06: Witch Hunter

I wouldn't describe myself as a particularly charismatic public speaker, but I had no fear of the task, and Witch Hunters have a reputation more in common with the sinister than the flamboyant. There were some magical tricks one could use to boost your voice, but I had no access to these, and again it would not be in common with the role I was assuming. Instead I simply stepped forward and cast the die.

"I am a Witch Hunter, you will leave this matter to me."

It was quite a bold gamble to give a command from the very first, but one has to act with conviction and an almost reckless confidence when speaking to such a group. They were taken aback and fell silent, except for the victim cum narrator who looked at me with doubt.

"Ain't never seen nor heard of you before. One of Akobians ilk huh? With the Inquisition?"

"If you need to ask, then you don't need to know. Even mentioning those names in public speaks volumes of your ignorance."

I had replied with a cold arrogance that seemed to quiet even her for the time being, but there was some truth in what I said. Only a fool would name the Inquisition lightly, not to speak of the menacing High Inquisitor himself, Lord Akobian. The leagues between Cyrodiil and Morrowind were insufficient to prevent the spread of his malignant reputation, and a shiver ran through the group.

"Lead me to within sight of Rilos Bael's house."

The group complied, shuffling like a reluctant herd from the village until some few moments later we sighted a wooden hut in the distance atop a shallow hill. I gestured for them to leave me and was gratified to see all follow my command, muttering amongst themselves and occasionally making protective gestures. Soon I was alone.

So far so good, but now would come the difficult part. I had felt that the covering role of Witch Hunter would suit me well due to their free agency, giving an explanation and excuse for the carrying of specialised forms of equipment such as poisons, and the generally sinister reputation that would leave many reluctant to questions me. This, not to mention that my deadness to magic seemed ideal for such a role. But the fact remained that a Witch, a magic user turned against their community, was a powerful adversary not to be underestimated. Especially one capable of necromancy, though it seemed that until recently Bael had not been so hated by her neighbours. The proximity of her house to the village indicated at least that much.

The front door was open, but otherwise there were no signs of activity in or around the house. I circled to the rear before beginning to climb, moving as quietly and discreetly as possible. This would be the first proper test of my apparent immunity to magical detection. I again ran through the story the mob had been only too happy to lap up. The woman had claimed to have come to the house to console Bael in her distress. Distress about what exactly? Why had her husband been dead and fit for raising in the first place? And why had the curse cast upon our teller of tales left her unmarked and in apparent good health? All important questions, but the crucial information from the story was simply this. One target, the Witch. One known guard, the Zombie husband.

Reaching the rear of the house I crouched, listening. Slow shuffling footsteps within, and the sound of a woman sobbing quietly. Raising myself carefully I peered in through a glass window. The house was just one large room consisting of a bed, table and chairs, and a kitchen area with an open fireplace. All very modestly furnished. There were however a great number of bottles and containers, of the type used to store plant samples and other alchemical reagents. This point interested me a great deal, but first I would have to deal with the occupants.

I could see the woman sat on one of the two chairs, but her hands framed her face and I could not see her expression. It looked like I could have a clear bow shot from the front door if I so chose. As for the so called zombie, I could see the shape of a man shuffling in repeat circle of the room, twitching occasionally. An Imperial by the looks of things. Interesting and surprising, Imperials had not been welcome guests to the Dunmer of Vvardenfell for many years. He appeared to pay no special heed to anything in particular.

Suffer not the undead to exist in this world!

I had never heard Sepia cry out in anger before now, and a shout from within one's own mind is unpleasant to say the least. Was she trying to startle me into being seen? I struggled to maintain my composure and push away the sudden distraction.

A plan was called for, and I gave it some thought. Typically in these situations the undead was a servant bound to the command of their master. If the man had been raised by the Witch then he would only attack me if directly ordered to do so by her, or if he had been told to kill all intruders. Either way he would be much less dangerous with her out of the picture, and she was the main threat. I couldn't assume that her 'curse' would be benign if it landed upon me. Sneak around the the front door, wait until the zombie was out of sight, one shot the Witch, proceed. Simple but to the point. The only finesse that required further thought was the choice of poison for the arrow that I would lodge into her throat. I had brought a few types with me, basic poisons that attacked the target directly, in addition to several others with properties such as brief paralysation or, as I chose here, one with an ability to silence the target for several seconds. Enough time for a second shot if needed, without them being able to summon magical aid.

Crouching again, I slowly made my way around the building, staying below the windows and mentally rehearsing the plan. If all went well it should be almost trivial. Though I had some doubts about this 'Witch', I still needed to be careful not to underestimate her. Reaching the doorway I paused to listen. Memorising the pattern of guard movements by ear is a pretty basic skill for a Morag Tong initiate, and when the only guard is a zombie incapable of varying his pattern of behaviour spontaneously it's pretty easy. After hearing three almost identical laps I carefully withdrew an arrow from my quiver, applied the poison of silence, fitted the arrow, and then waited patiently for the perfect moment. The sound of slow footsteps grew louder, was steady, and then began to fall away, and I took this as my cue to pull the bow string tight, and calmly step up to the doorway.

The woman was sat as I had seen her before, except that she happened to be looking directly at the doorway, and at me, an expression of sorrow, despair and, on seeing me, shock. I fired instantly. The shaft flew true but for the fact that she had raised her arms in a defense, and the arrow pierced her left forearm instead of her neck. Her mouth opened and voiced a spell or scream, but all was silence. She staggered to her feet and started reaching towards a potion nearby, but I was too fast for her. The second shaft took her through the throat and she pitched forward, knocking the bottle to the ground, scattering shattered glass and fluid. She convulsed briefly, but it was all over very quickly, and soon she moved no more. A old harmless woman dead on the floor.

The zombie completed his latest lap, passing face to face with me without missing a step. Exactly as I had planned, right up until he saw the body of the woman. He froze for a moment and then, as I watched in near disbelief, sunk into one of the chairs and stared at her body, unmoving. This was not how zombies were supposed to behave. But it was clear from the bludgeoning wounds to his head that he had indeed already died a mortal death, quite recently by the looks. I waited, but he remained in place.

Ah, such craft and misplaced skill. Elements of his identity were retained. Now I understand everything. But you must end this travesty of unlife.

Sepia seemed calmed now, and if anything her inner voice even had an edge of sadness to it, which made it all the more difficult to ignore. Again I decided that the practical thing to do here was to leave the reflection until later. Moving around the house I gathered all the ingredients and potions I could find, without spending any time examining them.

I moved to the fireplace, dragged a log from the flames, threw it on the carpet and, with scarcely a backward glance at the static tableaux, exited by the door and closed it behind me. Within moments the house was ablaze. The Witch was dead.