Death After Death-Chapter 366 - A Different Opportunity

No new witches crossed his path in the weeks that followed, though he did find other small acts of heroism to help out with here and there. He managed to avoid killing anyone else, too, which was good, because his murder of that single witch had dulled his sight considerably. He could still see auras, and some colors, of course, but the subtle threads of life and destiny were lost to him again, at least for the moment.

It will only take a few months to fix that, he told himself, but he was skeptical that it would happen. Running around saving lives often resulted in deaths, and Simon wasn’t particularly willing to spare evil-doers just so he could keep his vision sharp.

Still, he wasn’t above letting other people do the killing to help him there, as he did with the merchant the week before. Still, everywhere he went, things didn’t quite work out the way he hoped. He heard rumors of something that the locals called a ghast in one small farming community. Simon thought it sounded like a vampire, but it turned out to be nothing but a cattle thief hiding in the cemetery and using superstition as a shield.

“I should have guessed it would be something like this when I found out his victims were cows and sheep, not people,” Simon told himself after he turned the desperate man in to the town’s headman so he could decide his fate. “What kind of vampire only eats farm animals?”

That statement reminded Simon of just how bad beasts tasted for a moment, which brought a number of related memories to the surface, but he quickly suppressed them.

Eventually, for lack of funds, Simon ended up helping out farmers in need of a hand as he crisscrossed the land trying to be noticed. So, it was completely by accident when he ran across his first white cloak.

That night, a merchant named Barnabas was treating him to dinner at some nameless roadhouse when he noticed the witchhunter at the bar getting drunk. The rest of the establishment, including Barnabas, seemed to be pretending that the man didn’t exist, though given the shades of gray that some people glowed, that made sense. Still, Simon had nothing to fear, so after giving it enough time to come up organically, he blurted out, “Isn’t that a witchhunter?” as if he’d just noticed.

The farmer gave him a meaningful look, but Simon acted as if he didn’t understand the problem. He seemed to be about to whisper something to Simon, but before he could, the drunken whitecloak turned around and regarded the two of them.

“Witch hunter? You sssay that like it's a bad thing,” he slurred as he looked at them with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“Oh n-not at all,” Simon answered, feigning fear as the man across from him began to study the dregs of his bowl with great care. “I think you do wonderful work, I just haven’t seen one before in p-person. That’s all.”

Those were both lies. With sharp enough sight, the man would probably be able to see right through them, but between the man's drinking and his well-worn hilt, Simon was betting that he lacked the clarity for such details.

The white cloak squinted at him, but said nothing either way. Instead, he got up from the bar, then came over to their table and sat down. Barinbus froze at that, like he was about to face the inquisition, but Simon saw nothing to be afraid of. He didn’t need any magical vision to see that the man was merely lonely.

“And what is it you’ve heard about us exactly?” the knight asked. While not quite broken down, he’d certainly seen better days, and his hair and mustache both contained more gray than brown. He wasn’t ideal for Simon’s purposes, but he might work.

“Well, there are loads of stories…” Simon started, rattling off a few from the ancient past which were obvious veiled allusions to the order of the Unspoken, along with a few that weren’t. He didn’t want to hit too close to the mark. When that didn’t seem to impress the man, he followed up with “and there was a witch burned at the stake in Brythian a few weeks ago. You heard about that, didn’t you, Barnibus?”

The farmer nodded, reluctantly, obviously displeased to be drawn into the conversation. “Aye,” he agreed. “She got what was cominn’ to her. No doubt in that.”

“That was you, right?” Simon said, turning back to the bleary-eyed witch hunter. “You did that, right? Tracked her down? Rooted her out?”

Simon hated having to act excited at the death of a woman who was almost certainly innocent, but in this case, there was nothing else he could do. She was the designated bad guy, and trying to relitigate her death wouldn’t bring her back.

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Simon expected the man to take all of the credit, but surprisingly, he shook his head. Then he said something that made Simon’s blood run cold. “No, not me. The brave people of that town rooted that evil out all on their own, but even so, the witch still managed to get her revenge somehow; she used dark magics from beyond the grave to strike down the priestess who pointed the finger. I spent a week looking into that death.”

