The Last King's Last Will: The Witch Hunters Part II

By Anita Wolf

It has been decades since the last human king of Goidelia died without naming a successor, as his will has disappeared.
Now, the unsuspecting Matanie, of all people, is revealed as the heiress, attracting the interest of various factions with nefarious purposes.
Together with her elven friends, she sets out find the will in order to destroy it.
But soon it becomes unclear, where everyone's loyalties lie...

Both fantasy fans and fantasy haters will look forward to the witty allusions and dry humour in this second volume of the Witch Hunters series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books on Demand
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9783750486409

Anita Wolf

Anita Wolf lebt mit ihren beiden Katzen in Berlin und schrieb ihr erstes Buch, weil sie nicht die Geduld hatte, die Geschichte als Comic zu zeichnen.

Book preview

Anita Wolf lives in Berlin with her two cats. She began writing her first book because she didn’t have the patience to draw it as a comic.

If he got caught, he'd be as good as dead. They'd hang him, or let him rot in a dungeon, or simply kill him on the spot.

That was all he could think of as he hurried down the dark corridors of the castle.

He felt the potentially fatal prize under his shirt. The paper rustled quietly as he quickened his step. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he was the right person for this perilous task. After all, he was only a humble servant, and still felt duty-bound to his king. He knew that what he was doing was treason. But those people’s arguments had been persuasive. What the king had done was wrong, and the land shouldn’t have to suffer from his tyranny even further after his death. He rounded a corner and stopped in his tracks.

By one of the windows looking out on the overcast, rainy sky, there stood several knights.

The strongly-built men all wore the heavy velvet doublet bearing their master’s coat-of-arms; though they had had to leave their swords inside the building. During his final days, His Majesty king Gael of Goidelia had become so paranoid that he no longer even trusted his own knights.

Gael’s trust in his servant, on the other hand, was intact, and now he was repaying that trust with shameful betrayal. His bad conscience stirred once more, and he considered giving the knights a wide berth, seeing as he tended to avoid them at the best of times, even when he wasn’t hiding the most valuable document in the kingdom under his jerkin. But time was short, and this way was the quickest. He ducked his head and tried to scurry past the men as inconspicuously as possible.

As he tried to walk past a broad, dark-haired knight, the man reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. Hey, you.

He remained impassive and answered politely: Yes, my lord?

The big man nodded in the direction the servant had just come from. Has the old man still not popped his clogs?

The blonde knight next to him made a disapproving noise.

Goodness me, Aberdeen, try to be a little sensitive, will you?

Aberdeen turned towards him. Come off it. You’re as fed up with him as the rest of us.

The other knights rumbled in agreement.

The blonde one pointed at the servant, whose shoulder Aberdeen was still holding. Even so, don’t take it out on the valet. Judging by the hurry he’s in, he must be on some important business. Don’t hold him up and get him into trouble just because you’re bored.

The servant didn't comment on that, but spoke to Aberdeen: As for your question, my lord, His Majesty is still with us, although I fear it won't be long now until he passes away.

A murmur of relief went through the assembled knights.

’Bout bloody time, growled Aberdeen. He let go of the servant and said with exaggerated politeness: I won’t take up any more of your time, then. Wouldn’t want Mazacan here – he shot a glance at his blonde colleague – to start crying, on account of his compassionate elvish nature.

A couple of knights snickered; Mazacan just shot Aberdeen a weary look. The servant gave a curt bow, turned on his heels, raced down the hall, and vanished.

He really is in a hurry, Mazacan observed.

Maybe it’s a call of nature, rumbled Aberdeen. After all, the old man hardly ever lets his servants out of his room, to make sure he doesn’t die alone.

Do you have to be quite so cynical? said Mazacan dully.

His colleague shrugged. You’re such a softie. Look like a Northman, act like an elf, fancy that.

A form of mimicry, I would say, said a quiet voice behind them.

It was Fairbanks, the knights’ captain. Mazacan didn’t know how long the captain had been standing there; his superior officer had a talent for stealth.

