“The justiciar wants to talk to you,” Jasin said, her face indifferent to the threat.
Morwen ought to have known the old man wouldn’t be able to sort this mess out by himself. It was the perfect opportunity to put a plan she’d been formulating into action.
The justiciar looked awful. His skin was as grey as the pillar he was leaning against, and the black bags under his eyes were so plump they looked ready to burst. He smiled weakly at Morwen. “I need your help. It seems Wichsault is in serious trouble.”
“You haven’t found any food either,” Szat exclaimed. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I spotted a big, fat, juicy baby before, and if you distract the mother, I’ll let you have a leg.” Yeston cringed in disgust.
“Ha! I knew it,” Morwen snorted. “I’ve already told you, babies aren’t for eating.”
“I don’t see why not. They look perfectly delicious,” Szat said sulkily and returned to chewing on Morwen’s hair.
“What do you want with me, Yeston? You made me the castle physician…”
“The castle executioner, more like it,” Jasin scoffed.
Morwen ignored the jibe and continued. “…and the high exarch. I’m no soldier. That’s Goron’s area of expertise.”
“He’s dead,” Jasin said shrugging her shoulders.
“Something good’s come of this then. What about Jasin here? She looks stupid enough to take his place,” Morwen replied.
Jasin growled and gave Morwen a hefty shove.
Szat was dislodged from Morwen’s shoulder. The demon dangled from her hair with his face twisted in rage and flames spluttering from his hands until he regained purchase.
Jasin’s hand went to her sword.
“I wouldn’t. He doesn’t need much of an excuse to barbeque some meat at present,” Morwen warned patting her smouldering hair.
“Will you two cut it out. We’re trapped, no food or water, not enough guards to fight our way out, and you’re bickering like children.” Yeston rested the back of his head against the pillar. “We need your magic.”
There, he’d said it. Morwen’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “You won’t like my suggestion.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Yeston said. As if to emphasise his point, there was a loud thud at the door. The keep shuddered, and a cloud of plaster billowed into the air. The toadoks had found a suitable battering ram.
There was no stage or pulpit for Morwen’s rousing speech. She delivered it from where she stood amongst the crowd. “As you are all aware,” Morwen said. Her voice failed to rise above the din.
“Quiet! The witch speaks,” Jasin boomed. The keep fell silent momentarily. Everyone’s attention was turned to the warlock whose face was hidden by the shadow of her black cowl.
Morwen decided to get straight to the point, “You’re all going to die.”
Panic swept through the room like a tidal wave. People clung to one other and began to wail. Maybe the forward approach wasn’t the way to go in this instance. “I mean if we don’t make a sacrifice.”
“What sort of sacrifice?” a woman said. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Morwen doubted her answer would be any better received no matter how she delivered it, so she blurted out, “A blood sacrifice.” The night mother would grant requests for multiple demons in times of crises, but the sacrifices had to match the number required.
The audience gasped collectively.
“No one needs to die. I need only a little flesh to summon a demon army to fight the toadoks. Say, a hundred pieces, that would be enough.”
She was right. The audience didn’t like her proposal at all. Insults were hurled at her, and fists were shaken. A man, Morwen recognised from the kitchen, shouted, “She’s still got a few bits and pieces left. Let’s start with her.” He grasped Morwen’s robe and yanked her to him.
Morwen tried to pull away but was dragged closer to his knotted fist and the slobber spraying from his mouth.
Szat ejected a jet of flame into the man’s face and singed his hair and eyebrows. While his hands frantically patted at the blaze, Morwen kicked him between the legs. The man dropped to the ground and curled into a groaning ball. Morwen put the boot in a couple more times as a show of authority.
The display of violence had the effect of quieting the crowd. Morwen continued. “I need a hundred toes, ears, fingers, noses, or any other appendage you’re willing to part with. Any volunteers?” She scanned the fearful faces finding Anwen’s among them. It was red and spotty, eyes shining with tears. She must have been told about Goron and was either distraught at his demise, or his quick escape from his curse. Knowing Anwen, it was the latter.
A frail, old woman was the first to volunteer. “I have a couple of spare toes you could have.” She slipped off a shoe and wiggled gnarled toes topped with talon-like, yellow nails.”
“Ew,” Szat said.
“Anybody else?” Morwen asked.
The woman’s husband, not to be outdone by his wife, matched her offer. This shamed two young men into advancing an ear each. Emmely, a prodigious breeder with three snotty-nosed brats in tow and others no doubt scattered throughout the castle, pushed two of the oldest children forward and said, “There’s twenty more for you.”
Morwen greedily accepted, and Justiciar Yeston was forced to intercede stating all donations must come from persons over sixteen years of age.
Hers was the last offer.
Morwen glared at the gathering hoping to guilt a few into donating an unwanted toe or finger. No one would meet her eye, finding the details of their feet or the architecture of the ceiling suddenly extremely fascinating.
“It’s not enough,” Morwen announced.
“We will need to draw straws,” Yeston interjected.
Morwen stared at the bloody pile of flesh, seventy-seven toes, sixteen fingers, six ears, one slab of dimpled buttock—the owner said she had ample to spare—and not a single nose. Most willingly paid the price, but there were some that needed Jasin and her guards to assist them. The soldiers
