ONE
WE FOUND HIM BY THE SHORE
There were three muddy villagers at the bottom of the hill waiting to greet the Inquisitor’s gilded carriage.
They had been standing there in the rain for so long that they had sank knee-deep into the mud below them. Their clothing was a tattered combination of patchwork cloth and tree-bark. Their skin and faces, normally layered with dirt and grime, were almost wiped clean by the constant rainfall.
Upon seeing the steep muddy hill, the driver of the carriage called the procession to halt, no vehicle or horse was making it up that quagmire. Begrudgingly, the armored riders who formed the escort lowered themselves from their horses, polished steel plate boots sinking into the mud. It took a few minutes for the dignified collection of guards and servants to wade through the mire and ready themselves, the villagers patiently watching on.
Finally, the guards formed ranks on either side of the carriage door, the blades of their halberds glistening in the rain. A servant, his vibrant clothing now so thoroughly soaked that the dyes were running down into the sodden earth, made a salute and opened the carriage door.
The Inquisitor leaned out, sniffing the air with a grimace and regarding his surroundings with cold, grey eyes. Thick drops of rain spattered across his pale, bald head. Without any flourishes or theatrics, he stepped out of the carriage and landed in the mud with no sign of stumbling, even as he sank ankle deep and splattered dirt around him.
He held out an outstretched arm and a ready servant gave him his hat.
The tall, black, slightly conical hat, with a silver-buckled leather strap around the brim, was a particular kind of hat that all people in this land knew and feared. This type of hat had a technical name that a tailor could technically use but be met with befuddled looks from the common folk, for this had had a name all its own.
It was a witch hunter’s hat. It was the true mark of an Inquisitor who had no desire to hide their identity from being found and a desire to find those of one identity.
The three villagers kneeled before the Inquisitor, knees and hands sinking into the mud, rain dripping from their ragged clothes. Standing before them with hands crossed behind his back and eyes gazing up towards the top of the hill, he said only two words.
“You called.”
It was the central villager who responded, keeping his head down while lifting up an aged, brass necklace of a winged, flaming sword set in a heptagon.
“I did, m’lord. We were a flock of sheep cryin’ out in fear, we was, and we needed the guidance of a shepherd, that’s what I figured.”
The Inquisitor bent down, reaching for the necklace hanging from the villager’s neck, holding it between two fingers and examining it. The brass was old and almost bent in parts, but kept clean and shimmered where it had been rubbed bare by long use. The villager kept his head down, even as the threaded cord of the necklace was pulling on his neck.
“It is rare indeed for the village of Dreckendorf to request anything of its local Abbey,” said the Inquisitor, letting go of the necklace and standing up, “some would find suspicion in that.”
“N-no sir!” Stammered out the villager, “we’re a simple and humble folk, we keep to ourselves, we don’t need much of anything at all! That’s all!”
“Humble? I can see that. It is a most excellent virtue for all to have, but I hope you are not lacking in Righteousness.”
At this, the villager turned his head up, looking the Inquisitor in the eyes with determination.
“No sir. That’s why we needed you. That’s why I sent running the fastest boy we had, soon as I laid my eyes upon what was pulled in from the lake, I knew the Abbey had to know. The Shining Lady commands.”
The Inquisitor smiled.
“Then lead on. Show us what you found.”
* * *
It was a slow trek up the muddy hill. The white-capped mountains beyond the forest were still visible, but thick, wet mist was gripping the trees. The sky above was a bleary grey, the rainfall moderate, but dark splotches in the sky promised that the weather would soon get worse. The sun was a bright disk behind the clouds, but it was slowly beginning to dim and would slip beneath the mountains in a few hours.
Streams of rainwater flowed down the hill, carving tiny rivulets and flowing between winding roots. The path to the village was a muddy carving into the hill, the passage of new travellers digging deeper, kicking up more dirt, more mud. The three villagers seemed to manage it best, climbing with hands and feet, sinking into the earth with each step. They almost resembled salmon swimming upstream, thought the Inquisitor.