Sir, Aberdeen mumbled.

He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know what mimicry was. Mazacan did, and grinned sheepishly.

The captain addressed his men. I don’t think I need to ask you what you are all waiting for. But let me remind you that you are the king’s knights. Which means your behaviour ought to be exemplary. I urge you to face whatever comes with poise and dignity. Which meant something like: If one of you cheers when Gael dies, I’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks.

The knights nodded, and there were a few grunts of agreement. Nobody wanted to make any promises.

Fairbanks gave them a sweeping look and walked off, with poise and dignity, of course.

He’s one to talk, Aberdeen grumbled when his captain had gone. He shits decency and pukes honour. He scratched his dark stubble and cracked his neck. The old man’s been hanging on for a long time. But there’ll come a point when even his damned malice won’t keep him alive anymore.

Uh-huh, said Mazacan noncommittally. He’d seen quite a bit of evil in his life, and as far as he was concerned, Gael only made it to the upper second league. What are they going to do about the succession, anyway? Gael never managed to beget an heir – not that that’s a bad thing.

They’ll sort that out with his will. I think they’ve already done that once, with Isadora the Prim, I think it was. The monarch appoints a successor in their will, and woe betide those who don’t abide by it.

That’s stupid. Why should they? The monarch is dead, it’s not like they can make you do anything anymore.

Aberdeen gave a derisive snort. You’re really not a Goidelian, are you.

Neither are you, Mazacan remarked. You only came over from Caldon ten years ago!

The foreigner, unmasked, ignored his comment. Over here, you’ve got to be careful about stuff like that. The dead will harass you from the beyond, as a ghost or through a banshee, and they’ll bring misfortune on you and on the land and…

Mazacan startled at the mention of banshees, and thought of how much trouble he’d had with one of those. When he paid attention again, Aberdeen was nearing the end of his disquisition about vengeance, curses and honour.

…that’s why no one here would dare ignore the king’s will, regardless of what it says. Why, how do the Northmen go about it? Have a drinking contest, and the last one standing gets the crown?

Ahaha, you old folkophobe. Since when are you so loyal to the king? As far as I recall, the last High King of Two Isles was overthrown in your homeland, wasn’t he?

Aberdeen scowled at him. First of all, that was ages ago…

Fifteen years!

"Fine, not so long ago then, and secondly, there was the headquarters of the damn Witch Hunters, and thirdly, not only was the High King a total failure, he was also a Kelld!

Of course we weren’t going to put up with him, just like the Goidelians never accepted him. So we’re alike in this! A people of brave…"

Mazacan tuned out and let Aberdeen drone on. Fifteen years. It seemed like another life. None of his colleagues knew that he used to be one of the thirteen elite Witch Hunters. Only fifteen years – so much had happened since.

The old High King overthrown, which spelled an end to persecutions against Dark Folk; and since the world had changed to dramatically and everything was going so wonderfully well, a new age was declared. Start again from scratch, and all will be fine. Mazacan had trouble dealing with it. When people asked him his date of birth, he now had to say: 28 years before the New Age, otherwise people wouldn’t get it. In any case, most people acted like nothing had existed before Year Nought; no one wanted to talk about the Witch Hunters, nasty business, that stuff with the Dark Folk, lovely weather we’re having today. They had no idea that the other twelve elite Witch Hunters were still alive, cursed and banished, all over Two Isles…

Are you listening at all? Aberdeen snapped him out of his thoughts.

Mazacan considered lying, but couldn’t think of a good fib.

Sorry. I was lost in thought.

Worrying about your missus again, were you? Aberdeen asked almost sympathetically.

Mazacan wished he hadn’t been reminded. Er – yes.

Don’t worry about it. It’ll sort itself out.

Hm.

Mazacan wasn’t listening anymore. Aberdeen knew Kenzie distantly; the way people might know their colleagues’ girlfriends. But he had no idea she had been in the Resistance, and that she had helped bring down the Witch Hunters, way back in the year 5 BNA, as one would say nowadays.

