The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Stay clear of the spell dome, strangers,” warned the lead wizard before his eyes widened, “why do you come masked to this witch burning?”

  “I’m afraid it’s the stench, Lord Wizard,” Falon said, her voice quavering slightly before firming again. “Between the smoke and the stink of burning woman, I fear we would vomit in disgust if we had nothing to protect us.”

  The Wizard scowled. “I don’t like your tone, stranger. Show your face at once,” he said harshly

  “There’s no need for that, your lordship,” Falon said obsequiously even as she took yet another step closer, “Lady’s tits, can’t you see this is—”

  “I said back away and stay clear of the spell field!” barked the leader, taking a step toward her.

  “Now, boys!” Falon shouted, kicking off her left boot the force of her motion sending it flying past the wizards head and pulling out her sword, “A-Rescue! A-Rescue! This is a rescue—Old Blood for a-Rescue!”

  Her battle-cry on her lips, she rushed the lead wizard activating her tattoos and drawing power from the earth.

  “Natives! And one of them is a witch,” thundered the lead wizard, brandishing a wand and leveling it at Falon in one smooth motion. “For the Kingdom—death to all rebels!”

  A bolt of pure white energy lanced out from the tip of the wand, scarring the land and leaving a smoking trail of burnt and scorched earth where it touched the ground. Falon narrowly dived to the side before being enveloped by the bolt.

  “Witch-loving scum,” the lead wizard, once again leveling his wand at Falon, “die for me!”

  Cursing, Falon once again dodged an inbound bolt of magical energy. She could sense the magic potential in the air right before whatever spell was on the wizard’s wand activated, giving her a chance to avoid the beam. But somehow her magic felt sluggish and harder to draw on than normal and, as a result, she was a hairs-breadth slower than expected.

  “Forward!” cried one of her Old Blood Ravens.

  “My blade won’t bite!” hollered a warrior.

  “Mine neither,” yet another shouted with fear.

  There was a scream followed by the sound of large mallet hitting flesh, breaking bone, and punctuated by Uilliam’s thunderous roar.

  “Hold them down and shove rags in their mouths if you have to, boys,” bellowed the half-again normal-sized male, swinging his giant mallet around like he was breaking rocks. “Wizards go down the same as any man if you bash them in the head.”

  “May the fires of all creation burn in your destruction!” raged the top witch hunter, and instead of a beam of light suddenly his wand spewed six foot wide, four foot thick arc of magical flames which roared toward them far faster than any fire Falon had seen move.

  Caught by the flames, Falon shrieked and was hurled four feet through the air before landing with a thump. Steam was rising from her leather vest, her bandanna was smoking, and her hair was literally on fire. Having been hurled out from the edge of the spell dome, as soon as her foot touched earth she felt a renewed surge of power. Drawing on the magic of the earth for all she was worth, Falon jumped to her feet and screaming like her hair was on fire—which it still was—she dulled the pain and enhanced her entire body with magic before throwing threw herself at the wizard like stone shot from a sling.

  “Saint Aeofia lives!” shouted one of her men.

  “A-Tower,” shouted one of the other witch hunters, and there was a thunderous crack as bolt of lightning arced from his staff. One of her men cried and fell over backward in the a spray of blood and gore from his chest where the lance of lightning pierced through him, “A White Tower shining like a beacon in the darkness of these forsaken times!” The lightning-wielding wizard triumphantly struck a pose—right before red-eyed Uilliam hammered him in the back of the head with his mallet.

  The back of his head smashed with a sickening crunch, blood poured out of the wizard’s mouth, and his eyes bulged out of their eye-sockets before he swayed and collapsed to the ground bonelessly.

  While that was happening, Falon rolled underneath another arc of pure wizard fire and her sword lashed out, taking the lead witch hunter in the leg.

  The leader cried out in pain as his leg folded under his weight.

