The Witchfinder – Book Excerpt

Hello friend! Today I am chatting with author, J. Todd Kingrea, about his fantasy novel, The Witchfinder. This is the first book in the Deiparian Saga.

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Get to know the author: J. Todd Kingrea

Welcome to Armed with A Book! Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!

Well, I’ve had two non-fiction books published, one in 2013, the other in 2016. After that I wondered if I might be able to put together a novel. So, The Witchfinder is the result of that! I’ve been a public radio disc jockey, a graphic artist and art director, a video store clerk (I’m dating myself now!), and for the last 22 years have been in the ordained ministry. BHC Press, the publisher of The Witchfinder, will be releasing the second instalment in the Deiparian Saga on November 1, 2022, titled The Crimson Fathers. They have also contracted to publish a horror novel of mine (working title: With a Blighted Touch). I live with my wife of 33 years, we have two adult sons, and two dogs. I collect movies, books, comics, and some magazines, all of which means I’m always short on money!

What inspired you to write this book?

Storytelling always begins with “what if?”

What if the Nazis had won World War II? What if JFK hadn’t been assassinated? What if Frodo had kept the One Ring of Power? The question I asked: what if the Inquisition of the Middle Ages became the basis for a whole society?

Back in the summer of 2010, my oldest son, Brett, and I were on a mission trip in the Czech Republic. One day we visited the charming town of Český Krumlov. The two of us stumbled upon a small museum just off the market square and inside were displays of medieval torture implements. As I looked at the various tools and mechanisms—used by men of the church to intimidate, wound, and in some cases, kill, those who had been accused of activities against the faith—I couldn’t help but wonder why. Why had men of faith seen fit to inflict such cruelty on others? How did they reconcile such actions with their Christian beliefs? And what would the world be like if that particular moment in history had continued—indeed, what if it had become the dominant worldview?

Upon returning home from the Czech Republic, I started searching for answers. I researched the Roman Catholic and Spanish Inquisitions, as well as the social, cultural, historic, and religious background of the Middle Ages. While readers may cringe at the tortures and tools described in The Witchfinder, they are historically accurate (with the exception of the Hellcage, a little device of my own design).

My questions also fueled the idea of the book—a world where a monolithic church held supreme power over the lives of every person. Where torture, oppression, and control were commonly employed by church agents who viewed their work as holy, vital, and necessary. Just as it happened in real life.

I’ve always been a fan of post-apocalyptic stories, and knew I wanted to tell that kind of tale. I elected to use an unidentified time in the future, long after a calamity had reshaped the geography of the United States and the world—and in which humanity had rebuilt itself to a medieval level of social and technological achievement. I wanted to explore what might happen to someone born and raised in that kind of world, who suddenly had his entire existence upended—whose beliefs and identity were challenged to the core.

How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?

I did about six months of research. I read a lot of books on witch-hunting, the Inquisition, and the medieval period. I watched a number of films set in the period—Witchfinder General, Mark of the Devil, Witchhammer, The Name of the Rose, Pillars of the Earth, The Passion of Joan of Arc, yes even Monty Python and the Holy Grail—in order to visualize costumes and settings. From first draft to final draft submitted to the publisher was probably about 14 months.

What makes your story unique?

It has a magical system that is unlike anything else I’ve ever seen (something that a number of reviewers have mentioned as well). It also has a main character experiencing a crisis of faith. While he has to contend with external challenges and obstacles, his greatest battle is coming to grips with what he believes and why, and how that knowledge transforms his future. He doesn’t start out as a “chosen one who doesn’t know he’s the chosen one” or the heir of some long-lost kingdom.  Rather, he’s just an ordinary man, zealously going about his job, believing he’s doing the right thing. He’s something of an unlikely hero because when we meet him, he’s tough-as-nails, confident soldier of the Church of the Deiparous, accustomed to getting his way.

Who would enjoy reading your book? 

Adult fans who enjoy epic fantasy, but also fans who appreciate dystopian, post-apocalyptic settings. It’s an interesting mix of ruined cityscapes (like in all those Mad Max-inspired Italian rip-off films from the 1980s) and medieval society. I’ve had positive reviews from men and women in their teens, all the way up to the late 60s, who enjoyed it. I think it’s accessible to the YA crowd even though it’s aimed more for adults.

What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?

