He hadn’t always been like this. Twenty-six years ago when he took up the position of justiciar, he was full of ideas. His chief achievement was the extensive culling of the forest to make more arable land. Within a few years, the castle was thriving. They had more food than they knew what to do with, and birth rates doubled. It was a time of plenty.
Then everything changed. Toxic clouds drifted from the forest, poisoned the people, and caused the very stone itself to erode. The village of Mournburn was overrun by a blight of ancient creatures. Death stalked the land. The once-thriving castle began to die. Its population dwindled from over twenty thousand to fewer than nine hundred, many of whom were infected with dark rot.
What could he do? He’d sent the few rangers he had to find the cause of the sickness, but they joined the armies of dead. If he ordered the evacuation of Wichsault and sought refuge in the forest, it would be a battle for survival against the toadoks, mothras, and god only knew what other evil entities. They couldn’t win against such enemies. No, only one option remained.
There was a loud knock at the door. Yeston picked up the bottle of wine and emptied it. “Come in.” He fetched another as Morwen entered. She was either a vision or a nightmare. Her red hair wreathed her bone-pale face in flames. Her ugly demon sat on her shoulder like a giant blood blister.
Yeston wasn’t fond of warlocks. He’d come from the ranks of the castle guards who trusted their swords not magic. They had never sold their souls to some hell for a few tricks and the pick of its vile denizens. He guessed Morwen’s fellow warlocks would all be in that hell now regretting their frivolous choices. He pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth.
Morwen’s dark eyes fixed on it. “May I?” He didn’t feel like sharing, but he didn’t want to offend the witch. She was Wichsault’s last hope. He passed it to her. Her four-fingered hand grasped the bottle and emptied it as expertly as he—he was impressed. She studied him, no doubt curious about being summoned.
Morwen had been the worst but only choice to run the castle hospital. Reports that none of her patients survived a night of her care had confirmed it. A polite cough wheezed from a dark corner of the room.
Caroc had slipped in behind Morwen and leant against the far wall watching them. He didn’t trust the ranger. The man had survived when he had no right to. Now he seldom spoke, and his eyes were full of terrors.
“How is it beyond the walls?” Yeston asked.
“Death.” Caroc’s voice was a whisper.
There was a loud belch followed by a groan, and a large shape filled the doorway. It was Goron. He dipped his head to enter. “Excuse me, I’m not feeling too good.” He glared at Morwen and nodded to Caroc who returned the gesture.
Goron was more trustworthy so long as he wasn’t drunk, or you weren’t a beautiful woman. “Not the black rot I hope,” Yeston said. He began to rummage around in his desk drawer. He was sure a bottle of brandy was in there somewhere.
“No, it’s something I drank.” Goron slumped down in a leather chair leaving no room for even a mouse to squeeze in.
Morwen tossed the bottle of wine at Goron who caught it and was about to press it to his lips when he realized it was empty. He resumed his death stare at Morwen who smiled sweetly.
“Ah ha,” Yeston found the brandy and sat behind his desk with no intention of offering a drink to anyone else. He took a swig and surveyed the room. They were all here, the last ranger and warlock, and the captain of the guard of Wichsault. One more swig and he would begin his rousing speech—he took three. “Wichsault needs your help. If we don’t find out what’s causing this disease, that’s it. We’re all dead.” He paused waiting for a reaction. Their faces did not change. Evidently they had reached that conclusion themselves. “I have chosen the three of you to hunt down the source of the black rot and destroy it.”
Nobody shouted with joy at being chosen, so he continued, “I suspect it’s the mothras, perhaps angered by our intrusion into the forest.” Was it his imagination or was Caroc shaking?
“That would make sense. I wonder who initiated destroying the forest,” Morwen said glaring at Yeston. Her demon jumped down from her shoulder with a graceless thud and ransacked the room in a search of something to eat.
Yeston wilted under her stare. “So, we are agreed then?”
“I won’t do it, not with him,” Morwen said and pointed at Goron. Goron was only half listening. It was Yeston’s brandy that had captured his attention.
“Do you want to be the one that condemns us all to death then?” Yeston said.
Morwen shrugged.
Yeston tried a different tack to appeal to her selfish nature. “If you succeed, I’ll be looking for a second-in-command and somebody to take over when I’m gone.”
Morwen’s cold eyes gleamed. “All right, but only if I’m in charge. They have to do everything I say, or I’m out.”
“And make sure I don’t go hungry,” Szat said. He’d found a tin of stale oak cakes and was busy munching his way through them.
“Deal.” Yeston didn’t wait for the others to agree. “Arrange for an immediate start and I’ll authorise supplies. And while you’re