  Immediately feeling the slower draw upon reentering the magic field, Falon held tight to the magic still in her core. She had to end this quickly or there would be more casualties. Thankfully, they were in close enough to the wizards that it was difficult for them to use area effect magics without harming one another. But she feared that if given time—or enough casualties—they would ignore this problem, and she and all her people would be slow roasted alongside the rogue healing wench.

  “Pure Mystic Force equals energy to matter squared as converted by the Turwin magic-energy regulator equation!” cried a wizard just before a surge of invisible mystic force tossed over half a dozen Raven men flying several feet from him. Then, holding his hands out in front of himself stiff and unmoving, he pivoted his lower body and more of her men were sent flying.

  Falon used her left hand to bring the hilt of her sword just behind her at head level and struck with all her might. The sensation of metal striking skull ran up and down her arm slightly draining her magic core.

  Knowing she had fractions of a second before she was back on the reduced magic diet that seemed only to effect witches like her—but not these infernal tower-trained wizards—she leapt high in the air to avoid the invisible ‘pure mystic force’ that the other wizard was using. She brought her weapon around and the flat of her sword came down with punishing force, breaking the wizard’s arm at the elbow.

  Ignoring the shrieking and crying, Falon whirled through the middle of the Wizard’s formation like a scythe through sun-dried wheat stalks.

  She didn’t just see it when the anti-magic field collapsed; she could feel it as all the magic in the surrounding area came rushing back into the previously tower-magic-interdicted area. The sense of relief at having the full power of her magic power was palpable.

  “Rag ’em and bag ’em!” Falon ordered, ignoring the dead men on the ground—both among the wizards and her own men—in favor of restraining the still-living threats.

  “Aye, Lie—I mean, yes,” Uilliam corrected himself and then, tearing off his bandanna, promptly shoved it into the mouth of a nearby collapsed wizard.

  “And someone get that witch out of the fire!” Falon exclaimed, catching sight of the woman who by now had flames up to knee level. But now that the horrific sight was in her head and on her mind, she didn’t feel like she could wait until someone cut the other woman down. With a series of eight foot long, gravity-defying leaps, she reached the woman in no time. Feeding power into her legs, she kicked the burning wood near her out of the way and, sheathing her sword, pulled out the boar knife.

  Leaping again, but this time upward, she used one hand to catch hold of the top of the post and hold her body above the fire. With the other hand, she slashed at the ropes and silver chains binding the healing wench to the post.

  The rope cut quickly but the silver chains resisted, and the power in the pit of her stomach quickly disappeared and she was right back to normal Falon strength—which meant her hand holding the post quivered. Feeling her arm tremble and about to give up the ghost, with a yelp, she tried to push herself clear. One leg landed on the burning wood while the rest of her cleared the fire.

  Rolling on the ground to put out the fire on her leg, and tearing off the bandanna that was keeping her from breathing properly, she clutched the leg that had struck wood.

  “Earth and Field, someone get rid of this burning wood!” she shouted, still clutching her leg. She didn’t think it was broken but for the longest time she could only clench her teeth to keep from whimpering and crying out.

  Then after she’d re-mastered herself, and several of her men had finished clearing away the burning wood through use of several pitch forks and an axe, she finally stood up.

  “Here’s a k
ey,” Uilliam informed her, handing over the thin piece of metal diffidently.

  “Thank you,” she said simply and then tried the key.

  Thankfully, the little silver key was everything she hoped and the thin silver shackles fell off.

  Almost as soon as she touched the ground, the burnt witch moaned.

  “Prepare a litter; we’ll take her back to—” Falon cut herself off before she gave out information she didn’t need to give, “I mean, we’ll take her back with us. We need to have her wounds seen quickly,” she finished lamely.

  “Looks more like burns to me,” said Uilliam.

  “I have eyes; I can see that!” Falon said, starting to snap at the Raven man before forcibly calming herself. She’d just been in battle, she was still keyed up, and the Witch they’d risked so much to save was knocking on deaths doorstep and threatening to turn all their efforts for naught. “My apologies Uilliam I have no excuse,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s get her out of here.”

