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Prelude - The Witches of Ossard
The fiery brand seemed weak, its flame all but lost under the glare of the summer sun, yet the black robed man who wielded it stepped forward with all the chill and menace of the deepest winter squall. Vilma watched the young Inquisitor cross the cobblestones to the base of the long, stake-studded, and oil-soaked pyre. She wasn't alone. Four-dozen others also stood naked and bound as if some macabre forest had sprouted from the heart of Market Square. Standing as straight as her bonds allowed, she tried to show her defiance despite her racing heart. This wouldn't be quick, and by the gods, it would hurt!
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Inquisitor Anton met her wide blue eyes, waiting for her to break –they always did. As a member of the Church of Baimiopia’s Expeditia Puritanica, he'd already cleansed scores of souls across the Heletian League, yet here he’d truly excelled: His superiors had warned that the harvest in Ossard always came heavy and rich. Thanks be to Krienta! It was the Northerners' penchant for blood mixing, the intermarrying of pious Heletians with foreign Flets, that created such fertile ground for heresy. Ossard stood ripe for a good burning, and fortunately he had the faith to kindle it. He could smell a witch at a dozen paces, tasting their vileness just as his keen nose could catch the dirty blood of a fertile woman. Anton was good at what he did, very good indeed. The Flet bitch continued to stare at him. He smirked, letting her sample his smug disdain. Most of her fellows begged for mercy or persisted with cries of innocence, yet it was the few who maintained their silence that he focussed on. They were where the true danger lay. He turned his back on her to bring his attention to the crowd being forced into the heart of Market Square. They needed witnesses, as many as they could get, to learn the lesson that the Inquisition dutifully taught: That none shall stray from St Baimio's righteous path, for that was the only way to Krienta. Thousands of hesitant townsfolk came forward, forced by a reluctant city watch, they in turn driven by the Sankto Glavos – the Inquisition’s holy knights. With barely a murmur, the two peoples of Ossard closed on the pyres, both the dark featured and olive skinned Heletians, and the blonde and fair Flets. Usually, their differences kept them apart, but today it was the true outsider – the Inquisition – that brought them together. Vilma looked from her executioner’s back to her poor daughter where two monks held her at the front of the crowd. Inger, only newly a woman, struggled against their hands as she tried to turn her tear-filled eyes away. They stopped her, forcing her to look on.
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