Weekly Sample 6: The Witch & the woodcutter

(50 min read) A Fantasy by L.S Walker

You should read this if:

• You love A Knight of The Seven Kingdoms and The First Law trilogy

• You want a grim, slow-burn tension that explodes into action

• You like a ruthless, unpredictable story

Grimdark Action | Dark Twists | Deep World-Building | Gritty Realism

The Far Isles are consumed by a brutal witch-hunting frenzy, a reign of terror orchestrated by the ruthless Church Inquisitorum. As a solitary woodcutter living on the dark fringes of civilization, Beorn survives by a single, unbreakable rule: I don't get involved. But when a routine trip into town lines up with a grand inquisitorial execution in the town square, the heavy silence he has cultivated for years begins to splinter. Confronted by a escalating violence that mirrors the ghosts of his own hidden past, Beorn is forced to decide just how far he can push his indifference—and what exactly he is willing to risk when the flames finally rise.

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Chapter 1: Bystander

The Reader's Sample | The Witch and The Woodcutter, Chapter 1: Bystander

“He who sees evil and does naught is just as complicit as those who stain their hands with the act.”

Pick it up.

Beorn opened his eyes to the rising sun creeping in through the cracks in his shutters. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his brow. His chest heaved up and down, lungs sucking in breath like a drowning man. Steadily, his heart slowed from its frantic hammering. When he’d resumed his composure, Beorn levered himself onto an elbow, swinging his legs over the side of the pallet bed.

As the sun rose, light continued to break through gaps in the cabin’s wooden walls, washing away the lingering remnants of his accursed dreams. Some men woke from their slumber unable to recall the details of their dreams, good or fearful. Not Beorn. For him, the dreams came every night, curling up on his chest while he slept, restricting his breath, torturing his mind, and depriving him of rest. And in the morning, when the sun rose to wake him from his torment, the memories remained. There was no escape.

The pallet creaked as he lifted his bulk from its makeshift mattress, straw spilling from a split in the side. The hardwood floor was cool under his bare feet as he strode over to the window and threw open the shutters. Light spilled into the one-room cabin, illuminating its stark interior. Besides the pallet bed, the room sported a stone hearth with the low-burning embers of the night’s fire, a thin table for preparing food scored with knife marks, a single three-legged stool, and a heavy chest at the foot of the bed.

A shallow wooden bowl sat upon the windowsill, filled with clean water. He stooped, cupped the water cooled by the morning air, and splashed it onto his face. Droplets ran through a coarse black beard, fighting a losing war against an invasion of greys as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Outside the window, sunlight made its way through the verdant forest canopy to fall upon a floor littered with pine needles. To his left stood a dilapidated shack made of three walls. Inside, a large draught horse stood chewing at a bale of hay. Next to the shelter sat a wooden cart. The wood was dark brown with repeated varnish, save for several newly repaired spokes showing its heavy use. Piled high in the cart’s bed was a mountain of firewood, bundled roughly five logs apiece with hemp rope. To the right, another enormous pile of split logs loomed. A thick stump sat at the base of the mound and embedded in its ancient rings was a sharp iron axe.

Beorn picked up the wooden bowl and brought it to his lips, draining the remaining water and soothing a throat strained by his nocturnal cries. He turned and walked towards the cold hearth where a string of clothes hung; washed and dried from the previous day’s labours. He stepped into a pair of worn trousers before slipping a roughspun tunic over his head and tucking it into his waist. Sitting on the three-legged stool, Beorn leaned forward to slip on two worn leather boots. As he did, long black ropes of hair fell around his face.

I should shear it off while I’m in town, he thought. Lest I get lice.

Beorn took no pride in his appearance. No mirrors existed in the small wooden cabin. Beorn did not care for the eyes that stared out of them.

Rising, his eyes fell upon the chest by the bed. Like all aspects of the cabin, the chest was bare of any adornment, built solely for utilitarian purposes. Beorn considered the weather. It was mid-autumn, and while the days were still pleasant, winter storms were regularly arriving without herald. He strode towards the chest and knelt to open the lid. Within were the few other earthly possessions Beorn owned. His eyes glazed across them, pushing objects and spare clothing aside until he glimpsed his travelling cloak near the bottom of the chest where he had stored it at the onset of last spring. Drawing out the grey-dyed woollen cloak, he shook it free of dust, briefly inspected it for any moth-eaten holes, and flung it across his shoulders. As he reached out to close the chest, he spied another bundle of neglected fabric within its depths. The cloth concealed a long object hidden from the eyes of men and God, and showed only faint signs of its former heraldry…

Enough. Beorn let the lid close with a heavy slam.

Birdsong and insect chirps greeted him as he pushed open the cabin door, its hinges creaking. It would take Beorn an hour’s ride on his cart to reach the nearest human dwelling, and another hour yet to reach any semblance of civilisation.

Best get a move on then.

As he started across the yard, he swung past the stump and extended his hand for his axe. It was possibly his most cared-for possession; the haft was smooth from frequent use but protected from the elements with a strong coat of linseed oil; the head kept free of rust with a beeswax blend, and the edge kept sharp and clean of sap. Beorn pulled the blade from the stump without missing a step and strode towards the laden cart. Depositing the axe onto the bench seat, he turned to the powerful cart horse gnashing at the loose straw.

“Morning, Godfrey.” The horse did not deem an answer necessary and continued to chew. Just as Beorn preferred. Godfrey was a mighty horse of deep bay colouring, with four white socks and a white stripe down his nose. His mane and tail were as dark and long as Beorn’s own hair. At two meters tall and weighing roughly a tonne, Godfrey made simple work of clearing felled trees and pulling the heavy cart to town. His feathered hooves clomped through the mud of the yard as Beorn led him to the cart. Godfrey gave a single shake of his head and a snort through his large nostrils once the bit was in place, and the pair were ready for the pilgrimage to town.

The path from Beorn’s cabin was dirt, two trenches carved into the earth by the cart’s repeated procession from cabin to town, town to cabin, and back again. The birds continued their chorales, calling to one another amongst the branches. On one or two occasions, Beorn caught sight of a doe grazing on the long grass of the forest floor, rarely raising her head in search of foes. There wasn’t many a predator in these parts of the woods. Those lurked further out.

