Once upon a dreadful time

Putrescence

With the twigs of her besom smoking and threatening to burst into flame, down Hradian spiralled toward the town, while the wizard Orbane laughed in glee and crowed,

“Not only have I escaped the Great Darkness, I sent a fearsome enemy into that dreadful void.”

“My lord,” gasped Hradian, “I am too weary to go onward, and my broom needs new willow twigs, else it will fly like nought more than a stick.”

“Very well, Acolyte, come to rest in the village, for I would have food and drink and entertainment. Too, I would have you stanch my leg.”

They came to ground in the center of the hamlet, and faces peered out through the windows of the inn, stark with mouths agape. Shocked villagers cried out in fear and rushed into homes and slammed shut the doors, though should the wizard or witch want in, there was nought could be done to stop them.

Limping slightly, Orbane strode toward the hostel, where a white-lettered but otherwise black sign proclaimed the place to be Le Mur Noir. Hradian followed, though she paused a moment to dunk the glowing end of her besom into the horse trough to extinguish the smoldering twigs. She caught up with her master as he stepped across the porch, the door opening at his gesture. The innkeeper quailed to see the wizard and witch enter his small establishment. He started to bolt but, with whispered word and a casual wave, Orbane arrested his flight. And Hradian ground her teeth in envy, for this was a spell she could not master. Oh, her three sisters could do so, and they had laughed at her pitiful attempts, but the spell was simply beyond her grasp. Even so, she was much better with herbal magery than they, and in turn she had laughed at them.

“Food and drink, fool,” Orbane snarled at the innkeeper,

“for I have had neither lately.”

Hradian frowned. “My lord?”

Orbane snorted. “One of the foulnesses of that loathsome castle, Acolyte: neither food nor drink are provided or needed.

One cannot enjoy a good meal or a fine vintage, or the simple pleasure of emptying one’s bladder or bowels.” Orbane again gestured at the innkeeper. The man jerked about and faced the wizard, and then slumped as he was released.

“M-my lord,” he stuttered, “I have b-but simple fare: a joint of beef, a flagon of ale, a loaf of bread is all I can provide.”

“Away, and bring it,” commanded Orbane, and he stepped into the common room.

Patrons therein blenched as wizard and witch entered. Orbane looked ’round, then gestured. “Out!” he commanded, but then, even as they stood to go, Orbane’s eyes lit up and he said,

“Non, wait. Hommes out, femmes remain.” The women sat down as the men left, some bolting, others reluctant and in tears yet helpless to do ought else.

Orbane drew down his trousers. “Acolyte, deal with my leg.”

Hradian unslung her rucksack and rummaged about within.

She withdrew packets of herbs and simples and bandages. Even as she treated his wound, there where the arrow had pierced, she could not help but to glance in anticipation at his now-erect member.

And when the treatment was done, in between bites of beef and bread and gulps of ale, Orbane swived every femme in the place, some several times.

And Hradian laughed to see his joyous diversion, and shrieked in pleasure at her own.

Then Orbane left the inn and began swaggering from house to house.

. .

At dawn the next morning, the innkeeper delivered a bundle of willow twigs to Hradian. She shed the charred withes from her besom, and bound new unto the shaft. The moment it was ready, she and Orbane took flight, leaving behind a stricken village in which every woman wept.

Through many twilight bounds they flew and over the lands below as the sun crept up and across the sky and down, and, as the eve drew upon them, Hradian guided her broom o’er the stench of her vast swamp.

They lit upon the flet of her cottage, and Crapaud plaintively croaked upon his mistress’s return, but seemingly took no note of Orbane.

“Oui, oui, all right, you may feed at will,” snapped Hradian.

Crapaud waddled to the edge and fell into the mire.

Orbane surveyed the immensity of the bog and drew in a deep breath and took in the odor. “Mayhap it will do.” And he gestured down at the undulant surface and up rose a thin tendril of a thick, yellow-green gaseous vapor, motes swirling within. Orbane reached out and touched the miasma with a single finger and lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled. He turned to Hradian and smiled. “You have chosen well, Acolyte. It is virulent, this Sickness lying at the bottom of your swamp. It will be more than enough to accomplish the deed, and then shall I rule. But to begin with, I must reawaken the hatred in my allies of old, and reassemble my armies.”

Hradian nodded but said, “Yet first, my lord, we must visit revenge upon Valeray and his-”

“Silence!” roared Orbane.

Hradian fell to her knees and pressed her hands to her mouth and peered down at his feet.

Orbane gritted his teeth in rage. “You presume to tell me what I must do?”

“Non, Master. It’s just that Valeray and his get are allied with the Three Sisters, and-”

“What? Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd?”

“Oui, my lord. The Sisters aid them at every turn.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?” demanded Orbane.

Hradian pressed her forehead against the flet and mumbled,

“Because I am a fool.”

“Where are they now, this Valeray and his children?”

“My lord, let me look in my dark mirror, and then will I say.”

“Very well. Arise and do my bidding.”

“Oui, Master.”

Hradian backed away on hands and knees and then stood.

She stepped into the cote and took up her bowl and filled it with water and in moments peered into ebon depths.

. .

The next morning again she gazed into the arcane mirror, and then she and Orbane took to flight, on their way to avenge the deaths of the three acolytes and to remove the principal allies of the Fates, but most of all to take revenge for the imprisonment of Orbane.