Inquisitor and Witch - Chapter 3

 

The Funeral of a Viking (1893) by Frank Bernard Dicksee

    We stepped inside the doctor's cozy practice. There was someone inside, gloved up, wiping down the chairs with an alcohol-soaked rag.

    Dr. Whitlow turned to us. "Had someone in here, had an awful cough. We're just being careful."

    I nodded and took a look at a plaque on the wall. Outstanding service? Ah, during the siege on Norta. Did that make Dr. Whitlow a Nortan refugee?

"Doctor, I don't mean to pry, but are you from Norta?" He neglected to give a response. "I see. I won't press you further."

"Thank you, Inquisitor."

    His assistant stood up. They were evidently done cleaning, and… good gods! How tall was this person? She stood a little higher than me, and I was almost six feet.

    They lowered their cloth mask and I saw their face for the first time. It was sharp, and… what was wrong with their ears? They were long, and ended in a point.

    The witch spoke up. "What happened to your ears?"

    Dr. Whitlow stepped in. "This is Hannah, she…"

"Doctor, let me tell them." Dr. Whitlow stepped aside. "I was tortured."

"By whom?" I asked.

"The royal knights."

    Some of us in the organization may defend the royal knights. I didn't. I'd seen it all.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "The amount of abuse I've seen… it's why I'm here."

"You didn't do it." I nodded. "That said, if you've committed acts that would garner scorn, then that's something you will have to live with."

"I hardly do any policing of my own. I merely inquire. I gather evidence, and point authorities in the right direction. I'm nearly a pacifist these days."

"These days?" She asked.

"The war."

"I see." She raised her shirt just a little, and turned her back towards us. There was a vertical scar running down the left side of her spine. "They tried to cut it out," she said. When she turned back, she looked heated.

    Meanwhile, the doctor was rummaging through his desk. "Ah, where the hell is it…"

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"It's… someone's records..."

    Outside, I heard someone scream. I went over to the door and pulled it open. Everyone was looking up toward the castle. My eyes followed.

"Someone just fell off the battlement!"

    I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to make my way up the hill. Before I could make it more than fifteen feet, an explosion went off at the base of the castle. Part of the wall imploded, stone grinding as it collapsed.

    I was in shock. I didn't even notice the crowd fleeing until someone grabbed my wrist. I turned to them as someone grabbed my other. It was Hannah, and the witch.

"Back up with a large disk! Hell's a melter!" Hannah yelled. At least, that's what I thought she'd yelled. I followed them back into Dr. Whitlow's practice. He swung the door shut the moment we were in, and locked not one, not two, but three, heavy locks.

    I was still a little dazed. I wasn't even sure if anything I'd seen was real. "What?"

"...what?" The witch asked.

    I pointed to Hannah. "What about a disk?"

    She had no idea what I was talking about, until the witch realized. "Out there, what did you say?"

"I said 'back into the practice, there's a shelter."

"There's a shelter?"

    Dr. Whitlow quickly pulled the curtains shut on the windows, and pulled back the rug, underneath was a trap door.

"The three of you, get down there."

"You aren't coming down?"

"I have to pull back the rug. Please, don't come out until I give you some signal."

    It was dark, real dark. I felt around for a wall when the room lit up. Hannah had lit a lantern.

"Thanks," I said.

"I need to talk to you about something." Hannah pulled out a paper folder. "I took this from the doctor. I didn't want him getting involved." She pulled out three photos. "These three."

    I looked at them. "I don't recognize them. Hold on…"

"What is it?"

"Her." I pointed to a photo of a woman. "That's the sheriff's receptionist."

"That's right. Her name is Natalie, formerly known as 'Mad Lass Nat'. She's the former leader of the Nortan Militia, the group that formed after the siege. Her crimes number in the dozens, many assaults, a few murders. Most of her cohorts were either killed during, or executed after the riots."

"Who the hell are you?"

    Hannah smiled. "Can you keep a secret?"

"I can, but are you willing to take that risk?"

"It wouldn't be the greatest I've ever taken." She rolled up her left sleeve. There was a tattoo of an ax on her forearm. "Former Yagarian intelligence."

"You're joking."

"No. And also, former Rahstoran intelligence. I was recruited after the war."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Making up for past sins. I want to bring peace to the Nortan refugees in this city. And to do that, I have to go through these three."

"Fuck. This." The witch pointed to me, and then pointed to Hannah. "I'm leaving. I want nothing to do with this."

"You aren't leaving." Hannah said.

"Oh?"

    Hannah produced a previously unseen blade from her sleeve.

"You aren't."

    The witch conjured another fireball that rotated in her palms. It lit up the basement room even brighter.

    There was stomping upstairs, and the sound of wood cracking. Someone had just invaded the practice.

"There! There's light coming from under the floor!" Someone shouted.

"Nice going," Hannah said, dagger still in hand.

"Grab those files," the witch said.

    Hannah grabbed them, but didn't take her eyes off of the witch.

    An ax broke through the floorboards above us. The witch started saying something under her breath, something lengthy. There was a flash, and everything went dark.

    I was then hit with a sensation like I was careening forward.

    After what felt like I crashed through a wall, an opulent room materialized around me. Expensive, gaudy sofas and chairs, a four-poster bed, crimson, gilded curtains. At the end of the room was the opening to a garden. I stood, amazed, before I walked outside.

"Welcome," said the witch, relaxing on a bench by the pond.

"Where the hell are we?" I asked.

"My home. Well…" she paused. "A severely compacted space inside my home."

"Ah, this is a conjured space."

"You must be familiar, then."

"If you're familiar…" Hannah joined us outside. "Then you know how addictive conjured spaces are."

"What do you mean?" I asked. I looked over at the witch, who had obviously heard it all before.

"Every minute in here is a second out there." She pointed an accusatory finger at the witch. "What else do you use this for? Do you sleep here too? Are you aging eight hours in eight minutes every night?"

"No, I don't. I don't sleep here, I don't live here. I come here when I need a break. Which isn't often." She stood up. "And no one else has ever been in here besides me until now." The witch jabbed a finger at Hannah.

    Hannah grabbed her wrist with her left hand. "Don't touch me."

    I don't know what Hannah was going for. A punch? A slap maybe? But the witch stopped it with her right hand. Their arms were crossed, locked in an eternal stalemate.

    To be honest, I was amused.

"Okay, enough. I want to go over those last two photos."

    The witch, with a scowl on her face, released her grip on Hannah's wrist. "Come on, out the doors. There's something else."

"Where does that lead?"

"Just follow me."

    She pushed open the double doors, and on the other side was a jarring contrast of a mildly busy pub.

"Welco…" the dark-haired barkeep looked up. "Camilla, I see you brought friends."

"I did. We're going to take a seat in the corner, if you don't mind."

"Sure, sure."

    Once we were at the table, I turned to Hannah. "Let's finish the briefing."