Steadily, the forest thinned, and Godfrey led them out of the last of the tree cover. As they proceeded down a hill, Beorn raised his head to the grey clouds forming on the horizon. The warm sun that had greeted him that morning still shone against his back, but up ahead, a tempest was preparing itself to inflict the people of this land with wet socks and muddy streets. The brewing storm sent an icy breeze as its forerunner, and Beorn was thankful he had brought his travel cloak.

An hour into the journey, Beorn and Godfrey came upon their closest neighbour. The squat messenger station wasn’t more than a shack, but still put Beorn’s cabin to shame. The stable behind housed two horses, fresh and ready to be swapped at the need of any royal messenger. Food and shelter were also available should a royal runner require; or to a lowly traveller for a small weight of coin. Beorn spotted the station master sitting on his step as he regularly did.

“Good morrow, Beorn!” shouted Alan Reed. The station master was a stout little man well past his prime, if in fact he had ever been in it. Missing every second tooth and with more hair on his shoulders than pate, Alan was not a seemly visage. His personality fit the mould. It was not for honour that Alan took his post far from friend or neighbour, offering support for the King’s messengers. It was for the gossip they carried, and for the opportunity to swindle desperate travellers out of their coppers for watery gruel, stale bread, and a patch of floor in his stable. Regardless, the information gained from royal and impoverished traveller alike was useful to a man as far removed from civilisation as Beorn.

“What tidings?” Beorn offered in reply once Godfrey had crossed the distance to the messenger’s station. A dull copper coin leaped from Beorn’s thumb into Alan’s weathered hand. Friend would be a gross overvaluation, acquaintance would suggest some level of knowledge of each other, and associate implied some shared business. Beorn got his news from Alan; Alan in return got a copper from Beorn.

“There’s a storm on the horizon.” Alan was sceptically inspecting the copper.

“I have eyes,” Beorn retorted.

“Steady on. Was only making small talk.”

“Didn’t pay for small talk, Alan. On my way into town to sell my wares; eager to know if I’m expected to be waylaid by bandits, set upon by roaming hounds, or if God Almighty in his infinite wisdom has seen fit to raze Brexton from the face of the earth, saving me the trouble of a wasted journey.”

Alan Reed gave a chortle. “A’right, a’right. I can’t speak to any bandits spotted in the area; the King’s men keep the road safe enough. And the only hound that’s given me any trouble is Matilda here, spreading her damnable fleas all over the place.” He nudged a sleeping bloodhound, snoozing by his feet. Its coat was dull, skin pulled tightly across its ribs, and a sprinkling of white hoarfrost speckled its hanging jowls. The beast opened its eyes sheepishly at the mention of its name - for all the good it did; both were milky with blindness. “As for Brexton, we’d only be too lucky if the Good Lord erased that den of sin from this plane.” Alan leaned forward and spat brown phlegm into the mud. “But, short of such a feat, He has seen fit to send his emissaries to Brexton to root out the cause of all our ills in these lands.” Beorn stared down at Alan without comment. Sensing he wouldn’t get a response, Alan saw fit to explain: “Witches.”

Beorn’s skin prickled and his hands squeezed tighter around the reins. “The Inquisitorum?”

A wide, gap-toothed grin spread across Alan Reed’s ruddy face. “Aye. Word has it Brexton’s been infested with the devils, to the point their cells are practically burstin’! The King has sent his Inquisitors to tend to the heretics. I must confess I’m a touch jealous of you headed into town. I ‘eard there’s to be a grand execution today.” Alan gave another chortle. “That bein’ said, I got my fair share of entertainment last eve’ as the Inquisitorum rode through.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning they left a message at the message tree.” A sly wink, and Alan Reed turned and limped back inside his messenger’s shack.

Beorn sat for a moment, staring at the road ahead. Finally, he gave a shake of the reins and Godfrey resumed his slow meander along the path towards Brexton. Not far from Alan Reed’s run-down messenger shack stood an ancient oak with branches as thick as Beorn’s waist. At its base was a notice board littered with missives for passers-bye. Recruitment flyers calling men to arms to spread the king’s law and the word of God to those distant kingdoms not yet within the Gilded Father’s embrace, advertisements from local physicians hawking miracle tonics and balms, and letters from desperate mothers beseeching any information of their lost children. And above the notice board swayed four naked corpses, hanged by their necks from the boughs of the ancient tree. Each bore the signatures of the Inquisitorum: nails torn from their nail beds, stripes of burnt flesh from hot iron rods, and elbow and knee joints twisted at sickening angles. Several had breasts cut from their bodies. One was missing her eyes. Prior to her hanging, or the work of the congregating crows, Beorn could not be sure. The sky above the tree was dark with them.

From rope around each poor soul’s neck was attached a board that read: “Here be sinners, heretics, and witches.”

Someone should have taken them down. Someone should have buried them… Beorn did not slow his wagon and passed on towards Brexton.

Time passed, the sky grew darker, the road slowly transformed from mud to gravel to stone, and an hour after parting from Alan Reed’s shack, Beorn arrived at Brexton’s gates. It was mid-morning by this point. He had made good time. Beorn joined the queue of peasants waiting for entry, come from across the countryside to sell or to buy. He settled into the cart’s bench-seat, his mind turning once more to the Inquisitorum currently behind those gates. The line moved slowly, each peasant showing their wares or stating their business for entry. The guards weren’t usually this stringent, more concerned with their bawdy tales of the previous night’s conquests than with the security of produce entering Brexton’s market. Perhaps the presence of Church officials had produced special orders: that being, the doing of their jobs.

It had not been five minutes before the guards spotted Beorn in the queue.

“Ho, Beorn!” An energetic wave and a wide smile accompanied the greeting. Despite himself, a return smile crept into the corner of Beorn’s mouth. “Move aside, you lot! Let the cart through! This is your lord’s woodsman and about your lord’s business!”

Beorn shook the reins and trotted past the still lengthy queue, much to the displeasure and silent curses of those who were before him. “Greetings, Hollock. How fares guard duty?”

