Hob Goodfellowe

Caewen could not bring herself to be angry. She felt only flat, worn out, coldly irritated. “There was no cheating.” Quinnya said nothing, but stared in her off-kilter way, as if by staring she would force Caewen into some sort of blubbering apology and confession. “If there is nothing else?” said Caewen. “I would like…

As she turned to go, she felt their eyes on her back, along with the stares of those wizards and witches who were still lingering at the fringes of the space. There were muttered whispers, coughs and questioning stares. Caewen and Keri started off towards Dapplegrim. “Is it unusual? Not taking a side?” “Reasonably, yeah….

The two of them, Caewen and Keri, wove a path among the torches and open fires, coming at last to a slight raised knoll atop which there was a small sweep of stone carved into a platform. On this plinth, facing them, were two strange creatures. On their right sat a withered old man, skin…

At length, she said, quietly: “Here is my last question, though it is not for my sake.” One long draw of breath. Now, she had to remember all the details. “Far to the east,” she started, “there is an Empire called Actria. I am told that they have long been threatened by a cult of…

Caewen nodded and considered her options. She might ask whether Fafmuir could be trusted, or what Fafmuir was up to, assuming he was up to anything. Or she could ask why that assassin was at the moot. Perhaps, who hired the assassin? Although, that would be a wasted question if he had not been hired…

Confused, she looked around. A cave, rough and dripping with limestone fingers. Distant echoing droplets of water tapped the silence. Rich clay-smells of cave mud lay on the air. In the near distance, ancient looking images crawled over every surface; ochre, chalk and charcoal; hunters and huntresses; strange huge beasts that she did not recognise;…

He mistook her tone. “That’s better,” he cooed. “You be respectful.” It grew in her, feeling something like an urge to retch. There was a point of no return where the spell was coming out of her, and no amount of holding it back would help. It was like giving birth to a dirty flooding…

The shorter man spoke up then. “We could have some fun first. She’s not half-bad to look at.” The other one screwed up his face in a knot. “Don’t be an idiot. If she’s here, it’s cause she’s witching a-training, right? She’s dangerous, right, weapons or none.” He then cast a quick, wary look at…

Although it had been only the smallest sort of spell, the effort left her fighting for air, and feeling dizzy again too. Her right arm throbbed with an angry, hot pain. The magic had killed bits of her as it wove itself through meat, bone and tendon… small bits, certainly, perhaps no worse than what…