Weston was such a quiet village; far from Berenghast and further still from Cellador. The world did not bother us here, it barely knew we existed. The Purge of The Magi was a rumour, an exaggerated tale on the lips of traders and hunters. The simple folk of Weston knew nothing of the force of magic save for the hatred they held for those that could wield it.

I suppose I always knew it flowed through me, when I was little I always felt more at home in Fletchwood. The forest was my nursery and my school. Father hated me for going in there.

“Fletchwood is no place for a child Cora! It’s too dangerous!” he would say, and being a child I would not listen!

How ironic that a man who worshipped Gaia, the mother of the Earth, did not let his only child enjoy the wondrous fruit of her womb. Just maybe he suspected that it flowed through me as well. Looking back now I am amazed at how often I can see that seed of fear; the fear all men have of things that they do not understand or cannot control.

I did not heed his calls; I was more a daughter of nature than of him. The call of the wild was in me.

How majestic the trees rise; almost kissing the sky with their leafy hands and beckoning me in with the wildflowers and chirps and caws of the creatures that dwell there.

I was eleven years old, and defying my father to play and explore in the woods. He and his fellow hunters would prey on the elk that roamed the trees and I would watch them from a distance, copying a hunter, not a human of course, but the greatest hunter in Fletchwood: the wolf.

I would run on all fours, bounding over the protruding roots and ground hugging fauna of the forest… keeping as low as I could until it was time to strike. All make believe of course.

I had ducked behind a felled log to spy on my father and his hunting party. I could see the buck in the distance, grazing with sweet abandon to the predators closing in. The elk was the embodiment of elegance; lithe and graceful. He was a true majesty. One of my father’s two companions, Brom was his name, unleashed the first crossbow bolt. The searing sound of the bolt tearing the air was cut short by the shriek from the elk that bounded away, lame, its left hind leg punctured and haemorrhaging as it struggled to gain ground away from its hunters. My father skipped forward and fired next, his bolt ran true and burrowed into the creatures flank. It took two more steps before collapsing in a plume of dust and leaf litter.

Fergus, my father’s second companion, let out a whoop of victory and raced over to the corpse. Their blades hissed as they drew them and began to slaughter the animal there on the forest floor. Brom had a large leather pack with him to store the meat of their quarry.

I just sat there, fascinated, watching these men carve the beast, unaware of what encircled them. The black and grey shapes moving ever so slowly through the dense undergrowth, nearing the group of hunters; the humans were not the only beasts stalking the elk. Their movement was precise and delicate for something so broad and powerful. Each slow sure-footed stride brought them closer and closer. The wolves struck.

Four of them tore from the trees that camouflaged them, with snarling maws and rending teeth they charged. Leaping and biting and howling in a blood-lust frenzy. I couldn’t help but look on, half frightened, half in awe. In my head I screamed, but fear held my tongue.

Brom was taken to the ground, one wolf had his thigh while another had pinned his shoulders with its fore paws and bit into his neck. The wild dog proceeded to shake the life out of him. Fergus managed to bring his blade to bear on one of the beasts, but the weight and strength of the lupine creatures was too much for him. They tore him limb from limb; they slaughtered him there on the forest floor and feasted on his flesh.

That left only father, cowering from the pack; the Alpha pacing towards him menacingly. Each was bloody muzzled and wreaked of the sweat and gore of the kill. As they closed in growling, something inside me snapped and I found myself skipping over the log and charging at the wolves barking and yelping and shouting at the top of my voice.

“Leave my father alone!” I bellowed.

“Flee child! Run Cora! Run!” father shouted, frantically flailing his arms in a vain attempt to regain the wolves’ attention. Their eight grey eyes were on me, as were their growls.

“Leave my father alone!” I shouted again.

The Alpha was stunned. He cocked his head and licked a few specks of blood from his maw. He knew what I said. At the time I thought it was the words, but now I know all you have to do is feel. If you have my gift, all you have to do is feel…

The wolves moved away from my father and began to circle me slowly. I could hear their panting and almost taste their breath they were that close. Steam rose from their muscular bodies as they circled; their breath visible on the chilled air. The Alpha approached and bowed his head; his three pack mates did the same.