Something was wrong with her. She’d been so downcast recently. Of course, Dunmore’s death last year had affected her a great deal. Mazacan too had been upset. But there was more to it than that. He couldn’t shake off the impression that she was hiding something. He would talk to her.

Today. If he’d learned anything, it was that bottling up problems only made things worse.

The king! someone shouted down the corridor.

The knights turned their heads. The Lord Chamberlain was approaching in a dramatic hurry. He stopped in front of the assembled men, and when he was certain he had their full attention, he gestured theatrically and wailed: "The king!

The king is dead!"

He briefly basked in the attention of his captive audience, then bustled on, to make sure the rest of the castle could also enjoy the dubious spectacle of his counterfeit grief.

Right, said Aberdeen, and stretched. Now I can finally go and get something to eat.

The group disbanded and scattered along various corridors.

Mazacan and Aberdeen were heading for the courtyard, to catch a breath of fresh air, when someone called to them.

Fairbanks came striding up. He looked concerned.

Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to forgo your break. We have a problem. It’s about the will of our late king.

You can’t read his handwriting? quipped Aberdeen.

The captain shot him a look that was half angry, half embarrassed. I don’t know. It’s been stolen.

Mazacan and Aberdeen exchanged a glance.

Oh, said Aberdeen.

Yes, mumbled Fairbanks. I’d be grateful if you didn’t go around shouting it from the rooftops – and don’t tell the chamberlain, or else the whole country will have heard by tomorrow. He sighed. Did you notice anything? Open windows? Suspicious characters? Anyone been acting strange?

Mazacan was struck by a sudden insight. The servant! The one who was in such a hurry!

Aberdeen nodded. "True. He was acting a bit peculiar."

What servant? asked the captain, pricking up his ears.

Aberdeen and Mazacan looked at each other helplessly.

Er… well… which one was it?

You’re asking me? They all look the same to me!

Fairbanks sighed again. That’s not exactly helpful. Listen, we’ve got to find that will, at all costs. Start looking, discreetly at first, until I work out how to announce it publicly. He nodded to them and hurried off.

Aberdeen was stunned. "Crivens, what a godawful mess.

Who would go around nicking the king’s will?"

Presumably someone who doesn’t like the king’s chosen successor.

Yes but – if there is no official heir, we can’t go and pick just anyone! Then there won’t be a new king!

Mazacan could think of worse things; in any case, he found the way this place was run pretty ludicrous. But Aberdeen seemed really dismayed, so he bit his tongue and tried to look on the bright side.

Come on. The thief can’t have gone far. We’re going to find that will.

But they didn’t. Not for sixty years.

"What’s that supposed to be?"

This? It’s laundry, aunt Truud. Matanie knew at once that her answer wouldn’t do.

Truud gave a derisive snort and propped her hands on her ample hips. You call that clean? She fastidiously picked a bit of wet laundry from the heavy basket that her niece was struggling to carry. There! I can still see stains! Look! Look at that!

Indeed, the white apron still showed a few pale, brownish stains.

I’m sorry, aunt, but blood is so hard to get rid of…

The other butchers have clean aprons! They seem to manage to get rid of the stains somehow! How do you think that is?

Matanie thought about it in earnest. Er – they send them to a laundry?

I’ll not have any cheek from you! railed Truud. You wash that again, and properly this time! You’ve been nothing but trouble for us!

Yes, aunt Truud.

The pedantic aunt bestowed upon her one of her notorious What-have-we-done-to-deserve-you looks, then bustled out.

Her knees wobbling, Matanie hauled the washing basket back into the yard where the washtub stood. She dropped the basket on the ground and shook out her hands, in which the heavy basket’s handles had left sore red marks. She threw the rejected apron back into the washtub and attacked it with a scrubbing brush. Fair enough, her uncle was the wealthiest butcher in town, and as such he of course needed to look immaculately clean, even if he’d just been up to his elbows in cow innards. But then why didn’t he have his clothes laundered by professionals, instead of a niece who didn’t have a clue about such things?