  “No problem, Sir,” Uilliam muttered so softly no one could probably hear him, and then turned to bark out the orders.

  Someone cleared a throat behind and off to the side of her.

  “Yes?” Falon asked, feeling irritable as she turned and saw the elderly Headsman of the village. “What can I do for you, Headman?” Falon asked with forced calm and only belatedly held up a hand to cover the lower half of her face. Her bandana was currently lying useless on the ground after she’d so recklessly tossed it aside.

  “I wanted to know your intentions toward this village, great war leader,” the elder said, trembling slightly as he spoke.

  “Intention?” Falon asked dumbly and then waved her free hand in the air. “We’ll be gone and out of your hair as soon as we can make a stretcher, and you all can get back to your lives.”

  “Thank you…great leader,” the elder said respectfully looking very relieved. Then he looked to her hesitantly, “What are you going to do with the prisoners?” he asked with trepidation clear in his voice.

  “Prisoners?” Falon’s brow wrinkled.

  “Yes. I’m afraid that if you leave them here, they may take their anger out on our village when they wake up and cast off their bonds. Those of them that still live, I mean,” the Headman said awkwardly, gesturing to the now-gagged-and-bound wizards.

  Falon looked at the former wench, with her charred and still-smoking feet.

  “By the Huntress…after what they did they deserve to be burned just like—” she said darkly before cutting herself off. Why did she save this witch if not because using fire on another human being was just too terrible a punishment to mete out? Her brow winkled and her heart darkened the longer she stared at the injured wench. Surely a lesser punishment would be preferable…

  Then a dark idea—one appealing to the wounded feeling inside Falon’s heart—occurred to her and she nodded slowly to the Headsman.

  “We’ll take them with us,” she said firmly.

  “Then…” he asked with a wince and trembled.

  “They’ll have the same chance at life that they should have given to your wench,” she assured him but declined to say more.

  Looking like he wanted to know more, but didn’t dare ask, the Headman wiped his sweat filled forehead with the back of his arm and after a bow hastily backed away. Apparently discretion was the better part of valor in his mind—at least today.

  Turning, she stomped back toward her people. “Uilliam,” she called out as soon as she’d separated herself from nearby village eavesdroppers.

  The Sergeant came hurrying over, “Yes?”

  “I’ll lead the party with the wench back to the Swans,” she said in a low voice.

  “I take it from your words I am to do something else then?” he asked.

  Falon nodded. “I want you to take these,” her mouth twisted, “witch hunters into the woods. Dig a pit. And then bury them separately up to their necks. Oh and,” her face hardened, “leave the rags in. With their mouths stuffed and their hands and bodies unable to move from all the earth, we’ll let nature decide their fates.”

  “I see,” Uilliam seemed to mull it over for a long minute before eventually signaling his agreement, “could work. I’ll do it,” was his final judgment on the matter.

  “Go as quickly as you can and then come back and rejoin the rest of the column. It might take a while but we’ll stick to the road and camp early if you’re still not back with us by then,” Falon said.

  “No worries; we’ll be back before then,” Uilliam said confidently and then crossed his arm over his chest and thumped his shoulder in salute, “I’ll take me leave.”

  Falon nodded and then rounded up the people that were carrying the stretcher and took off for the tree line. They still needed to cover which direction they had come from the villagers’ prying eyes.

  As they hurried out of the village, herself one way and Uilliam and the prisoners another, Falon scowled.

  She wished today had never happened in the first place, but since it had she’d done the only thing her conscience would let her live with.

  She’d walked perilously close to murder, but as it was in defense of another. She thought she could skate by when she stood in front of the gods in the afterlife. She’d only killed in hot blood during battle; the prisoners would be given a chance at life. She would leave them buried in the ground with their fates to be decided by the nature, the gods, and any wandering animals—or passing hunters.

  Since she hadn’t killed them, only given them the sentence they should rightfully have bestowed upon the healing wench, Falon felt her heart ease—somewhat.