I reached out my hand, tentatively at first but the closer I got to the hunter the more I grew in confidence. I ran my fingers through its long wiry fur; the heat of the wild beast’s touch filled me with joy and fear simultaneously. The Alpha made a contented sound and flipped over on his back, allowing me to stroke his flanks and tickle his belly; his blood stained tongue flapping at the side of his mouth as he pawed at me playfully. The other three wolves all followed suit, waiting for their turn to be stroked and doted on. I caught the glare of horror from my father and the look in his eyes will stay with me to the grave.

I sent the wolves away, they knew we would meet again and my father scooped me into his arms and ran back to the village of Weston. For the full three miles he did not meet my eyes, surely I had done the right thing? I had saved my father, but in doing so was I lost to him?

Weston was dead to me now, I did not belong here, the villagers made sure I knew it. In the days that passed my father did not utter a single word to me, and my mother grew equally distant. The neighbours merely whispered in dark corners amongst themselves; I could feel their stares burning in to me with every step I took around that cursed village.

“My little girl is cursed.” My father told the priestess of Gaia, who promised that she would “Take care of it.”

She meant that the Hunters would take care of it, and they arrived the next day. Six tall and broad men, clad in black robes with yellow and orange flame patterns stitched into the sides and sleeves marched through the village square of Weston. Their hoods were raised and they wore gold masks that were carved with cruel and laughing eyes. The Witch Hunters had arrived.

My father held me fast as the men approached, lest I ran. The villagers had built a pyre; I gathered it was for me. The tallest of the Hunters stepped forward.

“I have received word of a mage here in Weston.” He said addressing the gathered crowd in a pompous manner “By the power bestowed on me by King Remus I himself, I demand that this abomination be brought forth.” This wretched bastard was preaching self righteousness as he was about to murder a child.

I struggled against my father but it was no use, he was at least twice my size! He hauled me into the air and then into the arms of the advancing Witch Hunters. I kicked and screamed, my arms flailed wildly; a few of my blows landed, knocking the mask from one of the Hunter’s faces. I started to tire, my limbs failed to obey me and I succumbed easily to them. They bound me and tied me to the stake secured high on the pyre and began dousing the timbers with holy oil; to which the villagers yelped and cheered. All I could focus on was the hatred in my father’s eyes. My heart was broken; I should have let the wolves have him.

My eyes welled with tears, the noise of the crowd began to bleed into itself and become a dulled drone in my ears. I lost all clarity as the torch was lit. I felt nauseous and cold despite the heat creeping up to my naked toes. The flames licked at my feet, yet I recall feeling no pain. I thought back to my experience with the wolves. If I could feel like a wolf feels, could I understand the ruthlessness of fire? The unquenchable hunger for flesh and wood that brewed below me, the indiscriminate desire for destruction, the endless hatred of everything not like me… The flames were not unlike the villagers in that respect.

My focus clicked in an instant. The cheers and shouts of barbaric joy had turned to screams of pain. Everywhere I looked the flames were wreaking havoc on their former masters. The buildings were ablaze; pillars of fire raging high into the night sky. I looked at the townsfolk running too and fro trying to pad out the flames on their backs and their legs. You may think of me as cruel, but I began to laugh.

My bonds had been burned through, and I walked down the pyre, the flames kissing and caressing me as I advanced through them. I smiled at the Hunters as they scattered with pained cries: they deserved their fate. The “power” that they feared had vanquished them. Those who try to control nature are destroyed by it. I did not manipulate the fire; I merely convinced it of a more delicious meal!

I caught sight of my father, cowering in front of the barn, his eyes fixed on me. The look of hatred had given way to a look of sheer terror. I walked towards him, glancing up to the burning timbers buckling above him. He had betrayed the one who had saved his life, I was not about to do the same: The crackling hunger of the inferno was not yet satisfied. I let the timbers fall. I let the fire taste my father’s flesh. And then I ran with the wolves.

THE END