Simon’s horror was unfeigned. For a moment, he expected the man to turn to him and reveal that all of this was a ruse and that he’d finally tracked down her killer. Fortunately, that only played out in his head. Instead, Barinibus, equally aghast, asked for further details, and the witch hunter seemed only too happy to provide them.

Simon pretended to listen with rapt attention, but he spent most of the time trying to keep his incredulity from his face at just how wrong the knight was. He explained the facts well enough. The priestess had been beheaded while sleeping soundly after the execution. He’d even found the voodoo dolls and other subtle signs of witchcraft in the cottage that should have given him everything he needed to reach the correct verdict. Unfortunately, he’d managed to misinterpret all of them.

The drunken knight spent the time it took to finish his tankard explaining to both of them how the little tiny poppets had clearly snuck into her home and then beheaded her before their magic expired. Simon wanted to point out that if such a thing had happened, they would have left a bloody murder weapon on the ground, but decided against it. Instead, he let the man talk until he was all talked out, which didn’t take more than an hour.

Two more ales later, the White Cloak passed out at their table, in the midst of another story about a necromancer. That was a shame. Though Simon suspected his details were just as dubious, he’d enjoyed listening to the tale. As soon as it was clear that Sir Derinholt, which is how he’d eventually introduced himself, was passed out, Barnabas quickly pulled them away from the table like the drunk was a corpse with the plague.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “You have a bloomin’ death wish or something?”

“What?” Simon asked. He thought the man was overreacting, but he knew that the white cloaks had a very mixed reputation. “He’s a hero and I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We’ll ain’t that all just fine and dandy,” the farmer scowled, “But that won’t save you. Not all the time. Men like these see evil in the strangest of places, and real or imagined, they’ll hang you for it, and no one will stop them.”

“Is that any worse than the nobles? Surely a Baron or a Duke who…” Simon’s words trailed off as the man gave one last exasperated sigh and just walked away. That worked for Simon. He was happy to be more trouble than he was worth. It gave him a nice, clean break.

That night, he slept in the stables to save his last coppers, but he was up at dawn and waiting in the yard, waiting for the Whitecloak to appear. Simon didn’t disagree with his companion's assessment at all. The man was dangerous and a law unto himself. There was every chance that he, or someone like him, could strike Simon down, but he wasn’t afraid of them.

Even if they killed him, he’d just come back in another life to try again. He needed to learn what they knew, and it was this or kill a few Unspoken and interrogate their souls. While that was an option, it certainly wasn’t the right one.

So, when Sir Derinholt emerged from the inn and headed for his horse. Simon had to feign his nervousness once more when he approached the man. That nervousness quickly wore thin, though, when it became clear that the white cloak had almost no memory of their conversation last night.

He’d been hoping to leverage those shreds of familiarity to build a relationship with the man. When that didn’t happen, though, Simon turned the empty spaces in the man’s memory to his advantage instead. he proceeded to lay out a conversation which was mostly true on its face.

He told the warrior of the necromancer and the witch, and repeated many of the details that he could have heard nowhere else to him. That was enough to mute the white cloak’s hungover sense of impatience long enough for Simon to spring the second half of his trap.

“Does that mean you don’t want to train me anymore?” Simon asked as the man was trying to rebuff him. That was enough to stop the knight in his tracks.

“What?” he asked. “Did I say that? How much did I have to drink anyway?”

“While you were sitting with us?” Simon answered. “Five tankards, and yeah, you said—”

“Listen, son,” the man answered, talking down to Simon like he was a child. “You have a good heart, and it's in the right spot, too, I think, but you’re a bit soft for hunting the forces of darkness. They’d chew you up and spit you out. Why don’t you go off and find a nice wife, maybe have a kid or two, and—”

“I’ll duel you,” Simon blurted out. He had no idea if it would work. “How about that? We fight, and if I beat you—”

Truthfully, he hadn’t expected the man to shove aside his lie quite so easily. He’d expected a few more questions, but it was clear he’d misjudged Sir Derinholt. The man was no deep thinker.

“You won’t beat me,” the knight said, offended. For a moment, Simon thought he’d fucked it all up. Then the white cloak continued. “But if you put in a good showing, well, I’ll think about it. If you get hurt though… well, that’s your own damn fault.”

Simon beamed at that, but it was only to cover up the feral grin. The knight had better armor, and he might even have a magic blade, but without those advantages, he was sure he could take him apart, even in his current chubby form.