© 2020 Simon McHardy. All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
For Hamish and Lotte.
“I feel death’s icy grasp upon me.” The wretch raised a withered arm, the skin black with fungus, to his nurse. She did not move, and the limb floated back to the bed, light as a feather. Morwen rolled her eyes and looked out the arched window at the dark waves that thundered towards Wichsault Castle and smashed themselves on the rocks far below. In Morwen’s view it was a pointless drama. The sea had tried to topple Wichsault for thousands of years. It should give up—like this old git.
Morwen’s mouth drooped at the corners, and her brow knitted. In a voice that cracked with self-pity—not sympathy—she said, “I’ll get you something for the pain. Close your eyes, it’ll all be over soon.” She spun around to leave the room and upset the demon on her shoulder who grabbed at her hair to stop his fall.
“It’s true then, I’m going to die?”
“Yes, and very soon by the looks.” Morwen continued her march from the room and ignored the rows of blackened, corpse-like figures decaying in their beds. Fourteen in all, the most yet, crumbled in their skins as the fungal roots guzzled on the juice of their flesh and organs. The man let out a heart-wrenching whimper that was joined by an accompanying chorus of groans from the other patients. Morwen rolled her eyes again. It seemed recently her eyeballs spent more time staring at the top of her skull than anywhere else.
A long, gloomy corridor led to the room which held her apothecary supplies. The only light came from a solitary torch spluttering in the chilly drafts that soughed over the stones. The rapid tapping of Morwen’s footsteps was deadened by the crash of the hundred-foot waves far below. The sound was always there hissing in her ears. The walls, like everywhere else in the castle, were covered in the black fungus carried in by the clouds of death from the forest.
“That wasn’t very nice,” the demon, Szat, said. He tossed a sucked chicken bone to the ground, yawned, and wiped his greasy hands on Morwen’s robe. Szat, the size of a house cat, insisted on riding on Morwen’s shoulder despite her complaints that he gave her an awful backache. He was naked except for a grubby loincloth Morwen demanded he wear. Without this minimal garment, he left unsightly marks on her shoulder. He looked like a boiled baby, skin blister red. His mouth was twice the size it should have been and filled with yellow teeth that could easily crack the chicken bone in half, should they be so inclined. His eyes, pretty pond-scum green, always blinked slowly and wetly as if to savour the experience.
“No point in lying to them, no one ever gets better from black rot. It’s best they get used to the idea.”
“What do I care about sick people? I meant, you nearly made me fall off back there. You know these wings are just for show.” He buzzed a set of small blowfly wings and produced another chicken leg which he thrust into his salivating mouth and gnawed greedily.
“I mean, I’m a warlock,” Morwen continued, ignoring the demon’s complaint, “trained in the dark arts, capable of untold destruction, and the justiciar has me making a whole lot of wasted, mouldy people ‘as comfortable as possible’ before they pass into Summerland.” The corridor turned at a forty-five-degree angle into more shadows and dust.
“You’re the only one left with any healing skills. What do you expect?” Szat said between mouthfuls. Morwen tried the second door on the right. It creaked, opened an inch, and stuck. She kicked the door viciously, and it slammed open. Szat was forced to grip his mistress’s hair again.
“Careful,” Szat spluttered. Half-chewed food showered Morwen’s robe. He withdrew his hand and gazed at the chicken bone entangled in Morwen’s auburn locks. Morwen shook her head; the bone remained. What did she care anymore? The castle was doomed. Nearly everyone who counted had black rot. All her hard work climbing to the top was for nothing. She was the High Exarch now, with a coven of none. The whole lot of them were dead. There wasn’t a soul to lord her power over and make miserable.
Morwen took stock of the room, little bigger than a storage cupboard. The musty odour of dried plants mingled with the brackish tang of the sea. A small window cast a sliver of grey light onto shelves lined with near-empty jars of herbs and roots. Morwen sighed. She would need to find time to replenish her stock in the forest, and that would mean a guard escort. She really hated those guys, especially Goron. His mother must have got her M’s and G’s confused. She didn’t know what her sister, Anwen, saw in him. He must be great in bed. Surely even that would get boring after a few months, though, and his many inadequacies would become overwhelmingly evident.
Morwen took down two of the near-empty jars. The sleeves of her robe slipped back to reveal her scarred wrists. Her left hand, minus a pinkie, gripped the glass awkwardly. One jar contained a black, twisted root called devil’s toes which caused a dreamless sleep. The other held tiny, white flowers called wife’s lover, which brought about intense feelings of