It’s my hope that readers will be challenged to consider their own personal freedoms in the face of hierarchical bureaucracies and institutions. What does it mean to be “free”? What freedoms are we (as individuals, communities, states, provinces, or nations) willing to surrender, and for what reasons? I also hope readers realize that contrary to some religious teaching, it’s okay to ask questions of one’s faith. Doubts don’t have to be seen as bad or taboo. It’s in the search for answers to our doubts that faith can grow stronger.

Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?

I’m particularly fond of the scene with the Vulanti’nacha, the flying spiders! I can still remember watching the movie The Kingdom of the Spiders on television as a child and the closing scene of the whole town webbed over. That image was in my mind as I wrote that scene. I also like the Hellcage scene near the end, and Thorne’s visit to his mentor’s memorial in Rimlingham.

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Book Excerpt from
The Witchfinder

From Chapter 11

By the time they finished breakfast, packed their gear and set out for Rimlingham, the sun was already cooking the land even though it was barely nine o’clock. The air was thick and heavy; it was like trying to breathe through mortar.

Deiparia had two seasons. People either suffered under bitter cold and incessant snow—even in the southern lands—or through the sweltering heat of the long summer months. There wasn’t a spring or an autumn to speak of. One day, the trees had leaves; the next, they turned brittle and fell off. One day, their branches were bare; the next, they were budding.

Thorne, Cabbott and Warner rode across the gently sloping land of thick pine forests and open fields. Tall grasses, kuzda vines and brambles separated plots of beans, carrots and some of the worst-looking corn they had ever seen.

About an hour before lunch, they came to the Talpohsa River. The road descended to a small shack and a ferry waiting along the bank. Fat flies annoyed their horses as they passed the shack, where the greatest concentration of them buzzed in and out of the windows. Two passengers stood on the ferry.

The ferryman—a broad-shouldered fellow—tied a rag around his head to protect it from the relentless sun. As they drew near, Thorne could make out the man’s patchy beard and mustache. His nose was flat and wide, as if someone had hit him across the face with a board.

“G’day, ya Grace,” the ferryman said with a bow that seemed a little exaggerated. “Constable. Dep’ty.” He nodded in each of their directions. “Ye’ve come just in time. I was a’setting to put out.” His voice fluctuated between different accents as if he couldn’t decide which one he liked best.

“Our God, the Church, smiles upon us this morning, then,” Thorne said, dismounting. He prepared to lead Gamaliel on board when the ferryman raised his hand.

“I’m sorry, ya Grace, but I’ll have to come back for the hawses.”

“Why? There is plenty of room. I have been this way many times before.”

“Aye, yeah, there is. But the ol’ damn thing ain’t s’strong no more. Landowner’s supposed ta get a new one, but ain’t happened yet. So hawses have to wait.”

Grumbling, they hitched their mounts to a nearby post and stepped onto the creaking ferry. The two passengers at the front turned to look. Both wore the simple traveling garments of pilgrims: thin blue tunics, breeches and sandals. One was female, shorter and quite attractive, with red hair plaited in a single braid. The other was a tall man, older than the woman by at least fifteen or twenty years. Father and daughter, most likely. A heavy oilcloth lay on the deck between them.

Thorne nodded in their direction. “Congregants.”

“Your Lordship,” the man replied. The girl remained silent but bowed. They turned back around and looked across the water.

The ferry was a rectangular platform lashed together with sun-bleached ropes. Two waist-high railings stuck up on the right and left sides. On the right railing, two ropes—one at the front, the other at the rear—attached to pulleys on a guideline overhead. The guideline stretched from a large tree behind them to one on the opposite bank. A second guideline ran through pulleys mounted horizontally atop the left railing and likewise anchored to the trees on either side.

Thorne stared at the weather-beaten boards beneath his feet. They fit together tightly, the cracks sealed with pitch. He stomped on them. They seemed sturdy enough.

The ferryman hopped on board. He pulled a pair of thick gloves from his wide belt and dug his hands into them before grasping the rope that ran across the top of the port railing. He hauled on the rope, and the ferry slipped away from the bank.

The Talpohsa River ran swift and swollen. Several miles upstream, the river descended through a series of rapids, where the water built momentum before it leveled out at the ferry crossing. Recent rains had muddied the water, giving it a turgid ochre color and littering it with broken tree limbs.

As the ferry left the shallow water, the current grabbed it and tried to push it downstream. The ropes creaked, pulled taut by the force of the river. The ferryman continued to haul them forward, muscles straining against the water pressure.