The man, who in truth was barely more than a boy, blew out his hairless cheeks. “The captain has us all out on duty today. An envoy of Inquisitors rode in, dead of night,” his voice lowering. “They come escorted by a squad of Holy Guards. There’s to be some execution in the town square at noon. They’ve already started hearing trials for the prisoners confined to the town gaol.”

“Aye,” Beorn growled. “I saw those the Inquisitors have passed judgement on already, on the journey here.” The limp bodies swayed on their ropes behind Beorn’s eyes.

The boy-guard nodded. His expression was part-fear, part-elation. Brexton did not experience this level of entertainment often. A travelling bard or roving caravan now and then. Never trials. Never the Inquisitorum. “And those were just the standard proceedings. Trial and judgements held behind closed doors, executions in private. Likely just blasphemers, adulterers and the like. But whatever they’ve got planned for today is different.”

“Well,” Beorn interjected, keen to be on his way. “I dare say I’ll be too preoccupied to attend. What will it be today?”

“Three bundles, Beorn. We were running on coals last night, freezing our cocks off! Ha!”

Beorn reached back and began pulling out bundles of split logs. Hollock stacked the bundles at the side of the gate, near the guard tower’s door.

“My thanks, Beorn.”

“My thanks to you,” Beorn reciprocated, nodding at the queuers who were growing more and more disgruntled by his interjection. Beorn regularly exchanged firewood for skipping the queue at the gate. Hollock had even taken to keeping apples in the guards’ quarters for Godfrey.

Perhaps here is an associate?

The queuers were becoming restless, not only from Beorn’s line-cutting but now from the added holdup of his and Hollock’s pleasantries. “Best be off before you have a riot on your hands.”

“Aye. Fare thee well, Beorn! And you too Godfrey.” The boy-guard gave the draught horse a pat on his solid hindquarters before trotting off through the city gates. City was generous, but it was the largest town in the fief and where the local lord made his home (albeit high upon the hill away from the filth and muck of the city proper). The cart’s uneven wheels click-clacked across the street’s cobbles, taking him on his usual route. Waste flowed in the gutters as people emptied their chamber pots from the prior evening. Stray dogs roamed the alleys, looking for anything from which they could salvage a meal. The occasional rat scampered across the road, darting between cover. It was hardly metropolitan. The city’s economy revolved around trade; in virtually all sectors, a market atmosphere prevailed. Grains, meats, and dairy products flowed in from the surrounding countryside. Craft production focused on ironware and timber work. There was wealth among the local aristocracy, high upon the lord’s hill; but there was poverty and vagrancy too, down here among the common people. A local saying in Brexton went, “The gold flows uphill while the shit flows down,” though never within earshot of the town guards.

The culture in Brexton was less varied. Lord or peasant, baron or farmer; all worshipped the Gilded Father. In times past, religious worship in Brexton stretched from the pantheon of Old Gods brought over by the Carthians, to the Sun Gods of the Distant South, to the forest gods of the northern druids, and even a dozen richly developed cults clamouring for attention. There may even have been some Leyanites permitted within the city walls, albeit in small numbers and constrained to ghettos. Then the Church of the Gilded Father burst forth onto the scene. The old deities were pushed out little by little, and those believers who remained eventually found the sharp end of a spear. Ghettos burned down, idols were toppled, temples sacked, and in their place rose towering chapels and churches adorned with the square cross.

Ironically, the Church had risen from the embers of the Carthian Empire, only to tear down the statues and shrines dedicated to the Old Gods of Carth. The Church decreed these were false idols, guises of the Adversary, used to lure mankind away from the Path of Light. The fall of the Empire and its preceding Republic proved this. Democracy was an insult to the Lord Above, for only He could anoint the leaders of man: nobles, lords, kings. Democracy was mankind playing God, seeking to exert their will unto the world. It was the illusion of choice. The Church decreed men were sheep, and the King was their shepherd (though every man, cur, and rat knew it was the Church who stood behind the throne). Beorn cared little for that rhetoric. He’d much preferred to swing the axe than to be the livestock.

Attached to a pole next to his seat was a bell; rope hanging out, knotted at the end. Beorn’s first stop was the bakery. Clang, clang, the bell went. Beorn swung out of the cart’s bench and landed with a thump on the street. Upon hearing the bell, the baker made his way out of the shop and greeted Beorn with a nod.

“Greetings, Beorn.” The hot air from his multiple ovens came wafting out after the baker, nicely holding at bay the continued drop in temperature brought by the coming storm. With it came the rich scent of rising bread.

“Greetings, Sampson,” Beorn replied. “The usual?”

“We’ll take an extra bundle today. There are big events occurring in Brexton! Members of the Holy Order have blessed us with their presence! Executions tend to get people’s blood pumping, and that makes them eager for drink and vittles. And the latter I plan to have at the ready. Freshly baked trenchers in every tavern from here to the town square. Same price per bundle as last time?”

“You can pay for the extra bundle with one of these freshly baked loaves you’re boasting of.”

“Ha! I like the way you barter. Martha! Bring our friendly giant one of the fresh loaves. And grab some of that cheese we were gnawing this morn!” He turned back to Beorn. “Splendid stuff, nice and sharp.”

Martha, the baker’s wife, followed her husband out of the shopfront holding a small cloth bundle, emanating with the scent of freshly baked bread. The older woman wore a homely smile. As she reached her husband’s side and stepped forward to hand Beorn his meal, the toes of her sandals caught on an uneven cobblestone, sending her sprawling into the street. The bundle bounced and rolled, landing between Beorn’s boots.

In an instant, the baker had his wife by the elbow, hauling her to her feet. “What the devil is your problem, woman?!” And fast as lightning, he drew back his hand and cracked her across the face. She spun in a half circle, bending over with her cheek cupped in her hands. “Get back to the ovens! God help you if any of those loaves burn.”

Martha stood. Her cheek was already swelling. With eyes cast down, she turned back to the store, the homely smile left in the street where she’d fallen.

Sampson, the baker, sighed. “My apologies, Beorn… I can retrieve another loaf if you’d like…?”

Beorn bent to retrieve the bundle between his boots. He dusted a layer of dirt off the roughspun fabric’s exterior. “That won’t be necessary. My thanks for the cheese.”

