His words created a whirlpool of wind. Leaves fell from trees, fresh and green, and then began rising into the air, now dried and brown. People were moaning. Those who realised he was a Lightcaster held their hands over their ears in an attempt to block his voice. But he was a mature male and had gorged well recently, and Mary knew how dangerous Lightcasters were when they were well fed. ‘Witch! Witch!’ The words snaked through the air.
Nearby trees had begun to shake, their roots threatening to dislodge from the earth. Ano grabbed Mary by the arm. ‘He’s too powerful!’ he had screamed, dead leaves flying into his face and mouth. ‘Run!’ But it was too late.
The villagers had looked to each other, their faces twisted in anger and fear, then they had turned upon Mary, Ano and Rosedark, who instinctively pressed together. The Lightcaster now appeared to be a black mass, although in the centre of his being Mary had thought she could see a pair of glowing eyes. They had been surrounded by rotten falling leaves, and the villagers among the leaves, reaching for them, pulling them by the hair to the ground. ‘Mary!’ Ano had called. ‘Rosedark!’ Too late, the villagers and the leaves had fallen upon them.
Now, lying in her own blood and surrounded by rats, Mary could not remember what happened next. There had just been the leaves covering her, protecting her from the worst of the crowd’s fury. Ano? What had happened to Ano? She tried to sit up, but the pain pulled her back into unconsciousness.
More time passed. When she awoke, it was to a strange humming sound outside the window, like a swarm of bees. The air held the tension that precedes a storm. Concentrating, she realised the humming noise was a mob of people chanting outside her window. ‘Witch! Witch! Kill the witches! Burn and rip the witches!’
Panic pushed the pain from her body and she attempted to stand. She had to get out of this holding cell, she had to find Ano. Her hand brushed against a large rat and she screamed.
The door opened and the Lightcaster entered her cell. No longer grotesquely distorted and dripping slime and gore, he was immaculately dressed in a white shirt and caramel trousers with shiny loafers. Despite his pristine appearance, a faint rotten odour clung to him. Light glimmered around his body and flashed from his fingertips when he held his hands out to her.
‘Alas! Poor Mary. How the mighty have fallen. Lying there in your own piss and shit, food for rats and vermin. The great and revered Mary! How my heart goes out to you, a poor stinking Bluite child who lost her family in such tragic circumstances. But why, Mary? Why repay the grace given to you by befriending witches and bringing such darkness to Eronth? Faia had the potential to be strong, but you, a puny little Bluite, had to make allies of the agents of darkness.’
‘Witch! Witch! Kill the witches!’ the mob sang outside the windows. The Lightcaster smirked, his hand to his ear. ‘Do you hear that? Your people want your death. The game is over, my child. For too long you have had your wicked Bluite way in Eronth, but now I’ve come to set your people free.’
‘What do you hope to gain from my death?’ Mary said. ‘The goddesses will never let you get away with it. If you want power, you’ll never get it in Eronth. You can kill me, but you can’t kill the goddesses.’
‘Power? I don’t care for your power! You think I want to rule Faia; a bunch of turnip-eating peasants? I want your pain, Mary, High Priestess of Turnipville. Your pain brings me power. I want to destroy you, the Bluite whore who has befriended witches and Crones. I want as much agony as I can extract from your feeble body, and your two-headed associate’s body and the sweet little Rosedark before you all die in the flames. I want to feast on your last vision of your beloved friends’ suffering. I want to weaken the prey. I am after the witch who holds a special place in your heart. Weaken she will, when she returns to find the dead bodies of her apprentice and friends.’
‘Khartyn? You fool yourself, Lightcaster, if you believe the old wise one will be so stricken by grief that you can gain power over her. Her craft is much stronger than yours. You are just a parasite, feeding on the foolish and superstitious. You prey on the illiterate.’
‘I preyed on your people, Mary. They were willing — alas for you, only too willing — to listen to my whispers, and those whispers have spread throughout this land. I set the foolish — as you so arrogantly refer to them — free. I want only to love them and bring light into their life. I want to release them from the spell of the witches and the curse of darkness that you have bought to this land. You are a witch by association and it is time to pay the price.’
