Chapitre Quatorze

Le Sabbat des Sorcières

Annette

A dozen female voices singing in unison, all in some ancient language from the days when the gods of chaos ruled the world. The reports had been right, a coven of witches met in Rigal Wood, and were undoubtedly preparing to bring disaster upon the Empire.

Annette Renart, along with three other witch hunters crept through the woods at night in dark gray cloaks. Every step brought them closer to the source of the chanting, and the light of a campfire burning.

Clutching her amulet full of salt water, Annette silently reminded herself that Lyr was watching over her, and that so long as she carried a piece of paradise in that vial no wicked spell would harm her. Of course, spells weren't the only ways witches could cause harm.

"Sister Renart," one of the other witch hunters whispered to her.

Annette turned her attention to her fellow witch hunter, and then to where he was pointing. She could see it now, thirteen young women all prancing naked around a roaring fire.

As one of her comrades blushed and turned his eyes away from the scene for a moment Annette was reminded of why she always protested to being on a team with male witch hunters. She understood that, ideally, they were supposed to set aside their desires, but she knew as well as anyone who'd been a member of the clergy for more than a month one very simple fact: many of the clerics were men. Their desires did not die when they swore their vows.

Thirteen witches, only four witch hunters, and two of those hunters were men, entranced by the brazen display before them. This was sure to be far more difficult than she'd anticipated.

Then a fourteenth figure stepped into the light of the fire, a male one. He was a hunched over man with a face that, while fully human, held a strange, goat-like resemblance. His face was long, and from his pointed chin came a tuft of gray beard. His arms were long and skinny, and his hands had only two fingers and a thumb each. From his chest down, the man was covered in thick hair, almost like fur. It was so thick that it took Annette a moment to realize that this witch-born man was as naked as the thirteen women.

In a voice so deep Annette felt her bones rattle, the witch-born man said, "Mari!"

All the women repeated the name in their own, musical voices.

"Mari!"

"Mari!"

"Mari!"

The witches were invoking the name of the demon goddess of storm and calamity! The hunters could not wait any longer, it was time to act, and pray that though their numbers were few that they would prevail here.

Annette raised her crossbow and fired the first shot. The bolt found its way to the witch-born's forehead. The witches screamed as their man fell. Each of them picked up short swords and knives from the rocks surrounding the fire and unsheathed them.

The other witch hunters sprang into action. With long-swords in hand they rushed into the clearing and cut through the first four witches in their way. Annette put away her crossbow, drew her own sword, and joined in the fray.

With a new moon in the sky the only light was the dancing campfire. The battle was a flurry of gleaming blades, white flesh, gray shadows, and scarlet streams. At times, Annette wasn't entirely sure where she was or what was happening, but she knew that whenever she saw bare white flesh that this was her target.

Screams and howls. The clang of steel upon steel. The hiss of a blade missing its mark. The splash of blood spilled. All the while the fire raged, and seemed almost as if it were growing.

Smoke shrouded them all, and stung Annette's eyes. The witches danced about so quickly that it seemed Annette and her companions could never strike them down.

A horn's blast. A call for help or a warning? Annette found the source of the sound and beheaded the witch who'd sounded the call.

Dogs barked in the distance. Then the barking drew closer.

A snarl and a yelp as a huge black dog pounced upon a gray shadow. The shadow collapsed on the ground and screamed for help.

The dog's teeth gleamed in the firelight, as did the witch-hunter's blood.

Annette stabbed the dog over and over. Each thrust elicited whimpers and howls from the beast, before it finally fell off her ally.

Another bark. Then another, this time far closer.

More dogs.

Annette rounded towards the sound and slashed her sword wildly. The hounds' black fur made them all but invisible in the darkness.

That was, until their eyes caught the firelight.

Annette aimed for the seemingly-glowing eyes and jabbed her blade right between them.

A yelp, and her blade slowed. She'd hit her target.

The sound of thunder in the distance. Had they succeeded in conjuring their dark goddess?

Annette turned her attention back to the remaining witches, only to see that two of them were fleeing into the woods. As they moved further and further from the fire, they appeared to simply vanish into the shadows.

Snap! One of the other witch-hunters loosed a bolt from his crossbow, and one of the two witches fell.

Annette dashed off into the woods after the last remaining witch. Her boots slipped in the bloody mud, but she managed to stay on her feet.

She could still see the bare flesh of her target in the fire's light, just enough to catch up to her.