The cart’s wheels resumed their click clack down the cobbled street, the incident with the baker’s wife lingering for only a moment. I don’t get involved; Beorn told himself.

Next stop was the smithy. Beorn heard the rhythmic strike of a hammer on an anvil before he saw the blacksmith’s sign hanging from the gables of the workshop. The smithy had an open storefront. Beorn saw apprentices running back and forth, retrieving tools and pumping bellows. The heat of the forge erupted into the street in a league above anything the bakery could have produced. Journeyman smiths were quenching white-hot blades in vats of oil, before pulling them out to inspect for warping.

Beorn rang his bell and reined Godfrey to a stop. A thick-armed blacksmith strolled out of the heart of the smithy, sweat streaming from his forehead. Constant squinting against the furnace’s heat had left his face lined with deep furrows. Soot clung to the coarse layer of hair coating his forearms. In one hand he held a hammer, in the other a near finished shortsword. The tip still glowed a dull orange where the smith had been hammering it into shape. He slid the hammer into a loop of his leather apron and strolled out of his shop, sword in hand.

“Just in time, Beorn. I’ve an order of horseshoes for the lord’s stables and my furnaces are about to run cold.”

“Never fear, Elias. The Lord provideth.”

Elias whistled to two apprentices to come unload the required number of bundles. While they were unloading, the smith counted out the required coppers and handed them to Beorn, who began his own count. Seeking to fill the silence, Elias spoke. “Have you heard about Brexton’s latest visitors?”

Beorn humphed, continuing to count.

“Any plans to attend the demonstration in the square? They’re executing a witch.”

“I saw the outcome of several Inquisitorial executions on my way into town, hanging from the boughs of the message tree. I’ve no taste to see any more corpses today.”

Elias shook his head. “From what I’ve heard, this is different. They’re pulling out all the stops. It’s to be a burning.”

That made Beorn raise his head. He pocketed the coins. Elias had skimmed him several coppers, but he couldn’t bother to haggle. “It’s rare the Inquisitorum bother to burn their heretics, at least this far from the royal court.”

“They want to send a message, I hear. They want the crowd to see what happens to heretics and heathens who turn away from the Gilded Father.”

“And will you be attending this o’ holy of exhibitions?”

Elias surveyed the street. The foot traffic was slow in this quarter of town. The oncoming storm front had now obscured the sun, making it difficult to determine the time of day, but noon was likely nearly upon them. “Day in and day out, I work with fire. I’ve felt its kiss more times than that of my wife. I’ve smelt the stench of burnt hair and seen the skin slough off my inept apprentices more times than I can count.”

Elias paused a moment as a bald-pated friar waddled past the woodman’s cart. He smiled at them both and crossed himself: left shoulder to right hip, right shoulder to left hip. Both brawny men repeated the gesture.

“But the thing I’ve learnt most working with the flame all these years,” Elias resumed when the friar had passed, “is the fear it puts in men. All beasts fear the flame, and man is no different. That’s why the Inquisitorum burn their witches. To strike fear. Not just in those they seek to burn, but in those who gather to watch.” He shook his head. “I’ve no interest in seeing that fear in someone’s eyes.”

By now, the sweating apprentices had piled the purchased firewood against the side of the smithy. Apparently, they had made a game of it, with the taller of the two revelling in his victory.

“Well,” Beorn finally said, “good thing we both have work to keep us busy this day.”

Elias grunted. Looking down, he seemed to remember the sword he had been hammering. The tip had cooled now, leaving the steel a mottled blue. He hefted the blade up and presented it for Beorn’s appraisal, hilt first. Beorn did not take the handle, but inspected the blade with his eyes. He nodded his approval. “A good blade. I can see the distinction between the core and outer steels. Softer steel in the centre to absorb the shock when struck, yet stronger at the sides to keep a keen edge. You leave a deeper fuller than other smiths. To lighten the blade?”

“You know your swords.”

“I recognise good craftsmanship, is all.” How many men will that weapon fell? Beorn lamented. “I must be off, Elias. Other customers to attend.”

Elias nodded. “Lord protect you, Beorn.”

“And you, Elias.”

Continuing his route, Godfrey brought them out of the working quarter and into the residential areas. Beorn unwrapped his prize from the baker and broke his fast on warm bread and strong cheese. Coming to their first stop, Beorn rang his bell and waited for the owner of a small clay-walled house to come out. As the wooden door creaked open, a small, hunched-back old woman appeared. At the sight of her, Beorn openly grinned. Her, he would call a friend.

“Good morrow, Adeline,” Beorn greeted.

“Good morrow to you, Beorn,” the old woman responded. Beorn slid from the cart’s bench as she shuffled down her stoop to stand before him. “Keeping well fed, I see?” She reached up a bony hand to brush crumbs from the greying tip of his beard.

Beorn chuckled. “Demand for firewood is high, especially with autumn ending.” Again, the chilling breeze of the imminent storm blew through him. He saw it bite into the older woman and whip her tattered shawl into a flurry around her narrow frame. “Let me get you your bundles.” Beorn turned and reached into his cart. Adeline was a widow. Her husband had fought honourably in the northern campaigns. He did so for the promise of coin and a more comfortable life for his wife and children. Never mind that he was already well past his prime. Nonetheless, he swung his sword with an unexpected strength and felled many a foe. That didn’t prevent the pagans from slitting his throat while he slept, along with the rest of his company. Adeline never got to bury his bones. ‘Too far out in heathen territory for retrieval,’ the regiment liaison had told her. ‘Untenable.’ But the King gave her his ‘heavy thanks for her contribution to his holy crusade.’ Not that it mattered to Adeline. She had been too old to remarry and without a husband to bring in coin, the family had suffered. Their children followed him into death two winters later. The fool should have stayed home.

Beorn finished stacking four bundles of firewood at her feet. “I can’t afford that many, Beorn. I’m struggling enough with the two I usually buy.”

“A gift for a frequent customer,” Beorn replied.

Tears crept into the corners of the widow’s eyes. “Bless you, Beorn. You do the Lord’s work.” She made the sign of the cross, shoulders to hips. Beorn bit back any quarrel with the statement and nodded his acceptance of her blessing. He turned and reached up to the cart’s bench when a voice cut through the air.

“You! Woodcutter! Halt!”

