wenyanga had sensed them on the journey in, before the town even showed up on the horizon. He probably kept them as scouts for the surrounding desert, but that didn't mean they couldn't spy closer to home.

"I'm sure you're aware of the gift's limitations, being a Seer yourself," the Chief said. "Otherwise you would have guessed why I summoned you."

"My mind's been on other matters today, funny enough."

Sanele's soul made the air uncomfortably hot. "You are grieving, so I understand your ill-assumed temper. Tello was a great warrior, and his death is a loss for us too."

"I'm sure."

"Chief," Thula said, seemingly unaffected by the sweltering air, "we are happy to help where we can. We were told it was an urgent matter."

Sanele laid his left hand over his liver. That was as close as a Perfect anything got to begging. "I need your help as surgeons--"

Wenyanga heard the rest of the sentence before it left his mouth, and held back a reaction. Most Seers could cast their vision over the horizon, and pick out the faintest traces of magic in any direction. Wenyanga's gift only ever looked forward, sometimes by a couple of seconds. 

"--there's a Judge in my manse. He's been mortally wounded."

Thula's breath hitched. "Oh."

If Sanele were to keel over and die, his soul might spin idly for another hour while its tether to the physical world faded. Then the town would disappear in the stone-melting inferno that followed. 

Five Perfect souls shining together weren't half as bright as the spirit of a Judge. 

A Judge... mortally wounded?

"By what?" Wenyanga asked, and the answer hit them immediately.

The Chief squirmed. "He was attacked by a Pettygod this morning."