The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

There was a huge whooshing sound. The demons and Mawdoor all came together in a tall funnel. They were whipped together. She saw that Mawdoor’s golden sword seemed to be bending around him, holding him prisoner. The whole mess of them hovered over the cask, then whooshed into it. She slammed the lid closed and turned the key.

The prince was on his hands and knees, his head down, panting. He was covered with blood.

She touched him, kissed him, began her chants to heal him. But the demon wounds didn’t respond. She said, “Prince, listen to me. I can’t heal you. We must use other methods.”

“There are no other methods,” he said, and knew that very soon he would be dead.

“No, you stupid prince, there must be something!”

He managed to raise his head to look at her. “Brecia, dearest, I am so very sorry that it must end like this. The bastard brought in demons. Who would have imagined that? Mawdoor surprised me. I wonder where my knife hit him.”

She was utterly terrified, utterly distracted, and said, “Your knife took off his ear.”

“Good. Ah, this was very interesting.” And he fell onto his side, his eyes closed, his blood flowing bright and thick onto the ground.

“No!” Brecia raised her head and yelled, “Help me!”

Ghosts filled the air, swirling about the prince, who lay still on the ground. They were nearly transparent, save for their long, shadowy, naked feet. Brecia watched them settle over him, enfolding him in their very being, and they began to chant. Soft, sibilant voices rose to fill the courtyard, to rise into the heavens themselves.

Brecia fell to her knees beside the prince. She felt one of the ghosts gently shove her back. She sat back on her heels and watched. And she prayed. There was nothing else she could do.

The soft chanting began to fade

just as the ghosts themselves began to thin into the air itself. Then they were gone, back to the oak forest.

The prince lay motionless on the ground. No more blood was on him, but he was so still. She leaned over him, touching his beloved face, stroking her fingers over his chest, his arms, his legs. “Prince, enough of this. Come back to me, my lord.”

Time passed, endless time. She was ready to scream her fear, her sorrow when suddenly his eyes fluttered open. He smiled up at her.

She leaned down and kissed his mouth.

“Your tears are wetting me, Brecia.”

“You mad, mad prince.” She kissed him again and again. “You will be all right.” She continued to kiss his mouth, his nose, his ears.

But he was so tired, his very being so battered, that he couldn’t even kiss her back, and surely that was something he hated.

Slowly, strength flowed back into his body. He drew a deep breath and sat up. He shook his head. There was no more blood, no more of the huge wounds the demons had gouged into his body, some of them nearly tearing him in two. He said, “Your ghosts saved me.”

“Our ghosts, prince,” she said. “Our ghosts.”

“You called for the key. That was very smart of you, Brecia. You opened the cask?”

She nodded at the cask, sitting on the ground, unmoving, the key in the lock. “Mawdoor and all the demons are inside, his golden sword wrapped around him.”

“All that animal wailing,” the prince said, “it was a charming idea.” He nodded to the cask and in the next instant, it was in his hands. “What happened?”

“The demons seemed to grab Mawdoor up, all twisting together. They looked like a whirling cyclone, coming straight toward the cask. It was like a huge funnel sinking deeper and deeper into the cask until I couldn’t see it anymore—”

“—and you slammed the lid down and locked it.”

She nodded.

He held the cask close, frowned. “This is very curious. I know they’re in there, but I can’t feel them, any of them. I can sense nothing.”

She kept her eyes on that cask, still so afraid that it would burst open and the demons would burst out and tear him to shreds and Mawdoor would force her to watch him die. She was tensed, alert, everything in her ready to whisk the both of them off to Spain, perhaps for some hunting, if something happened. She hated that cask, hated the creatures imprisoned inside it.

The prince was rubbing his chin. “I am thinking, Brecia. We must deal with this cask.”