Witch Hunt

by L R Deney

  Much of the artwork in her gallery had similar themes. She dealt mostly in artwork from local, progressive artists that strove to be heard and seen by the world. Of course in this neoliberal, capitalist, mundane world she didn’t get as many customers as larger art galleries did, but it was enough to keep the space it occupied paid. She certainly didn’t expect any local tech billionaires to come wandering inside anytime during the next millennium.

  There weren’t very many patrons today. Just a couple, milling around; maybe they’d buy something, maybe they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter to her either way; too much of her mind was focused on the Nazis and their plot. What were they up to? Why were they snatching these people off the streets? Something very dark and sinister was being worked.

  “Let me know if anything catches your fancy,” she said to the two people that moved from painting to painting.

  She allowed herself to wander a bit as well, growing lost within her thoughts. Most of them were troubled, growing frustrated over events. What was going on with these arcane adherents to Naziism was only a reflection to what was happening with the rest of the world. She wondered silently to herself if the mundanes were destined to destroy themselves.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the gallery door opening again and her eyebrows raised at the sight of who wandered in. Councilor Fromm glanced from one end of the art gallery to the other before walking around to browse. Staci watched him, utterly baffled as to why a representative on the Council of Magic would come here.

  Walking quickly to his side, she found him examining a painting of a mostly black field with a vague silhouette of a man kneeling while restrained by chains and apparently sobbing into his hands. It could be easy to feel the grief and anguish in that piece that the artist must have been feeling at that time.

  “I don’t get very many visitors from Azramoas here,” Staci said softly, following Fromm’s gaze.

  “Yes, well, not very often I encounter someone of unique character like yourself,” he replied, canting his head slightly on its side.

  “So the Council isn’t sending spies after me now?”

  Fromm only looked at her briefly then quickly changed the subject. “So you deal in art. Any particularly famous pieces?”

  “Those are usually beyond what I can afford. No, the art I have here is mostly from local, independent artists that struggle each day to get their work out there.”

  The councilor’s gaze shifted to another piece that showed a person shackled to an assembly line. “I see. So you care about these people and their dreary politics.”

  “Are ours any less dreary? Or different?”

  “Their world is not ours, Miss Drenvauder. I can call you that, right? They made it very clear during their Crusades and their Inquisitions that we are not welcomed in their society. Even in this metropolitan maze that you’re so fond of, I’ve seen their silly churches with their silly crosses on too many street corners. The church’s reach is wide reaching in this world.”

  Staci smirked at the man’s barely spoken outrage. “They’re not all Catholic, you know. And they’re not the only religion that exists in this country. I mean, even Paganism is making a revival, and people are studying magic.”

  “Amateurs at best, I’m afraid, having no proper tutelage in what they dabble in.”

  “Still, no one’s burning those people at the stake.”

  “Perhaps not, but it’s still a far cry from what we’ve been able to accomplish. These people would panic if they saw someone conjuring fire from nothing or levitating huge boulders. I admire your stubborn advocacy, but their world will never accept ours. Many on the Council find it odd that you try to be one of them.” He gestured toward her, indicating her modest black blouse and knee-length skirt, an outfit that was more toned down from her usual fare.

  “I try to advocate for them because whether the Council likes it or not, their world does affect ours. Currently their ecosystem is going to hell all because a ruling minority’s pursuit of money and profit. How do you think Azramoas will get along when the world it’s anchored to is dead and barren?”

  Fromm fell silent, his eyes coincidentally wandering across a painting that depicted such a scene, a desolate hellscape post-climate change.

  “Perhaps you should purchase that one and show it to your colleagues,” Staci suggested with a bit of venom in her tone.

  “I’ll admit it’s something to consider, for the future.”

  Staci had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes at the man’s polite, political rephrasing of his actual meaning: “Fat chance, silly girl.”

  “So if you didn’t come here to purchase art, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” she asked, staring at him with her green eyes.

  Councilor Fromm shrugged, offering her a smile. “I simply wanted to see for myself what you do out here, Miss Drenvauder. You seem to have a long history fighting with the Council over various things, so I was curious what it was all about.”

  “Well, maybe you should take a wider stroll around both Seattle and Azramoas and pay attention to the disparities of wealth both cities possess. I’m sure you’ll be surprised by the commonality.”

  “The opportunities to become successful have always been there for everyone.”

  “Now you sound like one of their politicians.”

  The man eyed her coldly and she merely smirked back at him. It was true, regardless of society or aims, governments and their politicians were almost invariably the same. Far too many of the arcane-gifted populace viewed the mundane folk of Earth as inferior beings. Even supposedly enlightened mages could not escape the trap of bigotry. And they were blind to that fact. As long as government endorsed oppression, it would be all of humanity’s constant foil.

  “I admire your resolve, Miss Drenvauder,” he finally said. “You don’t back down and you fight for what you believe in. There are few people of integrity in this world. Round off a few of the edges and you’d make a fine council woman.”

  “I have no desire to join the Council.”