A little voice inside Matanie’s head suggested that her uncle and aunt might actually rather relish exploiting her free domestic labour for all it was worth.

But she always suppressed such thoughts. One shouldn’t think that sort of thing of other people. After all, they had taken her in and raised her after her parents had died. And she really ought to have scrubbed harder. She felt guilty.

Matanie wasn’t stupid, but she was kind. She was one of those people who might get shamelessly exploited, and would blame herself for it, if she blamed anyone at all. Her guiding principle was: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Her parents had lived by that motto.

Maybe that was why they had died so soon.

Hello Mattie. Still washing?

She looked up. Danior was standing by the fence. Matanie threw the apron back into the suds. "Washing again, rather.

I didn’t quite get the stains out."

Danior nodded. The sad thing is, it’s only going to get dirty again. Is it really worth it? I mean, the new stains are just going to cover the old ones. And those are working-clothes, really.

Matanie shrugged. It’s just the way they are. You mustn’t hold it against them.

Perhaps you should. You’ve also got rights, you know.

She smiled. Danior had known her parents. He alone was still in touch with Matanie; everyone else had avoided her since her parents died.

It wouldn’t do to have dealings with people like that. After all, they had been Testamenteers, like her grandparents. She didn’t like the term. But that was what people called those who had been hiding king Gael’s will for the past sixty years, and conspired to prevent a new king from being crowned.

Rumour imputed all sorts of other strange machinations to them, from saving the world to world domination, depending on who you spoke to. Her family had always been loyal to the king, and served in high office. And then one of them went and fell in love with a Testamenteer woman and secretly went over to them – as they only discovered after his death. But now everyone knew about it, and Matanie reminded them daily of their family’s disgrace.

Danior didn’t care about that sort of thing. Perhaps because he was an elf. They thought in different ways than humans.

His mother was Tiana, queen of the wood elves. He didn’t care much. He wasn’t the heir apparent, as he had older siblings; but why someone like him should go around among ordinary people, and especially why he hung out with someone like her, that was something Matanie couldn’t fathom.

Danior cocked his head curiously and studied her with his brown eyes. What happened to your fingertips? Why are they shrivelled up like that?

She looked at her hands, surprised. What? Oh, that. It’s because of the water, you know. It happens to humans when they leave their hands in the water for too long. It happens with toes, too.

Danior was impressed. Astonishing. Does it serve a purpose?

I – I have no idea. It’s just something that happens.

Astonishing, the elf said again.

He had a keen interest in human culture, which was why he spent so much time among humans. His own people viewed that as some kind of eccentric hobby, as if he went around cataloguing beetles.

Aunt Truud came out of the house. Why are you standing there chatting? See that you… oh, Prince Danior. Her tone became unctuous, as it always did when she spoke to important people. Out exploring again? I hope our niece hasn’t been holding you up in the course of your duties!

Not in the least. But perhaps I am holding her up.

Oh, not at all, this old batch of laundry can wait. Carry on with whatever you were doing, you’ve all the time in the world.

Good, said Danior curtly.

Truud perceived that she was de trop. She gave another obsequious grin, bobbed a bowlegged curtsy, and withdrew.

Danior, assuming the aunt was still eavesdropping, spoke quietly: "Mattie, if you ever feel like you can’t stand it any…

well, if you ever feel like getting away from here – you’re welcome to stay with us anytime. Even long-term."

Matanie blushed slightly. I – that’s terribly nice of you, Danior; really. But I can't just up and leave, not after everything aunt Truud and uncle Oswic have done for me…

Danior nodded reasonably; he knew that it was pointless to argue. It would never occur to Matanie that her relatives didn’t exactly deserve such consideration.

If you ever change your mind – let me know. Or just come along. Go to the edge of the forest, you’re bound to run into one of us, they’ll show you the way. You needn’t be afraid of my people, they won’t harm you.