Thorne sat down on a bench that ran along the right side of the ferry. Warner stood in the middle of the deck with his arms folded. Cabbott walked over and sat beside Thorne.

“Looks like he’s had some rough customers,” he said low enough that no one else could hear.

Thorne glanced up at the ferryman. His face and arms were crisscrossed with scars. It looked as if he’d fought several gorah cats and hadn’t fared well against any of them. Seen in profile, the bridge of his nose climbed straight up to his forehead without the slightest bit of indentation.

The female pilgrim kept glancing back at Warner.

The river sloshed against the side as the ferryman breathed heavily at his task. The air smelled of mud and fish. While the temperature on the river was somewhat cooler, the sun still simmered with unrelenting force.

When they reached the middle of the river, the ferryman halted to wipe sweat from his forehead. The river buffeted them up and down.

“Now!” the female pilgrim yelled.

The ferryman yanked a dagger from its sheath and turned toward Thorne. The two pilgrims spun around, steel flashing in the sun. The male pilgrim held two curved blades. The woman, a slim dagger gripped in her fist, screamed in rage and launched herself at Warner.

“Damn it!” Cabbott cursed, heaving himself upright.

“About bloody time,” the male pilgrim said.

The ferryman remained silent as he went for Thorne. He held the knife waist high.

Cabbott ripped his saber from its sheath and stepped in front of Thorne. The ferryman snarled as he jabbed at Cabbott. The constable had the advantage since his saber gave him a longer reach. However, this did not deter the ferryman, who continued slashing the air.

Thorne jumped up and drew his rapier. He edged toward the rear of the ferry, careful of his footing. His eyes never left the burly, flat-faced attacker. The ferry rocked back and forth, churned by the river and the conflict. 

“What the hells is this?” Warner shouted at the woman. Her blade had already opened a gash in his leather armor. He parried her next attack with his own dagger.

“This is for Marco!” she screamed. Her blade, a silver gleam in the sunlight, opened another gash, this time on his left arm.

The male pilgrim slipped past the woman and Warner, and moved along the left rail, joining the ferryman. Together, they formed a human shield that separated Warner and his assailant from Thorne and Cabbott. The pilgrim grinned beneath his braided mustache; the ferryman remained stern and silent.

“Who’s Marco?” Warner shifted his dagger to his left hand and drew his saber with the right.

Thorne and Cabbott advanced. Their opponents rushed forward. If the woman, answered they didn’t hear it.

Thorne’s sword was a blur of motion as he probed for an opening. The ferryman’s long dagger met his blade stroke for stroke. He was quicker than he looked.

Beside them, the pilgrim’s twin blades slashed back and forth. They clanged against Cabbott’s saber, seeking an opening. The air filled with grunts and the grating of metal on metal.

Warner, his saber free, crouched and braced himself. The woman scuttled back, dropped to one knee and reached under the oilcloth. Warner wiped sweat with the back of his hand.

He panted. “Who…are you? And who’s…Marco?”

The woman pulled a falchion sword from under the cloth and stood up. The sun shone brilliantly on her fiery red hair. She snarled like a feral dog, brows knit in fury. “I’m going to kill you, you bastard!” She moved toward him, sweat covering her face, sword slicing the air.

“Why? Who the hells…are you, anyway?” 

“You don’t remember,” she said. “I’m not surprised. You were too concerned with my boyfriend to pay attention to me. Bad mistake, Churchman.” She lunged forward, the sword shimmering in the light. “For Marco!”

Warner dodged aside.

Thorne and Cabbott gasped the humid air in great gulps. Their opponents did not seem as winded. Aside from a small nick here and there, none of the four had yet to land a significant blow.

“Who sent you?” Thorne’s black hair lay plastered against his head and face. The ferryman kept smiling. Saber and daggers struck, parried, struck again—a metallic dance accompanied by the grinding of blade against blade.

Cabbott made to charge, feinted, rushed forward. The pilgrim was caught off guard and stepped back. Cabbott hacked at him, pressing his advantage.

Warner sidestepped another attack. He countered with one of his own and pulled back. He stood in the right front corner of the ferry. The river splashed around his feet.

The woman kept coming. With a cry of exertion and rage, she swung her sword at his head. Warner barely ducked. The blade whistled past and sliced through the front rope that tethered the bow to the guideline overhead. The ferry bucked as the current slammed against the loosened bow. Warner lunged for the right railing and held on, crouching. The woman fell backward and gripped the opposite rail.