  “Why not? You could bring about a lot of the changes you desire if you were on the Council.”

  “I’m afraid I’m allergic to hierarchy,” she retorted with that smirk widening.

  Fromm shook his head. “Hierarchy? All are equal in the Council and all are equal before it. We merely represent the interests of the people of Azramoas.”

  “Only the people who have the larger pockets.”

  “Are not some of them charitable?”

  “An equal distribution of resources would make charity unneeded.”

  “But if everyone got everything for free, where would be the incentive to work?”

  Staci had to restrain herself from laughing, her green eyes simply twinkling with her amusement. This man sounded exactly like a politician in any other capitalist country on Earth. She couldn’t really fault him for the viewpoint, since many of the humans inhabiting Azramoas had split off from Medieval Europe when the Catholic Church started ramping up its executions of witches and sorcerers.

  “Councilor Fromm, Azramoas is populated by magic-wielding beings. Most things can be accomplished with just a wave of a hand, so work only exists as a means to exchange wealth. Its existence is artificial and rooted in the city’s feudal roots. Currency is archaic and quaint.”

  The Councilor frowned and stroked his chin. “I’m not so sure about that. Money is important to maintain the fair transfer of goods and…”

  Exactly like a politician, or anyone really who argues in favor of this outmoded system, she thought with a roll of her eyes, tuning most of his words about markets out. Waaaaaiting for it….

  “…perhaps we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  There it is!

  “Is something the matter, Miss Drenvauder?”

  Staci shook her head. “Oh, no no no no. I was just thinking about something funny.”

  “Perhaps you would care to share the thought with me.”

  �
��Maybe later.”

  “Well, nevertheless, regardless of our differences in opinion, I must say you have a remarkable collection of art here, albeit a little unu—”

  The councilor was interrupted when the art gallery’s door swung open with a loud crash. Through it marched eight men clad in long violet robes, black metal helms and breastplates, each of them had a staff at the ready. Both Staci and Fromm stared at them in bewilderment; one visitor from Azramoas was unexpected enough, but to have eight members of the Azramoas City Watch just barge into Staci’s gallery in the middle of downtown Seattle in broad daylight was cause for alarm. Even the two other patrons stopped and stared once it became apparent something unusual was happening.

  “Step away from the councilor,” the watch member in front demanded.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, gentlemen,” Staci replied, very defiantly remaining at the councilor’s side. “What’s the occasion? Looking for some art to decorate the Azramoas PD? I personally recommend the painting over there that says ‘All Cops Are Bastards.’”

  The watchman swung his staff, and while it never physically connected, Staci still felt the searing impact against her face, causing her to stagger back. “Step away from the councilor! I will not ask again.”

  “What’s the meaning of this, officer?” Councilor Fromm asked, stepping forward to put enough distance between himself and Staci.

  “The perpetrator, Staci Drenvauder, was seen using magic illegally against mundane law enforcement, obstructing their pursuit of justice. She is to be arrested and taken into custody until her arraignment.”

  Fromm turned to look at Staci in horrified shock. “Is this true?”

  “It’s a load of bullshit,” Staci grunted, rubbing her face.

  The watchman raised a gauntleted hand and pointed at her. “Staci Drenvauder, by the authority invested in me by the City of Azramoas, you are under arrest for illegal use of magic. Please do not resist.”

  “Over my dead body,” she replied with a glare, beginning to charge up a spell.

  “So be it.”

  In unison, the eight watchmen swung their staves in the air in repeated movements. As before, none of them were close enough to physically touch her, but the enchantments they possessed allowed them to project the energy of their blows, each one connecting with her body with painful precision. Staci found herself laying on the floor, the ethereal blows from the staves still slamming into her.

  “Enough! Grab her and secure her,” the voice of the watchman said. “And someone escort the councilman to safety. Don’t forget to wipe the memory of the mundanes. Let’s be quick about it, men.”

  ◆◆◆

  Another alley, once again under the cloak of darkness, two men in hooded cloaks approached each other. No other soul was in sight this Azramoan night, and there was only the faint scent of someone baking a pie in the distance. A brief handshake was exchanged by the two figures.

  “Thank you for once again meeting me on such short notice,” one said to the other. “I have splendid news.”

  “Hopefully it’s better than the news I had to pass to you the other day.”

  “Indeed it is, and it’s actually related to that as a matter of fact. We have her!”

  The second man was silent for a moment. “What?”

  “I took your report and floated certain parts of it down by the Azramoan City Watch. We have her imprisoned on the charge of using her magic to illegally interfere with mundane law enforcement. I have singlehandedly turned your failure into a victory.”

  “You’re going to hold this over me, aren’t you?”

  The first man chuckled. “Only as much as I have to. In any case, the degenerate is out of the way. Can you perhaps provide your survivor from the failed operation to provide testimony?”

  “Oh yes, of course, anything to keep that thing out of our hair. It humiliated my men; I want to see it suffer.”

  “Good, good. I look forward to working with you more in the future.”