Matanie smiled bashfully. I know.

Good. I’m staying with my family now, until around tomorrow night. So in case there’s an emergency…

What kind of emergency? Matanie asked anxiously.

What do you think is going to happen?

The elf tried to minimize what he had just said, and self-consciously tucked a strand of red hair behind his pointed ear. Oh, no, nothing. I was just saying. Take care, Mattie.

He gave her a little wave and walked away down the street.

He had that feeling again, like there was trouble brewing inside the house. The last time he’d felt like that was shortly before Mattie’s parents had died. He’d rather she didn’t find out about that. Or about how guilty he felt for not doing anything about it at the time.

It was almost sundown when Matanie got home. After Danior had said goodbye, Truud had abruptly sent her into town to get a very specific cheese that was nowhere to be had. Matanie had to try four different shops until she eventually found some. What with having to run through half the town and back, the errand had taken her several hours.

The little voice inside her head suspected that Truud had merely wanted to get rid of her for a while, but Matanie smothered that thought at once.

As she approached the house, she heard voices coming from an illuminated ground-floor window. She recognized Truud and Oswic, but there was also another voice that she didn’t know. She quietly crept closer to the window; evidently this was a visitor, and she didn’t want to intrude. Best find out who it was first. Matanie crouched beneath the half-opened window and pricked up her ears.

"…of course we don’t mind," Truud was saying. With her aunt simpering like that, this must be a fairly important guest.

Well, erm, the stranger rumbled in a deep voice. It wasn’t easy, tracking her down – after all this time. And after her parents’ sudden…

A frightful business, it was, Oswic opined. After that shocking event, of course, we tried to shelter the lass from the world. So that she might make a full recovery in our care.

Hm, went the stranger. He didn’t seem to believe them, nor indeed to like them much. And where is she now?

Oh, I sent her off on an errand, so that we might talk undisturbed, said Truud But she ought to be back any time now – they do like to dawdle at that age, don’t they, my lord?

Good gracious, an actual lord. He didn’t really sound like one, or at least not like Matanie would have imagined a lord to sound like. Apparently they were talking about her. But why?

She is eighteen?

Indeed, my lord; turned eighteen last month.

Not that her relatives had taken any interest in the fact that it was her birthday, at the time.

And she is Davis’ only child? The sole surviving Erskine?

Oswic was Davis’ brother, but Truud’s clan was wealthy and influential, so he had taken her clan-name when he had married her.

Yes, my lord, answered Oswic. Perhaps he was beginning to suspect that there might be some profit in this, and that he ought to have kept his name.

Might I ask, my lord – what exactly is it that you want with Matanie? asked Truud.

I wish to talk to her, the visitor answered, in a tone meant to convey that his business was for Matanie’s ears alone.

Truud didn’t – or wouldn’t – take the hint. What about?

The stranger sighed quietly. It is confidential. Pertaining to her childhood – and her parents.

Matanie froze. She recalled that, shortly before his death, her father had taken her aside and impressed upon her that someone might one day come asking about her. And whoever that might be, she wasn’t to tell them anything, especially about her parents; she was to run away. He would explain it all when she was older. But instead he had died.

All the more strongly had Matanie committed her father’s words to memory. Whoever was sitting inside, her parents would have thought him dangerous; they would not have wanted her to talk to him. But what was she going to do? As soon as she went in, she would have no other choice but to face him. And if she were to hide until he’d gone? Then he was bound to come back, to say nothing of the trouble she’d get in with Truud.

She’ll be back any moment now, said her aunt. She sounded peevish again.

Matanie chewed on her fingernails. She couldn’t go in there, she mustn’t talk to the stranger. He mustn’t find her. She had to disappear.

She thought of Danior. What was it he’d said? She was welcome anytime. To the edge of the woods, and then she was bound to run into someone. Matanie fished around inside her pocket. She still had a little change, that would have to do for now. Yet she hesitated; she couldn’t just…

Maybe we should go and look for her? Oswic suggested.

