Rewrite That Witch
CH673 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 673: A Sacrifice

Would church soldiers save a witch?

Yorko had forgotten about the bacon entirely. He sat with it cooling on his plate, his whole attention on Annie’s voice as she continued.

“They helped Hero out of the cell. With their help she evaded every search party the church sent through the city. After the war ended, the surviving Judgement Warriors sheltered her — provided food and clothing for a time, until their army recalled them to Hermes. Before they marched out, every man who had been imprisoned in that cell came to her and expressed his gratitude.”

Yorko turned something over in his mind. “But the name — ‘Hero.’ Could it be that—”

“She is a hero.” There was a whip crack in Annie’s voice. “However those people who received her treatment choose to see her, she saved thousands of lives in Wolfheart City. Including mine. Including Amy’s. She deserved that name.”

The ambassador let out a slow breath. He had known, in the abstract, that witches suffered. He had not understood, until now, what that word actually contained. Had he been dealt the same hand — betrayed by the people whose lives he’d spent himself to save — he would have sealed himself against the world entirely and answered every offer of help with violence. He would not trust a soul.

Yorko’s resentment at being treated with suspicion quietly dissolved.

“Her legs,” he said, “can probably be healed.”

The camp went very still.

“Really?” Amy asked. “Are you certain?”

All eyes found him at once — Hero’s among them. She was eighteen, maybe nineteen, with a face that misfortune had pressed hard without quite breaking. Her eyes were still lit from inside. Not numb. Not bewildered. Full of something fragile and stubbornly alive that he recognized, in his better moments, as hope.

“Ahem. I can’t be certain.” Yorko rubbed the side of his nose. “But Hill once told me there are over three hundred witches in Graycastle. Their abilities vary enormously. Perhaps one of them can regenerate lost limbs — or even grow new ones.”

“Three hundred?” No. 76 stared. “How did the King of Graycastle gather so many?”

“It’s a long story.” He seized the opening gladly and launched into a portrait of Roland — the man who had seen through the church’s game before anyone else, who had declared witches innocent in his own domain, who had spread that declaration across the kingdom until witches came to him for protection. “You don’t need to fear your future there,” he finished. “His Majesty insists that every citizen of Neverwinter will find work suited to them. Witches included.”

“What kind of work?” Amy’s eyes were bright.

“That depends on your ability.” Yorko improvised freely. “If you can control fire, you might work with the blacksmiths. If you can conjure wind, perhaps a mill. And even if your ability doesn’t translate to any particular trade, there’s always ordinary work. His Majesty is building a new king’s city in the Western Region — he needs people.”

“It does sound good,” Annie said. Amy was practically luminous, already imagining it, and Annie’s mouth compressed slightly at the sight. “But lies always sound better than the truth. What I—”

“I know.” Yorko spread his hands. “You haven’t decided to trust me yet. That’s fine. Trust your own eyes when you get there.”

No. 76 leaned forward. “How did you first meet Hero?”

“When Wolfheart City fell, I happened to be staying at Amy’s.” Annie stirred the embers with a stick, watching the coals breathe. “I noticed the Judgement Army soldiers behaving strangely and followed them. That’s how I found Hero.” She paused. “We met Broken Sword several months later. The church had her in custody, bound for Holy City with an escort. I ambushed the unit and got her out.”

“Alone?”

“When I’m fully prepared, raiding a group of soldiers isn’t much harder than bringing down a pack of animals,” Annie said, placidly. “After that ambush, though, the church intensified their searches by several times. We had nowhere to hide, so we joined the refugee columns heading south. We walked until we reached Glow, and settled in the orphanage.”

“What a journey.” No. 76 said it quietly, with real weight.

And it isn’t over yet, Yorko thought. The church’s hunt had been ferocious, but Appen Moya commanded an army, and they were still inside his kingdom’s borders. Hill’s fears might be groundless — or they might be accurate. As long as they remained on Dawn’s soil, they were not safe.

He shook the thought loose. “Let’s finish eating and sleep. We have a long road ahead tomorrow.”

Surprisingly, the next several days brought no obstacles.

The magician planned their route through the countryside, avoiding every city. Five days later they reached Wind Ridge, and another day south would put them across into Graycastle’s northern border.

Yorko allowed himself to breathe.

He had never been suited to sustained vigilance. Even small sounds in the night woke him, left his heart hammering at nothing. No. 76 showed no such weakness — she moved through each day steady and attentive, and had somehow, in five days of travel, managed to become entirely part of the group. She was especially close to Amy, who had more or less adopted her as a fourth sister.

Yorko leaned back against his cushion and watched the mountains and yellow fields scroll past the window. Without intending to, he found himself humming.

He had failed his post as ambassador. But he was bringing Roland four witches. If Hill was right about their worth, the reward might be considerable. He was still pleasantly occupied with this calculation when the magician cantered up from the rear of the fleet.

“Sir — we may have trouble. We’re being followed.”

Yorko’s head went out the window before he’d made any conscious decision to move it. The road behind them lay empty.

“Seven or eight miles back,” the magician said, keeping pace at a trot. “Out of sight from here. Twenty to thirty riders, fully armored, no remounts. They’re not moving fast, but we’re slower. They’ll close the gap eventually.”

“Are you certain they’re after us?”

“No. But I won’t take that chance. There’s a wood nearby — horses can’t move through it, which will slow them to our pace. If we go on foot.” He paused. “But that only matches their speed to ours. To actually lose them, someone has to take the wagons forward and draw them to the main road.”

The word sacrifice didn’t need to be said. It was already in the air.

Discussion

Suggest a change