The lost mooring pitched Cabbott and the pilgrim toward the ferryman. All three men piled up against the left railing. The left guide rope that the ferryman had been using pulled taut. It creaked as it held the ferry like a slingshot ready to fire. Thorne stumbled against the left railing, and the ferry tilted down even more. The uneven weight and the water pressure lifted the right side of the ferry out of the river.

Cabbott punched with his free hand. He caught the pilgrim under the chin, and his teeth cracked together. The jolt caused him to drop one dagger, and it disappeared into the river.

“Solomon!” Thorne yelled.

The deputy looked at him, nodded and tightened his grip on the railing.

“Thurl!” Thorne stretched his arm toward the constable, who lunged and grabbed Thorne’s wrist.

The pull rope behind them snapped. The loose ends zipped through the pulleys and into the river.

The ferry shot sideways, tethered now only by the stern rope that connected to the guideline overhead. The ferryman and pilgrim fell backward, tumbling down the river-washed deck, grasping for any handhold as they did. The woman grabbed the ferryman as he slid past. She strained to hold his soggy weight against gravity. The male pilgrim slid off the front and into the roiling water.

The guide rope overhead frayed under the strain.

“We’ve got to get off this thing!” Thorne yelled.

Warner pulled himself up. “Oh shit.” He looked up the length of the ferry, past the others, past the stern, to the river.

Thorne and Cabbott turned around just in time to brace themselves.

A thick tree trunk slammed into the back of the ferry. The guide rope snapped. The ferry and its passengers plunged beneath the water.

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Thorne awoke to bright light and the muffled drone of the river. He took in the leafy canopy above him—and realized he couldn’t breathe. Panic seized his brain. He gulped for air, but his chest refused to cooperate. He clawed at his throat, tossing his head from side to side.

Two dark shapes appeared above him. Hands rolled him onto his stomach. Something hard pressed into his back repeatedly, rhythmically. He would’ve screamed that he couldn’t breathe, but he still had no air. The repeated pressure on his back intensified. Then, a torrent of water geysered from his throat. He inhaled with ugly, ragged gasps before vomiting again, less water this time. His chest burned, and his throat was raw. But the air tasted deliciously sweet compared to the fishy murk of the river—

The river!

He flailed about and struggled to push himself off the ground. His arms were wet ropes; his legs trembled.

“Easy, Boss. Take it easy. You’re safe. Just breathe easy.” Warner’s voice sounded wrapped in cotton.

Thorne shook his head, but it wasn’t hard enough to dislodge the water that clogged his ears. The hollow sloshing inside his skull threatened to drive him mad.

He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and looked around. They were in the shade of several trees. The ground beneath him, soft with new grass, glistened with the water he’d thrown up. Wildflowers and thick bushes grew nearby. 

“Think you can sit?” Cabbott’s hands were on his shoulders.

He attempted to reply, but only a raspy squeak emerged, so he nodded his head.

“Just rest a few minutes, Malachi.”

He nodded again and sat breathing in and out, head drooping. His friends talked amongst themselves, but he couldn’t make out anything they said. He shook his head, more forcefully this time, but still couldn’t dislodge the water. His chest blazed like a blacksmith’s furnace.

At some point, he lay back and watched the sunlight through the leaves. The summer heat felt good and made him drowsy. He fell asleep, awoke and drifted off to sleep again. When next he awoke, he felt better. Even his throat didn’t hurt as bad, and his clothes were nearly dry.

They sheltered in a grove of trees on the river’s floodplain. Cabbott and Warner dressed, having laid their clothes out to dry. Thorne shook his head again, and this time, his ears popped. The sounds of birds, insects and the river rushed in, clear and precise. He stood and walked over to his friends.

Warner adjusted his eye patch. “How you feelin’, Boss?”

“I’m okay, I think. What the hells happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Concern filled Cabbott’s voice. “You didn’t crack your head on something, did you?”

“I remember the ferry, those three people—who were they, anyway? And where are we?” He didn’t have his boots on, and the grass felt like spongy moss beneath his feet.

“Well, the good news is that we’re all alive, and we’re on the western bank of the river,” Warner said. “I figure we’re about three miles or so downriver from the crossin’.”

“You two okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Thurl latched onto a plank from the ferry, and I’ve always been a pretty good swimmer. Other than being waterlogged, we’re good.”