Oh, come on, said Truud. It’s not like anything happened to her. She’s just dawdling again, the lazy… She remembered her guest. …the dear girl!

For the first time, Matanie felt something like resentment against her aunt, and didn’t try to repress it. Still crouching, she hurried away from the window and out of the gate, where she stopped and looked around her. Then she hurried on; but not before leaving the cheese on the garden wall.

After all, she had bought it with Truud’s money.

Matanie hid in an old shed until morning, trying to get some sleep in spite of the sizeable spider population. She was glad to leave the shack at first light. Her plan was as follows: get to the edge of the woods. She didn’t currently want to think beyond that point. Even that first step would be far from easy. She’d have to walk through town, preferably unnoticed, so that no one might recognize her or even send her home.

Of course, she got lost trying to cut through the little alleys.

Matanie couldn’t even tell which way the forest was anymore. She desperately tried to get her bearings, became distracted for a moment, and promptly ran into somebody.

Oh – I’m so sorry, she stammered, rubbing her nose.

Uhuh, said the unexpected obstacle dryly.

No, really, I… Matanie looked up.

She started when she saw who stood before her. He had pointed ears and grey skin. His black hair was shot through with dark green strands, cropped short at the back, and long and shaggy at the front, like a porcupine. No respectable young man had such a haircut. Besides, he wore several silver rings in each ear; and his black and green, sleeveless leather jerkin revealed arms tattooed with black swirls and lines.

Aunt Truud would probably have called him a filthy layabout or suchlike – even if he hadn’t been a dark elf.

He shot her an exasperated look, and Matanie saw that his eyes were dark green, like the stone on her mother’s engagement ring that she had so loved to look at. She blushed.

Have you got a problem, or is that just the way you gawp at everyone? he barked.

All right, he really wasn’t very polite. But maybe he was just having a bad day.

Of course I don’t, sorry, said Matanie placatingly. But could you please help me? I’m afraid I got lost. Could you tell me which way the forest lies? A thought occurred to her. She held out her hand. My name’s Matanie.

She’d had it drummed into her always to be friendly, always to introduce herself politely, regardless of whether or not it was such a good idea for certain people to know her name.

Great, was all the dark elf said, and wanted to walk past her. But then he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned back towards her. You’re Matanie?

Are we acquainted? she asked him, surprised.

No. He sounded offended, as if her question had been an insult. But… someone’s been asking about you. Someone’s looking for you.

That’s what I feared… she muttered darkly. What did he look like? What does he want from me?

Eh?

I mean the man who’s looking for me.

The elf merely shrugged and grimaced cluelessly. Some help.

Hey, Murdoch! someone bellowed behind them.

As the dark elf turned his head, Matanie decided that this was his name. She also spun around. In the mouth of the narrow alley stood two large fellows that would have sent aunt Truud into fits of hysterics.

One of them cockily set his fists on his hips. Long time no see, Greyie. What you doing here? Looking for trouble?

The other one looked at Matanie in confusion. Who’s the bird?

The first man swelled with outrage. Don’t tell me you’ve got the nerve to mess around with our chicks!

Murdoch looked somehow weary. He turned away and made to leave.

Aww, scared of us, are you, Ashface? the ruffian jeered.

Murdoch froze. He turned around slowly. What did you just call me?

Matanie was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She didn’t quite understand what was going on here.

Oh – what was it I called him? the first man asked his associate.

Ashface, was it? the other chipped in.

Yeah, that’s right, Ashface! And that’s still too good a name for a lousy, dirty dark elf like you!

How could you say something like that? rang a clear voice.

It was Matanie’s.

Cor, she can talk! said the second ruffian, astonished.

Evidently his lady-friends seldom did.

What kind of people are you, having a go at someone just because he’s from another folk? Murdoch stared at her as if she was raving mad, but Matanie didn’t even notice. If your mothers knew you were doing that, they’d be ashamed!

Mummy? the second man asked anxiously. Don’t go telling her anything, will you?

She won’t, the