Just as Annette's hand seized the witch's shoulder, the young woman shouted, "I surrender!" and threw both her hands into the air.

Spouting foul language under her breath, Annette pulled the witch's arms down behind her back and locked her in manacles.

The witch's voice sounded so smug, so proud as she said, "What? Are you unhappy that you won? Or just unhappy that you didn't get to spill my blood yourself? Do you enjoy spilling blood as much as your Church claims we do?"

"Silence, witch, or I'll slit your throat!" Annette hissed.

"I've surrendered," the witch said as Annette pushed her back towards the fire. "You can't do anything to me unless I try to escape."

"Or if you try to curse me," said Annette. "And you never know which words from a witch's mouth might actually be a curse. So, go ahead, say something I can interpret as a curse. Give me an excuse."

After that the witch was silent, but her stride was just as proud as before.

Once they had returned to the fire, one of the witch-hunters took off his cloak and covered her in it. The witch exchanged a sultry glance with him, as well as a wink, which made the witch hunter shiver. Annette couldn't be sure that it was fear, as her companion would have her believe, or if it was desire.

One of the witch hunters had fallen during the battle, his throat ripped open by the dog's jaws. Annette's heart sunk. She hadn't managed to save him after all.

"Take a look at this." One of the other witch hunters handed Annette a leather-bound book, but in between the pages of the book were folded pieces of paper.

Annette pulled out one of the slips of paper, unfolded it, and read silently to herself.

"Sisters,

"We have discovered that Sister Charlot is still alive. She escaped the burning, making those fools only think she'd died upon the stake. I know little else, except that Charlot is still alive, and that her brother, in spite of his station, has labored to keep her survival a secret.

"May the gods watch over us all.

"Sister Michelle"

Sister Charlot? Yes! Annette knew exactly who this letter spoke of, and mention of her brother and "his station" confirmed it! Charlot was a famous witch who'd caused a time of great sickness and turmoil almost twenty years prior. She was revealed to be the sister of Bishop Obert, as well as the mother of a multitude of witch-born.

To think, this famous witch was still alive. Still spreading chaos in the world.

Annette slipped out and opened another of the folded pieces of paper.

"Sisters,

"We now know why Charlot has not returned to us. We don't know where or how, but we know that she is a prisoner. She has been since just a few years after she escaped the stake. We must endeavor to discover where she is being held and what we can do to set her free. With her by our side we will be a force to be feared once again.

"May the gods watch over us all.

"Sister Viviane."

Much of what happened after that was a blur. So routine that Annette absent-mindedly went through the motions. They loaded the witch into a carriage and rode back to the nearest abbey, where their captive would face interrogation, a chance to recant, and then justice.

Far more important to Annette, though, was the information she'd just discovered. When she was certain her companions were not looking, she stole the two letters from the book and hurried to her private quarters.

With quill to ink and ink to parchment she set herself to the task of informing her father, Duke Lucien, of the information she'd just discovered.

"Dearest Father,

"In this envelope please find enclosed two letters written between witches, which I found during performance of my duties.

"The first letter tells us that Charlot, the famous witch queen, is still alive. More importantly, it tells us that Bishop Obert knows this is so, and has endeavored to keep this fact a secret. If he intends to continue to keep this secret I daresay he will owe you a favor or two.

"The second letter speaks of Charlot as a prisoner somewhere, though the witch who wrote it did not know where. I believe this may be worth having Fitzroy's agents look into, assuming they are not too busy already. Whoever is keeping Charlot prisoner must have a lot of power, and gaining leverage on them would ensure that the Renart family continues to excel in Le Jeu Fatal.

"Otherwise, I am doing well. I've gained a strong reputation amongst the witch hunters, and am in the final days of studying to become a priestess. I will let you know when the date is set for my ordination ceremony.

"Your loving daughter,

"Annette"

Annette sealed the letter with wax, the sigil of House Renart staring up at her. Every time she saw that sigil it served as a reminder to her, a reminder of where her loyalties truly lied.

It was just like her father had told her on the day she left to join the clergy. "Officially you serve Lyr first and foremost, and, by extension his Church. But the truth is that very few in Lyr's Church actually serve him, most serve themselves. Even among the clergy you'll find family politics, blackmail, deviance, affairs, and assassinations. It's the same game as back home, only the masks change."

It had proven good advice time and again.

And now that they had leverage on Bishop Obert they could undermine the authority of Duke Jehan Armand, on whom her father had set his sights long ago.