Beorn peered through the ropy black hair at the corner of his vision. Stomping down the dirty street was a stout man with a sword strapped to his waist. This was no city guard. The armed man wore heavy chain mail under a black surcoat, and a pointed half helm with a noseguard. Blazoned across his chest was a heraldry depicting two silver keys, crossed.

The Holy Seal.

This man was part of the Holy Guard escorting the Inquisitors, come to rid Brexton of its heretics. Guilty or innocent, catching the attention of the Inquisitorum never bode well. Beorn’s hand, still on the bench of his cart, made a slow creep towards the butt of his axe.

“Woodcutter,” the Holy Guard puffed when he finally stood before Beorn. The man’s neck was red and sweaty, as though he had been running. “I received word that you would be in these quarters.”

The tips of Beorn’s fingers now rested on the grain of his axe handle. “And for what purpose,” Beorn retorted in a monotone drawl, “do you seek me out?” He tried to keep any malice from his voice, anything that may provoke the man to anger. A difficult task when, at near seven feet tall, Beorn stood two heads taller than the armed guard. Small men often like to fight large battles.

“By order of his holiness, Inquisitor Constantine Julius Herodotus, I have come to seize your wares to undertake the holy mission of the Inquisitorum.”

Until that moment, Beorn had maintained a blank expression; but at the Guard’s words, it darkened. His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “Seize?”

The Holy Guard swallowed but stayed his ground. “Perhaps… acquisition would be more appropriate.”

Again, Beorn remained silent.

The Holy Guard, unfamiliar with anything short of total obedience and abasement, was growing frustrated. A vein was bulging in his stout neck. “I’m here to purchase your firewood, you imbecilic behemoth! On behalf of the Inquisitorum! Consider this a great honour.”

Beorn took a long time considering, although in truth there was very little to consider. The Inquisitorum were second only, in authority, to the King, and depending on who you asked that was being generous… to the King. Their word was law, interpretations of divine will, and defiance was tantamount to heresy. Despite this, abiding the little man’s request soured Beorn’s soul.

“Unfortunately, I’ve already promised much of this wood to others. I have regular customers who depend on my deliveries to guarantee their livelihood and heat their homes. Without, they will go cold and hungry.” In truth, Beorn cared little for this detail. A man didn’t choose to make his home miles from the comforts of civilisation and humankind’s hospitality because he cared for his fellow man. “Johan, the lord’s woodcutter for the western forests, should be among the fishing quart–”

“Johan is dead.” The small guard snorted deep and spat a phlegmy wad into the dirt. “Hanged by order of the Inquisitorum. He spoke ill of his liege lord and the quality of the woods granted to him to make his livelihood. To speak ill of the local lord is to speak ill of the King who granted him this fief. And to speak ill of the King is to speak ill of the God who ordained his ascension. And to speak ill of our Lord God is heresy.” The Holy Guard stared icy daggers up at Beorn through long and unruly eyebrows.

Beorn had known Johan, if only as a colleague. A fellow woodsman for the local lord, granted the woods opposite the River Brex to maintain, permitted to sell the timber of any tree that needed felling. They had crossed paths occasionally in town but usually sold their wares in opposing quarters to not interfere with each other’s business. He had liked to whittle. From what Beorn could remember, he’d had a family; a wife and two sons. And in the eyes of the Inquisitorum, the sins of the father…

More’s the pity.

Beorn let out a defeated sigh, and let his fingers slide from the haft of his axe. There was no fighting the whims of the Inquisitorum. “How much?” he grunted.

“The lot.”

“My other customers…”

“Can go cold and hungry for all I care. The needs of the Inquisitorum go before all else!”

Beorn stared coldly down at the small man before reaching up to grab Godfrey’s reins to comply.

“And those as well!” The Holy Guardsman pointed a stumpy finger at the four bundles of wood piled next to Adeline’s feet.

“Those are paid and bought…”

“Enough of this!” The guard had apparently reached the end of his generosity. “Bring your wares, including those bundles, with me now or I will impound your horse and cart for my purposes and have you thrown in the city gaol.” His right hand gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white with rage. “I speak with the voice of the Inquisitorum. The Inquisitorum speaks with the voice of God! And to defy the voice of God–!”

“Is heresy,” Beorn finished through gritted teeth. Beorn picked up the pile of firewood from Adeline’s feet without making eye contact with the old woman and threw them into the back of his cart. She did not argue, despite the cold that would creep into her bones tonight. She did not protest, despite the hunger that would twist her stomach, her gums unable to make do with dried hardtack. She did not beg, despite the rats that would come crawling in without the protective light of the hearth. For Adeline had lived longer than most, in no minor fact because of her knowledge that when the Church ‘asked’, you obliged. A moment later, Beorn was leading Godfrey down the cobbled street at the heels of the satisfied guard.

They made their way along the wynds and alleys. As they passed, the masses of people became thicker and more fevered. It took Beorn a moment to realise they had joined a current of bodies, all moving in the same direction. He realised a moment later, to his dread; it was towards the town square.

‘There’s to be some execution in the town square at noon.’ Hollock’s words rose from the waters of Beorn’s mind.

‘It’s to be a burning,’ Elias’s words followed.

In his blatant disdain for the Holy Guard, Beorn hadn’t even bothered to wonder what the Inquisitorum required with a cartload of firewood at a moment’s notice. They needed wood for their pyre. The town square fell in Johan’s agreed-upon area of sale.

Suppose they didn’t think of that when they strung him up, Beorn thought with dark humour. No wonder the Holy Guardsman had looked so dishevelled upon finding Beorn. The Inquisitors had promised a show to the peasant folk, and a guaranteed way to stoke mass insurrection was to deny the people their entertainment. Beorn knew these spectacles served other purposes though.

Even so, why a burning? he pondered as the crowd encased them.

“Make way! Make way! I’ll crack your skulls if I have to!” the stout guard shouted. The throng of peasants reeking of soiled garments, unwashed bodies, and cabbages parted for the two men and the giant draught horse. In the gap of bodies, Beorn sighted the stake. A thick trunk fixed atop a wooden platform. All were fresh pine, the wood light and aromatic. Felled, planed, and constructed for the sole purpose of being reduced to ash. Around the platform stood a troop of Holy Guards, all dressed identically to Beorn’s guide. The silver keys on their surcoats looked dull grey in the shadows of the massing clouds. Each man wore mail, with a sword sheathed at his waist. “Here will do,” the short guard grunted when they were near to the stage.