  Their fate’s were out of her hands and she didn’t have to deal with ordering the execution of a man doing his duty to the same King she nominally served.

  Some might call it sophistry but, as a woman who’d seen too much of battle and bloodshed of late, her tolerance for taking solace in what might seem like shreds of reason and honor to others had grown a great deal. She was a lot more aware of the harsh realities of the life than the worried, wide-eyed girl who’d left Brown Creek and the Two Wicks.

  She was still worried of course, but now she’d had to make hard choices just like she imagined her father and his father before him had. Besides, she was of witch blood. So in a manner of speaking these kinds of decision had been made by both sides of her linage.

  With these thoughts and ideas flitting about her head in an effort to comfort herself, Falon hurried the burnt witch back to the Battalion healers to try and save the other woman’s life before it was too late.

  Chapter 25: The Gratitude of a Healing Wench

  “I don’t know how I can thank you,” wept the secret witch that Falon had rescued from the witch hunters.

  “I hope that you’re not in too much pain?” Falon asked consolingly.

  “It still hurts, but not nearly as much as before. They tell me that I should live and the pain will go away before long,” the Witch replied, wiping her eyes, “thank you for rescuing me.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be okay. I just couldn’t sit there while they killed you over some pies and few magic workings you shouldn’t have known how to do,” Falon said dismissively. “No one should be burnt alive! It’s cruel and inhumane.”

  “I can’t believe my own people would turn me in over a pie,” the witch said darkly, and then her face twisted into an ugly expression. “As for those Wizards, death would be too good for them!” she said fiercely.

  “Yeah…” Falon said, feeling uncomfortable and deliberately stretching out the word before quickly changing the subject, “by the way, I never got your name.”

  “Oh good golly gosh, I didn’t introduce myself,” said the witch, looking distressed and generally all-around pathetic. “I’m sorry, my name is Bonny Erin, the Healing Wench of…,” she slowly trailed off, “well, I guess of ‘nowhere’ now.”

  “That’s alright; what they did to you was wrong,” said Falon. taking hold of her hand and
giving it a squeeze, “just rest and get your strength back. We’ll worry about what comes later after you’ve had time to rest, heal and regain your strength.” Giving one final squeeze, she let of the woman’s hand and stepped back but just before she got entirely out of range Bonny Erin grabbed her hand.

  “I can’t thank ye enough,” said Bonny Erin, “if there’s anything this overweight Healing Wenc—I guess its ‘Healing Witch’ now,” she corrected herself sadly before looking up at Falon determinedly, “anything you need that I can do for you, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Just rest in the wagon while the army marches,” Falon said, patting Bonny Erin’s hand before letting it go, “we can always use another healer after you’re well again if that’s what you want. But I didn’t save you just so that we could put you to work. Anytime we find a suitable place, you are free to leave and resume your life.”

  “Thank ye. Thank ye, thank—” the still-traumatized woman said, her voice slowly growing weaker before a faint snore sounded.

  “She’s fallen back asleep, Sir Knight,” the apprentice Wench said respectfully.

  Even after an entire winter, it still took Falon several seconds to realize that the Knight everyone was talking about was her.

  Suppressing a jump, she forced down the unsettle feeling and turned to the apprentice Wench with a serious look. Stepping to the side and motioning her over, Falon asked the question that had been on her mind ever since she had stepped into the tent and see the Healing Witch doing better, “How is she really doing?”

  “She’ll live,” the Wench said with a sigh, “that wasn’t certain when you first brought her here. We could only manage the burns until the moon came up, and by then the poison had spread up her legs—”

  “Poison?” Falon asked, surprised although not as alarmed as she would have been if the apprentice hadn’t already said that she was going to survive.

  “From her own burned flesh. The destruction and mortification of the flesh caused by burns releases certain poisons into the blood and surrounding flesh,” the apprentice explained, taking a serious breath before continuing, “thankfully the moonlight caught her in the nick of time much longer and I doubt she’d have made it.”