Behind the villagers walked two armored guards, using the butt of their halberds as walking sticks, mud splatters reaching up to their chests. The Inquisitor followed, hands behind his back, eyes focused to the top of the hill, his boots sinking into the earth like the heavy strikes of an axe, his own balance never wavering. The rest of the guards and servants formed a clambering procession behind him, a few staying behind to keep safe the carriage. Two servants struggled to carry a single large chest between themselves, often stumbling and dropping one end with a weighty squelch.
“Tell me,” asked the Inquisitor, “I understand the humble nature of your village, along with the fear and discomfort I must bring as my role entails, but why was I met by only three of your people?”
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
“Oh, that’s a simple answer,” answered the village speaker, looking back down with a grin, “it’s a bit hard to pull eager folks away from a proper burning at the stake! It’s the most excitement we’ve had in years!”
* * *
All in all, for burning someone at the stake, it was a fairly passable production for first-timers, the Inquisitor supposed.
The center of the village was shaped in the suggestion of a square, a flat clearing of mud and trampled grass surrounded by the largest homes. Each home was unique in a similar way, an odd assortment of stacked stone, wooden logs, thatched roofs, tree bark, large leaves, weaved sticks and misshapen clay bricks. Most of the homes seemed like they could collapse with one good push, the rest looked like they already had.
A small but lively fair had popped up in this village center. Once-vibrant banners and cloth of many colors were raised above stalls and tables. Covered fire pits were grilling small, bony fish. A single old cauldron was boiling some kind of stew that smelled overwhelmingly like pine. The entire population of the village seemed to be here now, adults and parents smiling and talking, children running underneath and cheering. The constant rain seemed to have little effect on their moods.
At the heart of this festivity was the main attraction of the event. Logs, branches, sticks and shrubs had been piled up to chest-height, with more than a few stones mixed in. A quite long and mostly straight wooden pole had been driven into this pile, sticking vertically into the air. Tied to this pole by fraying rope and bundled string was a man.
He seemed a fairly normal looking man, a few inches short of six feet in height, dressed in a fine, white cotton shirt and black dress pants, which made him look very different from the ragged dress and appearance of the villagers. The man was tied to the pole by his hands and ankles, his feet were bare, there was mud across his back, and there was a thick, wicker basket over his head.
The Inquisitor had a few questions.
“Why is there a basket on his head?”
The village speaker seemed a bit panicked by the question, drew over someone for a whispered conversation, then spoke up.
“Well, a few reasons, it seems. First, the fella was lookin’ some folk right in the eyes, and so they worried he might be trying to ensorcell and enchant them with his eyes, ya’ see.”
Someone else whispered into the ears of the speaker.
“Oh, there was a funny face painted onto the side of the basket, had everyone crackin’ up laughin’, but the rain washed it away, can’t see it now.”
Another person whispered.
“And uh, well, him lookin’ into the eyes of some people were makin’ them feel a bit guilty, and well, nobody needs to feel that. The rain is already trying to dampen our moods, don’t need nuthin’ addin’ to it.”
The Inquisitor pointed at the man atop the wood pile.
“Remove the basket atop his head.”
The command was given to nobody in particular, but a few of the villagers rushed to complete it, clambering atop the wood pile.
The face underneath the basket could have been handsome in better circumstances. His face was squat and tough, his hair dark and unkempt. His skin was a warm beige with a strong tan and, somehow, in this cold and overcast weather, sunburns on the face. He had a beard and mustache that had been well-trimmed once, but had been given several days of uninterrupted growth to run wild. He would have looked absolutely unfitting for this refined clothing were it not for his bright, amethyst eyes that watched the world with intelligence and patience. He had a bloody bruise on his forehead, hair slick with mud, sweat and rain.
He was looking at the Inquisitor and his guards now, gaze flickering across the ornate emblems and patterns in their clothing, the high-quality steel of their weapons.