Stage, thought Beorn. For that’s what this is. It is theatre.

The guard gestured for two of his comrades to unload the cart. They unbundled the firewood and stacked it in orderly columns under the stage, allowing spaces for airflow. Some of these gaps they stuffed with dry hay. They were proficient at their task, obviously having done it before.

How many times? wondered Beorn.

When they were done, the short guard reached into his surcoat and withdrew a leather pouch heavy with coins. He threw this at Beorn’s chest, his hand rising quickly to catch it. Beorn pulled the drawstring and caught sight of the dull glint of gold.

“That should more than cover the cost of your wares. Now begone with you,” the short man chided and turned his attention away, as though Beorn no longer existed. Beorn made no complaint and began leading Godfrey away, the cart in tow. He didn’t get far, for the crowd had reached an impassible density. People stood shoulder to shoulder, packed tight like lumber for transport. Without the authoritative bark of the Holy Guard, the people had no interest in parting for some lowly woodcutter and risk losing a prime view of the execution. Beorn sighed and ceased his efforts. Instead, he patted Godfrey on the nose before leaning against one of the cart’s wheels, folding his arms and turning his gaze towards the stage.

The Holy Guards had resumed their perimeter, now turned to face the crowd, eyes scanning for any potential issue. It wasn’t long before murmurs rippled through the crowd, signifying something was occurring. A moment later, three figures appeared upon the stage. On the left, another Holy Guard, indistinguishable from his brothers. Next stood a hooded figure wearing a dress of stained roughspun material. Their hands were bound before them with thick hemp ropes, the skin around them red and raw. The legs that were visible below the shift were black with grime. Beorn could not see from this distance, but he wondered if the gaol’s rats had riddled those legs with bite marks. And last, on the far right, stood the Inquisitor.

He towered above the other two and was thin as a reed. His priestly robes were dyed black, the blackest cloth Beorn had ever seen, save for the white square of his clerical collar at his neck. Atop his head sat a broad-brimmed hat, as black as his cassock and wider than his shoulders. He raised his head towards the crowd and from underneath his hat was a countenance of skeletal complexion. His skin was pulled taut around his features. He turned his neck and Beorn swore he could see the imprint of the Inquisitor’s grinning skull under his gaunt cheeks. Even at this distance, Beorn could see his eyes were black pits, deep enough to drown the man who was unfortunate enough to catch his gaze.

The reaper has come to Brexton, thought Beorn, and he brings death in his wake.

The Inquisitor raised two long bony arms, hidden beneath the sleeves of his black cassock. Instantly, the furtive crowd fell silent. The Inquisitor opened his mouth and spoke; “I am the Inquisitor, Constantine Julius Herodotus. His High Holiness, Innocent the Tenth, and King Aethelstan the Third have ordered me to attend this wretched hole of sin and depravity and deliver you all from the vile wickedness that has infested your ranks.”

His voice carried power and authority, stemming from the surety from which he spoke. He knew his voice’s power, and he imbued his words with it. The articulation, the roll of his R’s, the superiority in his tone. It cut through the peasant folk like a scythe, telling them this man was of a different world. He sat at the table of kings, sampled wine from the casks of his High Holinesses’ personal cellar, and could deliver death with the point of a finger.

“The cells of your gaol,” he continued, “teem with filth of the lowest form: whoremongers, blasphemers, cheats, and heretics.” He spat the word. “We of the Inquisitorum have commenced our judgements. Many repent and walk the path of penitence and flagellation. Their backs run red with their sins, but their souls are now pure. Those deemed beyond the saving Grace of our Lord have had their souls delivered unto the River of Penance and begin their long pilgrimage upriver, into the Light of God.” Beorn pictured the women hanging from the message tree.

The Inquisitor paused, either to let his words sink in or to catch his breath. Regardless, he did not hurry. The world spun around this man, and he knew it.

“But there are some for whom redemption is impossible. There are those who have turned their backs to our Lord and accepted the cold, dark embrace of the Adversary!” A choir of gasps from the crowd and the quick movements of the four pointed cross being enacted. Inquisitor Constantine took a deep breath through his thin nostril before bellowing, “Witches!”

The crowd erupted in anger; curses and obscenities shouted out. The frail figure between Inquisitor Constantine and the Holy Guard flinched at the cacophony, blind behind the rough hessian hood. “This treacherous whore is accused of cavorting with the Adversary, giving herself to him body and soul, and spreading her dark magics amongst us!” The crowd was in a frenzy now; the Inquisitor had stoked their fears and anxieties and they were ready for blood. “But above all else, her greatest sin… the murder of the innocent; of the unborn!” Women in the crowd broke into a sob, men began flinging rotten vegetables at the hooded prisoner.

Inquisitor Constantine raised his hands again, and slowly the crowd fell under his spell and quietened, their boiling blood barely contained. “Her guilt in these matters is certain. Our investigations have proven it.” A feigned look of remorse fell across his face, but the phantom grin of his skull remained. “Undoubtedly, she must be punished. But punishment does not take primary place in today’s proceedings, for punishment ought to be for the correction and good of he who hath sinned. Today is for the good of you, the public, in order that others may become terrified and weaned away from the evils they would commit. And with this in mind, I have sentenced this heretic to death… by fire!”

At this, the Holy Guard at her side ripped away the hessian hood, revealing the young witch to the crowd. At the same instant, she heard the Inquisitor’s words and saw the platform, the stake, and the cheering crowd awaiting her death. A veil of bright red curls fell around her head as the sack was torn away. Deep purple bruises ringed her eyes, but within them were green pools full of terror. The eyes of a cornered rabbit, with a wolf at the mouth of its warren. She was young, maybe fifteen summers, and frail.

Beorn stared at her, shocked.

