Witch Hunt

by Annie Bellet

Witch Hunt

  A Gryphonpike Chronicles Novella by Annie Bellet

   

  Copyright 2011, Annie Bellet

   

  All rights reserved. Published by Doomed Muse Press.

   

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to doomedmuse.press@gmail.com.

  Cover designed by Greg Jensen and images by Jay Hilgert.

  Electronic edition, 2011

  We all know this tale. There once was a beautiful elven princess who lived in a crystal forest in a hidden kingdom far beyond the common worlds. Her voice was unparalleled among the World-singers and her power brought her all she desired.

  Until Wrath and Pride wound their way around her heart, turning songs of beauty and creation into songs of death and violence. For her crimes, she was cast out and cursed to live among the lesser creatures, among the elves and men who had forgotten those who sang into existence the earth they squabbled over. Her voice was stolen; her words taken like ember-waves melt footprints from the glowing sands.

  Her banishment and silence will end when she has purged her crime by doing one thousand good deeds. So she joined with a rag-tag band of adventurers who call themselves the Gryphonpike Companions.

  I am that foolish Singer. These are the chronicles of my path home.

  * * *

   

  Witch Hunt

   

  By the time we’d climbed up the Ragged Hills and come through the pass, the five of us had short tempers, worse body odor, and only three days until our Adventuring Guild charter expired and the fines would start piling up. The High Road is a remarkable feat of engineering and while my companions stopped to argue about our course, I wandered a short distance away to admire the clean stone-paved path twisting away into the misty hills beyond. The road, which started at the base of the mountain pass we had just come through and snaked a hundred leagues to the Verdant Coast and the city of Ramsport, was wide enough for two wagons to go side by side, built slightly elevated from the surrounding ground with culverts to let rainwater drain away. It was almost as functional as something my people would have sung into being. Almost.

  “I am not the one who got tangled up with a Baron’s daughter, forcing us to flee from the only city with a Guild chapter between Salvat and Ramsport,” said Rahiel. The pixie-goblin shook her wand in Drake’s face, then flapped her butterfly-like wings furiously, blowing more of Drake’s human sweat stink in my direction.

  Drake smoothed his black curls with an exaggerated hand motion and blinked the dust out of his eyes before replying. “Oi. And I’m not the one who detoured us for a fortnight to find a pearl in a bleeding lake.”

  “The lake wasn’t bleeding,” Rahiel said. “And it is a very beautiful pearl with qualities your feeble man-mind cannot grasp.” She stroked the black pearl in question where it hung suspended in silver wire around her scrawny green neck.

  “It’s an expression, oh, curse you.” Drake raised his hands in throttling motion.

  Azyrin, our half-orc shaman, intervened before Rahiel’s familiar, the mini-unicorn Bill, could stick his diminutive but sharp horn into Drake’s thigh.

  “Enough. Makha and I consulted maps, we have solution.” He folded his blue-skinned arms, managing to look calm and reasonable despite the summer heat, the angry glares directed at him, and the sweat-stains darkening the edges of his thick leather jerkin.

  Splinters! I want to examine that road.

  I took one last look over my shoulder at the open road in the distance, then repressed a sigh and shifted my full attention to the conversation. Makha, Azyrin’s wife and our heavy hitter was crouched next to her pack, finishing the elaborate process of buckling on her armor. She finished messing with her knee-buckles and leaned her chin on her shield before returning my look with a small shrug of her mountain-like shoulders. Of course, even a small motion is impressive when the shrugger wears plate armor.

  Azyrin waited for the clinking of his wife’s armor to die down and then pointed off toward the north. “Strongwater Barrow has chapterhouse. The Barrows are little out of our way, but if we push pace, we can reach the town in three days, pay our fee, and take road through the lowlands until we find High Road again. Minor detour.”

  I snorted at that, which started a headache as the curse clamped on. Apparently snorting counts as communication. Fortunately smiling, eyebrow wiggling, and very casual shrugs don’t seem to trigger the same nausea and headaches that gestures like nodding or shaking my head will.

  “What now, elf?” Makha glared at me. I considered myself special in that she had no pejorative or plain baffling nickname for me.

  “Our silent friend seems skeptical and bloody rightly,” Drake said. He tugged at the neck of his shirt, loosening the laces as a hint of welcome breeze wandered over us. “Forgetting something, are we? The Barrows. Infamous for being full of undead and other nasties?”

  I wanted to shake my head, but the creeping headache was bad enough to stop me. It was already looking to be a hot, tiring day. Drake was wrong, however. I wasn’t skeptical about the idea of going into the Barrows and paying our dues. That was a sound plan that would avoid fines. I was skeptical that we would only suffer a short detour. One of the reasons I put up with my companions was their charming quirk of getting into trouble. All it took was someone offering coin or a sad story, preferably both, and they would go haring off to right a wrong or slay a dragon or what have you. A boggy land full of undead sounded exactly like the place for us to get into trouble.

  I rubbed my thumb along the smooth wood of my bow, Thorn. Undead sounded good to me. Put enough arrows into a critter, even the undead turn back into just dead.

  “I have to agree with the annoying human,” Rahiel said. “The Barrows sound not very nice at all.”

  “Fines sound not nice at all. Companion funds are running low. We have barely enough on us to cover charter fee. Many fines make longer winter,” Azyrin said.

  “And we can get the Guild news; find out if those meatknuckles have any jobs posted.” Makha hefted her shield and stepped up to Azyrin’s shoulder.

  “Undead jobs,” Drake muttered.

  “So, we vote?” Azyrin ignored him.

  “I will follow you. Avoiding fines does make the most sense.” Rahiel folded her arms into the sleeves of her dress, which today was a frothy pink gown embroidered with pale blue birds. Hers were the only clothes that seemed to stay clean on the road. Magic use has its perks. Bill whinnied his agreement.

  “Drake?”

  “All right. Long as this town has a decent tavern and a hot bath, I’ll survive.” Drake picked up his pack and pulled the straps tight. I was glad he agreed he needed that bath. His smell was definitely rank enough to offend even an insensitive human nose.

  “Killer?” Azyrin turned to me.

  I raised my bow in a casual motion toward the north as my answer. The headache didn’t worsen. Good. I scanned the hills. Fade, my mist-lynx companion, had left us sometime around dawn to hunt, but I knew he would catch up.

  “Lead on then, lover,” Makha said as she re-slung her shield with another ear-pinching screech of metal on metal.

  We picked up our gear and turned to the north, heading down from the hill where we had camped and toward the shadows of the bog lands.

  “Oi, Rahiel. How come you always call me ‘the human’? Makha’s human, too,” Drake said.

  “Ah, yes, but Makha carries a bigger sword.” Rahiel jumped
onto Bill’s back and settled her skirts. The pixie-goblin might be no higher than my arm is long, but she didn’t lack for verbal courage, baiting Drake this early into the start of a long, hot walk.

  I moved too far ahead to hear the rogue’s response but I smiled at the sound of hooves beating a retreat. I hoped that somewhere ahead would be a sob story and a pile of coin. I could explore the High Road and its elegant simplicity another time. Tiny red-throated larks started singing and the breeze picked up, bringing with it the scent of fresh water, ripe summer grasses, and the promise of a beautiful day.