Turning to several village men who were waiting outside the door for his signal, the Lightcaster indicated they should enter. ‘Take her to the room we have prepared,’ he ordered. ‘Then signal the crowd outside to begin building up the faggots. We shall have to work quickly. The witch Khartyn will sense her friends are about to die and she could return and destroy us all.’
The men paled at the thought of Khartyn’s anger and began pulling Mary roughly to her feet. She screamed as her broken arm was jostled and the Lightcaster smiled. ‘Treat her gently, my friends. I want her fully conscious when I begin to prick her. Don’t deny my pleasure by letting her faint with pain. See how her useless arm hangs?’
‘Go back to the hell you came from!’ Mary shouted as the men began dragging her to the door.
‘For shame, Mary. Your tongue wags too much, tarnished lover of witches. Never mind, I have a witch’s bridle that should fit your flapping Bluite mouth. Careful now, careful.’
Mary was dragged along a short corridor where she was horrified to recognise several of the more prosperous landowners from Faia. They stood in small groups, talking in whispers. She knew what a sight she must present with her useless arm and soiled gown, her face streaked with blood and tears and her lip dangling. She hoped wildly that one of them would defend her and was stunned to see the hatred that now flared in their eyes. They turned their backs on her as she was dragged past.
‘How could you be fool enough to listen to him?’ she screamed. ‘A filthy Lightcaster! Shame on you all! Thomas Butcher, didn’t I bring the Crones to your wife when she nearly died giving birth to your eight children?’
‘You brought witches to my house, Mary,’ Thomas replied, still with his back to her, his ears reddening under his cap.
‘Be wary, Thomas,’ the Lightcaster called. ‘The witch seeks to draw energy from you by engaging in conversation. Oh what a cunning she-devil we have here in Mary. For too long she has hidden behind other witches in Eronth, but I have dusted the maggots off to reveal the rotting corpse. Where I tread, darkness flees. I put an end to your suffering.’
‘He is evil! Do not listen to him! You condemn your families and yourself to eternal shame!’ Mary called.
‘Do you hear, gentleman? She has cursed you! This is why we must burn her, lest she opens the gates of hell onto us all!’
‘Burn her! Burn the witch!’ the men called, still with their backs to her.
‘Why will you not look at me?’ Mary called. ‘Cowards! Have the valour to look upon the face of your scapegoat.’
‘Do not look at her,’ the Lightcaster ordered. ‘If she has you in her eyes, then she has you in her power. Resist her evil taunts.’
Before Mary had a chance to reply a doorway was opened and she was led along a short corridor to a bricked-in room. The air inside the cell was stale, smelling of urine and fresh blood. One slitted window did little to alleviate the gloom of the cell. Candle sconces flickered on the walls, revealing a sight that filled Mary with horror. She began to scream and pull against the men restraining her.
‘Quickly!’ The Lightcaster was smiling. ‘Secure her to the posts like the others. I have little time for the pricking.’ Mary began to sob as she was pulled against a post facing Ano and Rosedark, who were tied against two posts, secured at their wrists, ankles and waists. They were both naked, each wearing a leather witch’s bridle around the face. Attached to the bridle was an iron plate with four prongs, which had been thrust into their
mouths. The prongs rested on their tongues, the others pointed outwards into their cheeks. Blood flowed from their mouths and their faces were black with bruises. In their half-shut eyes, Mary could see dulled recognition that she was with them. Bloody red marks dotted all over their naked bodies showed where the Lightcaster had driven his needles into their flesh, searching for the spot insensitive to pain at which the Devil had initiated a witch by sucking a mouthful of blood from her skin.
Mary renewed her struggles against her captors, but it took only one savage twist of her broken arm for her to succumb. She could hardly bear to look upon Ano and Rosedark as she was bound to the post, their bodies were so destroyed. Dreamers, help us! If it he your will that we die here today, then in the name of the Goddess let it he a swift death. Help us to fight the energy of the Lightcaster before he destroys this world.
‘Praying to your gods? To your ineffectual goddesses? Save your breath for your screams. Many before you have prayed for salvation, and their prayers were pointless. I warned the first little puerile witch I ever burnt that there are no gods, there is only the light. Light that the Lightcaster brings, purging the world of the vile touch and breath of witches.’