She looks just like…

The girl had obviously not been aware of her fate. Death, she obviously would have known, awaited her at the end of her walk from the gaol, but not upon the pyre. Her frail chest heaved, and she sucked in air, frantically looking around her as if searching for escape. The Holy Guard at her left went to guide her towards the stake. Her wrists had been tied before her rather than behind. An oversight by her gaolers, or perhaps her frail figure and short stature, had prompted no cause for concern. A mistake. The girl swung her clasped hands into the stomach of the guard; an inconsequential blow considering her size and the mail he wore, but enough to drive some air out of his lungs and give her time to wrap her twig-like fingers around the hilt of his sword. With a long step, she had drawn the blade from its scabbard and stood with its tip pointed at her captors’ faces.

The crowd froze. Beorn had not removed his eyes from the girl’s face since the Guardsman had torn away the sack. The Inquisitor and guard stood as statues before the shining blade before them. Even in the hands of the inexperienced, two-and-a-half feet of razor-sharp steel would put a fear into a man.

But the girl had never held a sword, and it showed. Her arms quivered with the weight of the blade, and try as she did with all her strength, knowing her very life depended on it, she could not keep the tip of the blade level with her enemies. The Inquisitor let out a chilling laugh which was soon joined by the crowd and the Holy Guards. The stout guard who had chaperoned Beorn drew his sword and handed it to his comrade atop the stage.

“Cut her to ribbons, Devon!” he shouted.

The Inquisitor’s face became suddenly stony and joyless. “She is a witch, a child-killer. She dies by the fire.”

The guard beside him nodded and advanced upon the little witch with his borrowed sword. The girl frantically swung at the advancing man. He barely had to move to avoid the blow. She had no clue how long the blade was and missed by a mile, the weight of the weapon carrying her in a semi-circle. The crowd erupted in laughter. What had once been an execution was turning into a mummer’s farce. Well, entertainment was entertainment. Only the Inquisitor’s eyes maintained their desire to see the girl burn. The advancing guard made a tentative jab with his blade, the girl swinging hers in response. He braced, and the girl’s sword bounced off his with a clang, her arms vibrating from the clash. She swung once, twice, cutting nothing but air. She was exhausted. Tears and sweat ran down her face, leaving lines in the grime. Her skin underneath was so pale.

The guard seemed to take pity on her. “Listen girlie, just drop the blade. I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t make this harder than it need–” The guard had been reaching out a gloved hand towards the girl, as though approaching a wounded dog. With speed and strength Beorn had thought beyond her, the girl yanked her blade from where it rested with its tip on the platform’s planks and brought it in a silver arc up over her head. As the guard leaned in, arm extended, the tip of the blade caught his cheek, leaving a bright red gash. The wound wasn’t deep, but he’d never be pretty again, if ever he was.

“You little cunt!” Spittle accompanied the curse. Pure, unbridled anger replaced his previous attempts at comfort. With a single powerful backhand, he swung his sword at the girl. She raised her blade to intercept, but her strength had failed. The guard’s sword collided with hers and sent it spiralling into the air. It spun in a silver arc, over and over and over, before falling to earth and embedding in the ground before Beorn’s boots.

The crowd had followed the arc of the sword and now stared at Beorn.

Beorn stared at the sword.

His reflection in the blade stared back.

Beorn heard the stomp of the stout guard’s boots upon the cobbles as he made his way across the square to where the sword stood fixed into the ground. The crowd was silent as they watched the events play out, an intermission to their scheduled entertainment. Beorn saw the guard’s black boots appear on the other side of the blade, but his eyes remained locked on the glistening steel. His own dark eyes stared back at him.

Pick it up.

A voice that wasn’t his echoed the words from the back of his skull. The fingers of his right hand curled and uncurled, as though imagining the feel of the leather grip. The fuller was not so thick as the blade Elias had shown him, but the blade looked sharp. It would rend through flesh with ease.

The guard noticed his fingers and followed his gaze to the blade. A thin smile creased his face. Amusement danced behind his beetle eyes. He leaned over the sword’s hilt and came into Beorn’s line of sight. “Go on, big man. Take it. Make a grab for the sword. Play the hero I know you want to, like you tried to for that old bitch back there.”

Pick it up.

The voice was louder. Stern. An order.

“Reach for it,” the guard hissed through his yellow teeth. The smile was almost a snarl. “You’ll never touch it. Make a grab and I’ll have it at your throat before you can blink. I’m a killer. I’ve killed more dumb bastards than I can remember, but never one as big or as dumb as you. Go on. Do it. Then I can take my gold back from your giant, lifeless corpse.”

Pick. It. Up.

The voice was unrelenting. It clawed at the back of his skull. His fingers were numb from flexing open, closed, open, closed.

Save her, Beorn. A different voice. His eyes darted from the sword to the girl on the stage. She stared back at him, her eyes wide, pleading, begging for him to do something. Her lips mouthed the word repeatedly: please.

The guard saw where his gaze landed. “Go on, big man, save the girl. I’ll cut you down before you can move an inch.”

Pick it up!

Save her, Beorn.

“C’mon! Do it!”

The girl’s eyes pleaded. Fresh tears welled from her already bloodshot eyes. The wind snatched hungrily at her hair. Please.

Beorn closed his eyes. The world went black. The voices stopped.

“No? More’s the pity.” The guard pulled the sword from the ground and sheathed it at his waist, turning back to the stage. “Stupid fucking peasant. Too dumb to even rise to the bait–”

The blade of Beorn’s axe stoppered the word in his throat. He pulled it free of the Guardsman’s neck and crimson blood sprayed into the air, across the cobbles and the closest of the shocked onlookers. Chaos erupted. The spell that had held the crowd silent broke and screams echoed across the square. People began darting into the streets and alleys, fleeing the scene. Holy Guards ran forth from the stage, steel leaping into their hands. With a deafening crack, the heavens opened, and rain pummelled the earth. The closest guard reached Beorn with his sword raised high above his head. Stupid. Beorn’s heavy axe head darted forward like a striking serpent, breaking the guard’s nose before his sword could fall. He staggered back, stunned. A second later, the axe bit into his cheek, cleaving his head apart. His body was still falling when the next guard was upon them. He favoured a leftward swing across the body, which Beorn intercepted with a swing of his own. The axe was heavier and sent the guard’s sword bouncing back. Beorn charged into the gap with a burly shoulder and knocked him to the ground. He lay there, stunned, as the axe came down hard between his eyes. Blood spattered Beorn’s face.