He couldn’t do anything but look, his hands tied and cloth gagging his mouth.
“Pray tell,” asked the Inquisitor, “why is he gagged?”
“Well, easy answer, that one,” answered the village speaker, “he wouldn’t shut up. He just kept askin’ all manner of questions, complainin’ about things, just bein’ a nuisance.”
“And he is barefoot, why?”
“Well, it’s a bit tough to find any good shoes ‘round these parts. The pair of fellas who found him figured he wasn’t gonna’ need ‘em anymore, not where he’s goin’.”
There were indeed two particularly happy looking village men helping to add wood to the ever-growing pile. One of them had was wearing two leather boots, no doubt with included socks inside. The other man had a fine leather belt around his waist, also taken from the man on the wood pile.
“And I assume they’re also the source of the wound to the forefront of his head?”
“Aye. They found him by the lake shore, all huffin’ and wheezin’. They thought they ought to help a stranger in need, they’re good folks, but they knew what to do and smacked him right upside the head once he told them he was a Wizard! Dragged him straight up here, they did!”
“Hold,” asked the Inquisitor, spinning around and looking the village speaker in the eyes, “he actually told them was a Wizard? He confessed his status with no application of threats or pain?”
“Yes!”
The Inquisitor mulled this over in his head, rubbing his chin and watching smiling children join their parents in tossing wood scraps onto the pile.
“A word-of-mouth confession given to a reliable witness is enough to warrant an execution by burning, I’ve certainly done more with less, but I feel we could do with more evidence. The people of Dreckendorf have never asked for much, they deserve a proper showing of justice. Especially the children.”
“Ah, I forgot!” said the village speaker, almost shouting, “we found him wearing these!”
Another villager came forth, unfolding a bundle of ragged cloth, afraid to touch their contents by hand.
The Inquisitor pulled out a pair of black leather gloves from his coat, putting them on slowly. In each hand he picked up one of two items from the villager between his finger and thumb. He lifted them up so that the villagers surrounding him could see, and he could inspect them properly.
They were a hat and robe, each of the same material and pattern. Dark blue cloth, with silver patterns of stars and moons across them. The hat had a wide, flat brim and a tall cone. The robe was long and voluminous, with dozens of small pockets inside of it.
The hat and robe of a Wizard.
It was strange in how perfect and damning the evidence was. The Inquisitor himself had only seen clothing like this hidden away, used in secret rituals and rare meetings. These garments, the traditional attire of a Wizard, were known only in common artwork and inquisitorial training material. No one wore these out in the open, not even as a mummer’s farce, such was the reviled status of these items.
“The evidence before me is overwhelming. I have no doubt as to the guilt of the accused,” declared the Inquisitor, tossing the Wizard clothing onto the wood pile, “I find the circumstances strange, I have questions, but I see no need to draw this out for too long.”
“Then we were not wrong to set this all up then?” asked the village speaker, “we’re really going to get to burn a Wizard at the stake, just like all them stories?”
The Inquisitor only smiled and snapped his fingers. His servants dragged forward the chest they had carried up the hill, opening it to reveal casks of oil.
“It takes more than damp wood and zeal to start a bonfire in heavy rain. The Wizard is the real fuel for our fire, but highly flammable liquids always help to make sure.”
The villagers cheered.
The Wizard tied to a stake atop the wood pile could only groan.
He was afraid, angry, filthy, definitely in pain, suffering a terrible and confusing headache, and he was more than a bit surprised to find that his belt-less pants hadn’t fallen down yet.
He was almost certainly doomed to die a painful and fiery death.
This Wizard is the main character of our story.
He is not the hero of this dark age, he will not be the one to save this world.
But he is the hero of our story, and this is where it begins.
The main character has a form of amnesia, but I promise you, it is important for the story I'm telling. As he learns and remembers stuff about the world and how magic works, the reader (that's you!) gets to follow along with an overwhelming lore dump. He used to be a fairly important someone, stuff happened, now he woke up in a box at the bottom of a lake.