‘I am no witch,’ Mary said. ‘You know I am innocent.’
‘How fascinating,’ he said, reaching for the witch’s bridle. ‘Indeed, it may well prove to be true that you are innocent of this most maleficent of crimes, but I shall have to prick you first to determine the truth of your assertion.’
‘You are the evil,’ Mary began, but got no further as he roughly attached the witch’s bridle to her head. His fingers were long and hard. In direct opposition to his soft voice, they crawled about her face like a metal spider. ‘There, that’s better.’ He stood back, admiring his work. ‘Now, let us just remove your clothing.’ Two village men, simple farmers whom Mary recognised but could not name, stepped forward to obey his instruction. It can’t end like this, Mary thought in desperation. Ano would have seen such a horrible death and did what he could to divert it. Something will save us. Khartyn will return, or the Circle of Nine or one of the goddesses. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate and pray as her clothes were pulled from her.
‘See her perfect skin?’ the Lightcaster announced as the townsmen crowded forward to peer at her nudity. ‘Is it not an unnatural colour? Too unblemished? Too white? A definite sign that Lucifer himself favours this one!’ The men nodded. ‘Now,’ the Lightcaster continued, removing his sharp pricker from the protective pouch he wore around his waist. His voice had begun to deepen with anticipation. ‘If you stand back I will let my little friend determine where the Devil has kissed his witch.’
He moved closer to Mary and a stabbing pain entered her left breast. She moaned through the bridle. ‘Not there,’ the Lightcaster whispered. ‘She feels pain. Where now?’ Another stabbing pain, this time in the soft belly of her abdomen. Then another, and another. Then he drove the pricker into her left hip and for once Mary didn’t cry out. ‘Did you see?’ the Lightcaster announced. ‘The witch feels no pain here! My pricker has located the Devil’s mark.’
The men backed away from Mary. ‘Burn the witch,’ they muttered.
‘Wait, my friends,’ the Lightcaster cautioned. ‘Let me continue the testing. We would not want to put an innocent onto the flames, would we?’
The men looked at each other and nodded in agreement. ‘Pass me the Turkas,’ the Lightcaster requested of the man standing nearest to him. The pincer was handed reverently over and the men stood in a semicircle around Mary as the Lightcaster directed them to thrust two needles under her nails. Mary threw back her head, the bridle smothering her screams. At that moment she would have done almost anything to put an end to the torture. She longed for death or unconsciousness so she would not have to endure another breath of this pain. All the time she was aware that Ano was screaming behind his bridle and Rosedark was trying to shout a spell.
The Lightcaster was becoming agitated, circling around the men, who were now eagerly taking it in turns to push the needles under her nails. There were many furtive grabs at her breasts and between her legs from the men not using the Turkas. ‘I need more pain,’ the Lightcaster announced. ‘This is a strong young witch. She does not break easily, like her friends. We need to do more with her. I am losing my touch, gentlemen, becoming too soft. What would you suggest?’
‘We could take it in turns to ride her,’ a young villager said. His breath came in pants and his eyes were half glazed with the expression the Lightcaster had come to know so well over the centuries.
‘Regretfully there is no time for raping this witch,’ the Lightcaster said apologetically. He hated having to deny pleasure to the men so eager to be his pawns. ‘The powerful Crone could return at any time for her friends, so we must burn them before she arrives. After the burning, I will find you another young witch for your trouble today.’
‘Put her in the leg screws,’ a farmer sang out. ‘They made Rosedark scream.’
The Lightcaster bowed slightly to him. ‘An excellent idea. You do remember how to fit them on, don’t you friends?’ They didn’t, but under the Lightcaster’s hurried instructions they attached the cruel boots to Mary’s legs, which squeezed her calves until it broke both her shinbones into pieces.
Mary saw the Lightcaster’s eyes shining in triumph as she tried to scream. The pain was white hot. Mercifully, she passed out.
When she came to, it was to see the men who were now weirdly beginning to resemble the Lightcaster removing the leg screws and unbuckling the witch’s bridle. Mary tried to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth. She could no longer stand. She was slumped against some of the village men — familiar, loved faces she had known for most of her life, names she could no longer remember in this nightmare.