  “Of course.”

  Another handshake was exchanged and the two figures parted ways.

  Chapter 7

  Darkness. Isolation. Loneliness. Frustration.

  These were feelings that she was all too familiar with, having experienced them for years in her past. While she surmised she made significant improvements in herself gradually over time, it was the injustices in life that brought a lot of it crashing back. Here she was, trapped in a tiny cell over details of an event that had been cruelly distorted. There was no doubting it now; the foxes were in the hen house.

  Can’t say I’m surprised, Staci thought to herself. It’s no different here than anywhere else. Governments are easily infiltrated by the power hungry.

  She wondered when it happened, which council member held ties to the Order of the Black Sun. It could be any one of them; any of them had the power to dispatch the Azramoas City Watch to her doorstep. Her enemies wanted her out of their way.

  Fingering the collar around her neck, she took a brief glance around her dark cell. No light. Not even a torch burning somewhere. Just dark. Pure solitude in a featureless, pitch dark room with walls made of stone. She understood the psychology behind that design, it was meant to cause the person to feel small and insignificant. Isolated.

  The collar around her neck was a completely different story. It was meant to strip her of her ability to channel the arcane—so long as she wore it, she could not cast spells. It was not hard to figure out why a prison that contains magical prisoners would make use of such an artifact. Any arcane practitioner worth their salt could be able to cast a spell of escape with ease. While the walls were inscribed with numerous wards, not every possibility could be accounted for in the world of magic.

  But with the isolation came boredom. No activities of any kind, not even reading material when requested. They wanted her mind to wander into dark places, wanted her to doubt herself and contemplate an end to it all in the most final solution possible. Just like every other prison, it was meant to break you.

  How many hours had passed so far? It was hard to tell, as even minutes could feel like entire centuries in places like this. She was certain to this day that time’s passage was directly proportional to the amount of excitement you were experiencing. The more exciting, the faster time moved. Everyone, after all, was familiar with the idiom, “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  It certainly seemed to be true in practice.

  Wait, was that a noise?

  The small jingle became more distinct and the sound of footsteps more apparent. They grew closer with each moment until the footsteps came to a stop in front of her cell door, illumination filtering through the slit while the keys started jingling more consistently. The lock started rattling and Staci moved to stand up, facing the opening door. It swung open and she found herself facing three members of the City Watch accompanied by a floating ball of light.

  “Prisoner two-nine-five-six-dash-nine, you are hereby summoned before the Council of Magic,” one of the officers stated in a cold, calculated tone. “Turn around and prepare to be cuffed.”

  Staci rolled her eyes before turning around and placing her wrists behind her. In a few moments, she felt the cuffs snap around her wrists, causing a bit more discomfort than was really necessary. She really hated these things for that reason. Yeah, restraining someone was the point, but making them so tight that they pinched nerves was a dick move.

  Grabbed by both sides, she was turned around and led out of her cell and down the hall. Azramoas’ prison was said to occupy its own dimensional space, and with a simple look around as the watchmen escorted her through it, she could have certainly believed it. The hallways were positively labyrinthine and if you didn’t know where you were going, you could have most certainly gotten lost very easily. Part of her was actually curious to how big it actually was.

  Eventually she was brought before a large gate and the number of runes that decorated the walls around it sp
elled out how heavily warded the complex really was. She began studying a few and whistled softly to herself as she recognized some of the unpleasant things that they did. Anyone trying to break out would most certainly have a very, very bad time.

  One of the guards at the gate approached them and made a cursory examination with his gaze. “Reason for taking prisoner?”

  “She’s summoned before the Council to be confronted over her crimes,” one of her escorts answered quickly.

  The guard eyed her more specifically. “Ah yes, the one who used magic on mundane officers of the law. I hope you get put away for a very long time, filth.”

  “And yet you’re the one with B.O. and bad breath,” Staci quipped back with a sweet smile.

  “Shut up!” the guard snarled before turning away and letting the group pass.

  Staci shrugged in response as she was pushed along and through the open gate. As they crossed the threshold, she did feel the very slight and distinct shift in the air that indicated the transition point between two dimensional realities which proved the rumors accurate—the prison was indeed in its own pocket of space-time.

  Escorted through a lobby and then outside across a flight of steps down to the streets of Azramoas, she quietly pondered how she was going to get out of this one. Unable to cast magic because of the collar around her neck ruled out anything involving the arcane. She was certainly outmanned as well and her captors already easily overpowered her once, so if she tried to escape by more practical means, it would pose significant risk and challenge and a very insignificant chance of success. So lost in her thoughts over her dilemma, she barely noticed her escort leading her into the back of an arcane-powered car.

  The vehicle wasn’t on the move for long before it reached the capitol. She was ordered out and ushered through a side entrance. It was a little intriguing, as she had never came in through this entrance before. Skipping the dull lobby of petitioners with its DMV-like atmosphere and no guarantee that the Council would ever hear your petition was almost convenient despite the circumstances.