“As for those people,” Cabbott said, “from what Solomon’s told me, the woman is—was—the crazy girlfriend of a criminal he helped catch. Guess she wanted revenge on him.”

“And the men?” Thorne retrieved his boots and pulled them on. His cloak hung drying on a branch.

“We don’t know. Maybe brothers or cousins.”

“Where are they now?”

Warner shrugged. “Feedin’ the fishes and eels is my guess.”

Thorne looked toward the river. “Western bank, eh? Good.” He studied the sky and the shadows on the ground. “We’ve still got the afternoon ahead of us. Let’s head for Alexity. We can pick up some horses and gear there.” With that, he started north, parallel to the river.

“Boss, you sure you don’t wanna rest some more? You just about drowned.”

“We’re going to need pretty much everything,” Cabbott said to no one in particular. “None of us have any weapons. All our stuff’s still with the horses.”

“I’m fine, Solomon. We’ve got a lot of ground to make up.” Thorne set a quick pace, and they discussed the attack as they walked.

Cabbott picked up and discarded potential walking sticks as they went. “The ferryman’s dead for sure. He floated past us not long after we fished you out.”

“Solomon, tell me about the woman,” Thorne said.

“Her name’s Teska Vaun. You remember me tellin’ you about the jester in the play and how I lost my eye? Well, the jester’s name was Marco Bursey. And Teska Vaun was his girlfriend or fiancée or somethin’. Thinkin’ back, I do remember seein’ her around at the time.”

 “Marco Bursey,” Thorne mused. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Well, she sure wasn’t pissing around.” Cabbott, having found a stick he liked better, slung the previous one into the bushes along the riverbank. “Those two bulls she had with her weren’t pushovers. They were trained and experienced.”

Thorne nodded. “Sellswords, most likely.”

By midafternoon, they regained the ferry road. They gratefully accepted a ride from a farmer in a wagon, and as it rambled along the gray stone road, Thorne turned to Warner.

“I’ve been thinking about Vaun. If she’s who I think she is, she’s wanted for theft, robbery, prostitution and probably a few more things since last I heard of her. They call her the Ghost.”

“With a list like that, I’m surprised she hasn’t been caught already.”

Thorne snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Now I know why that name’s familiar. She has been caught before. Her name’s been on at least two different dockets.” He paused a moment. “She’s the one who caused all that trouble along the coast a few years back.”

“So why ain’t she dead? Or at least in custody somewhere?”

Thorne shook his head. “That’s a good question. She wouldn’t have been released… She must’ve escaped.”

“Twice?” Cabbott said. “I doubt that.”

The three men lapsed into silence. The driver hummed to himself as the wagon creaked and rattled over the uneven road. Farms appeared on the countryside as they neared Alexity.

Thorne stared at the passing scenery. How had she managed to escape twice? The thought was like a splinter in his mind. Was someone in the Church helping her? But for what possible gain? Had they gotten too relaxed? 

Is this an example of why the Council wants me to strike fear into people?

Late afternoon shadows lengthened across the fields as the wagon lurched its way into Alexity. Like Dade Village, it wasn’t big enough to support its own cathedral but did have a small chapel.

It would have to do until they could reprovision at Rimlingham. Thorne hopped off the wagon as it passed the white-stone chapel, leaving Cabbott and Warner to ride on to the inn.

The Cleric of Alexity, Will Gethen, was a humble young man serving his first assignment. He recognized Thorne and welcomed him graciously. Gethen was genuinely distraught when he heard about the events that had brought Thorne to his village. He gave Thorne enough money to see them through to Rimlingham and assured him they would have new horses by morning.

One benefit of serving the Church was the availability of resources. Every chapel and cathedral kept spare weapons and clothing on hand for emergencies. They also kept funds for food, transportation, lodging or anything else a servant of the Church might need on the road but found himself without.

“I’ll send some men to the river to retrieve your horses from the eastern bank,” Gethen said. “Of course, that’s assuming they haven’t been stolen already.”

It only took half an hour, and when Thorne left the chapel, he had a new capotain hat, tunic and breeches. He kept one of the daggers Gethen had given him; the other would go to Warner. Cabbott could have the short sword. They’d all have to make do and pray to the Church that nothing else happened before they could make it to Rimlingham.

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Interested?

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Thank you so much for hanging out with us today! Connect with J. on his website, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Goodreads and Amazon.

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