The Penwyth Curse
“He would never forget the look on the old witch’s face when his second wish was to have her walk into the sacred oak forest blindfolded, and stay there.Aye, the look on her face had made him feel very clever indeed. He’d waited, his own cleverness pumping through him, to see what his grandmother would say. She hadn’t said anything, nor had she gone into the forest. What she’d done was to cover his face with a soggy red rash for a full three months. Still, even with a face that brought scores of... averted eyes, he’d believed it worth it.Mawdoor was looking at the men he’d sent to kill the prince. They were all tangled together, one man’s leg twisted through another’s clasped hands, another man’s head sticking between yet another’s legs, eye level to his behind, and Mawdoor couldn’t stop laughing. And Branneck—just look at Branneck, hanging there, as if by invisible cords from the heavens, screaming his head off, still holding the bloody knife that, Mawdoor hoped, had indeed slain the damned prince of Balanth.Such a short time ago Mawdoor had been willing to live and let live, a philosophical stance he’d had no choice but to adopt when he realized it wouldn’t be at all an easy thing to kill the prince of Balanth.But all that had changed when he’d seen Brecia, that witch of the oak forest, who with one look made him as hard as the rune diamond that blinked like spun light, and whose symbols meant nothing he knew of.MoreLess
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