‘May the Goddess forgive you,’ she said, but the words were an incoherent mumble as blood and gore dropped from her mouth. She was aware Rosedark and Ano were also being released from their holdings. The Lightcaster was leaning against the window, his back to them, watching something outside with great interest. ‘They have built the faggots well,’ he announced to the room. ‘The fire looks so pretty and inviting. How I wish I could paint that scene.’
‘They’re ready, Lightcaster,’ a voice spoke.
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘One more task to make them pretty for the fire. Cut their hair.’ The men jumped to his attention, and shears were found so the three could be shorn of their locks at once. This can’t be happening, Mary thought in panic. We cannot end up being burnt to death in Faia. Something will save us, something will stop this madness.
The Lightcaster smiled, reading her mind. ‘Too late,’ he said. ‘You should have thought better before you harboured witches under your breasts. Before you allowed the Dark One to kiss your witch’s spot.’
‘May you reap your own harvest,’ Mary spat out and was not aware of the pain for a brief moment. ‘May the darkness you have cultivated over the centuries return to its unholy father. May the men and women who have allowed you into their souls reap what they have sown for all time. May there be no peace for them and their families, and may the memory of what you have done to innocents today be echoed throughout history and all that you know is endless torment and eternal pain.’
Now the men were shrieking. Some tried to run from the room with their fingers in their ears. ‘We are cursed by the witch!’ they cried.
The Lightcaster moved quickly, knowing a moment’s eloquence from a clever witch could cost him his supporters even at this late stage. It was never too late for mercy to flower in a mob’s heart and he had learned not to take a captured witch for granted.
‘Make haste!’ he cried. ‘We must burn the witches now, before their power begins to build and they destroy us all.’ The braver villagers stepped forward and began ushering the trio out of the room. Mary had to be carried, marrow and blood still running down her smashed legs. As if in a dream, she was dimly aware the entire village h
ad gathered to watch their High Priestess being carried naked, broken and bloody. An excited ripple ran through the crowd, but there was no sympathy to be detected in their vacant eyes. Everywhere Mary’s frightened eyes went she saw vultures, thousands of winged predators and human vultures waiting for her death.
‘Mary!’ Ano was calling to her. Mary tried to raise her head to see him. The sight of her beloved friend, his two heads twisting frantically looking for her, deep gashes down his naked body, caused her to moan in grief. Also the terror of Rosedark, crying now she had spotted the huge pile of faggots that was beginning to burn with a ferocious heat.
‘Mother!’ Rosedark cried. She bore no resemblance to the mischievous long-haired beauty that Mary knew, the innocent Faian maiden elected to the honour of serving the Crone Khartyn.
From amid the crowd came a mocking voice. ‘Your mother is in the burial hall, witch! Your father is dead, lucky man — he doesn’t have to bear the shame of this day. May the Dreamers hold us all tightly and protect us from evil!’
Rosedark moaned at the mention of her father’s death.
‘She calls not to her birth mother. She cries for her Crone,’ a young girl answered the angry voice. She had dark plaits and squinting eyes. ‘The maid may be innocent. She contains the burning shell in her forehead. She is touched by the Dreamers. If we burn one of the holy ones it could bring discredit to our village for all time.’
The Lightcaster’s head snapped around at the girl’s words. Here was potential danger. Talk like that could influence the village and break the spell that was over them. Don’t bring them back from the brink, damn you. The mother of the girl moved protectively to her, as the villagers began to mutter among themselves and their eyes became less glazed. The Lightcaster could make out a few words: ‘Rosedark’, ‘A good family’, ‘Are they bleeding?’
‘The child’s words are truth,’ the Lightcaster called to the villagers. ‘The young witch has the burning shell in her forehead. The Devil touches his own in strange and wonderful ways, good people. He does not balk at using the Dreamers’ own symbol. But one thing never lies, and that is the Pricker of the Lightcaster. The witch has been examined thoroughly and has confessed to witchcraft, along with her Crone. Why do you think there has been so much famine for so many seasons and the crops have been poorly?’
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 4