The fourth guard had been hot on the heels of his comrades, but their quick dismissals from the mortal plane had installed a healthy level of trepidation. He pulled up just outside Beorn’s reach and began circling to his right. Beorn countered by circling left. The haft of the axe was slick and sticky between his fingers. He saw the guard from atop the stage jump down and begin skulking towards him. His present foe continued to circle. A few more steps and Beorn would have one in front and behind. Not good. Fortunately for him, the guard in front wasn’t planning that far ahead. Beorn feigned a look over his shoulder at the foe from behind, and the one in front lunged forward with a thrust. A mistake. Beorn spun in the direction he had turned, twisting away from the sword thrust. The guard stood off balance, leaning forward, his belly outstretched. Beorn’s momentum carried him in a full circle, and he used this motion to drive his axe into the guard’s exposed gut. The blade bit through surcoat and chain mail and embedded in his flesh. He dropped his sword as Beorn ripped his axe free. Blood and meat from the guard’s insides immediately filled the space the axe had occupied a second before. He fell to his knees, trying to hold himself together, but his viscera continued to bleed through his fingers. He rolled onto the ground, moaning in pain as his blood spread to mingle with that of his companions.

Beorn turned to the last guard; a giant bear of a man staring down at its prey, covered in the lifeblood of four men-at-arms. The guard stared up into Beorn’s dark eyes. The slash inflicted by the waif was still bleeding down the guard’s cheek, but he could no longer feel it throb. Warm piss spread across his breeches. His fingers could no longer keep a grip on his sword, and it clattered to the muddied ground. He spun and fled, sprinting towards the nearest alley.

Beorn let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The Church would kill the guard for fleeing. But Beorn was grateful that it wouldn’t be his hand that dealt the blow. He cast his gaze across the square. Four lives, snuffed out in a matter of minutes. He did not grieve their deaths, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at his stained hands. Instead, he looked up at the girl. The Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen. The square was now empty but for the girl and Beorn. The rabbit and the bear. The witch and the woodcutter.

The rain had plastered the girl’s hair against her face. The guards’ blood had done the same to Beorn. Both were crimson red.

---

• Preface from book

  “Dearest reader,

  Thank you for taking the time to open my book. Hopefully you will stick around a while longer and get a taste of the tale I have spun within these pages. Before you do, be forewarned – some readers may find the content within disturbing. This includes references to sexual violence, violence against women and children, as well as religious and cultural violence. For that reason, perhaps a little background is needed.

  I am an avid fantasy reader – it is without a doubt my favourite literary genre. And while I enjoy even the darker sides of the genre, those labelled grimdark and such, there are some traits and tropes that frustrate me. Too often when I read fantasy, I am confronted with the gratuitous and unnecessary use of violence (often sexual violence) against women, used as what I consider mere ‘set dressing’. It is as though an author will sit down before their proverbial typewriter and think to themselves, “I need to make my reader feel immersed in this fantasy world. It will need dragons, yes… swords, of course… oh, and rape!” Of these things, one is imaginary, one is an antique and the other continues to exist in our present day (in numbers far higher than most would think imaginable). Why, therefore, is this treatment of women so needed to weave the tapestry of a medieval-coded fictitious world? That is not to say just

  because something is unsavoury it cannot be written about. On the contrary, there are things so detestable that happen every day, yet much of the population goes about their lives in blissful ignorance (until they too are robbed of that bliss).

  That brings me to the second point from which this story was born. When I’m not writing or reading, I work in a field (my ‘real job’ if you will) dedicated to intimate-partner homicides. In this job I write slightly different stories; the stories of real women who were treated detestably by men who they thought they were safest with. Stories that I will never be able to repeat to my partner or my family; stories that I will carry until the day I die. And the quantity. Quantity unimaginable to the average person. While undertaking several particularly gruesome reviews involving arson femicides, I was confronted by the statistic that more women in my home state had been burnt alive in recent years than during the entirety of the Salem Witch Trials (the number of the latter being, despite popular belief, zero). And thus, the inspiration for this story was born. Even as I was writing this novel, another woman was set alight, but thankfully escaped with her life.

  To tell this story, I had to break my own rule. This is a story, first and foremost, about the violence women endure. Not in medieval times. Not in a fantasy world. But now, today. As Margaret Atwood said about the inspiration for her novel, The Handmaid’s Tale: “Nothing went into it that had not happened in real life somewhere at some time. The reason I made that rule is that I didn’t want anybody saying, ‘You certainly have an evil imagination, you made up all these bad things.’ I didn’t make them up.”

  So that is what I would like to leave you with as you embark on the journey I have crafted for you. Many of you, especially the women, will not need such a stark reminder that such atrocities exist. But hopefully, for some, this story may act as a conversation starter, an eye opener. Because none of the atrocities that occur in this story are fictitious. All of them have happened at some point in history. Many of them continue to happen today.

  I didn’t make them up.”

• Lesson from Chapter: Show don't tell in worldbuilding

  We learn how dangerous the Inquisitorum is by watching ordinary townspeople react to them. The baker sees an execution as a business opportunity to sell more bread. The blacksmith respects the physical properties of fire but fears its psychological use. An old widow quietly surrenders her lifesaver (the firewood) because she knows that when the Church asks, you obey or suffer.

  The Lesson: Don't explain your world's politics in a lecture. Show how those politics affect the price of bread, the fear in a neighbor's eyes, and the daily choices your characters are forced to make.

• Lesson from Chapter: How to Use an 'inciting incident'

  New writers often feel rushed to start a story with an immediate explosion or a sword fight on page one. This chapter uses a deliberate, slow burn that makes the final outburst of violence incredibly satisfying. The first half of the chapter establishes Beorn’s normal routine: his waking habits, his chores, his horse, and his regular trade route. Because the narrative spends time building his desire to remain isolated and "not get involved," the tension ratchets up the moment that routine is disrupted. When he finally snaps, the violence feels earned and shocking, rather than cheap.

  The Lesson: Give your audience a baseline of normalcy. The heavier the weight of the character's everyday life, the more impactful it feels when the world finally shatters it.

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