“I did not travel all the way from my lovely hovel in Penblight for this,” Mother Dahleya muttered again, walking her strange, step-shuffle, step-shuffle, as she gingerly felt her way down the slope. “If it were not for the glory of Penblight and our useless Champion, I would even now be at home, harvesting my latest crop of eat-your-innards frog spawn.”
She approached the town gates and stepped through, finding herself caught along the swell of people pushing towards the Colosseum at the centre of Darr Khazzid, a tiny town known for decades as the habitation of farmers, traders and fishermen. Then, lo and behold, it was granted a royal charter and transformed into a Naval base for the kingdom of Al’Khezam, benefitting from warships on one side and swamps on the other. Suddenly, the yearly tournaments had new, magnificent fighters from the best schools and trainers. Which is why the former scholar turned witch was now on her way to even the odds, so to speak.
Muttering imprecations that went unheeded by those around her, Mother Dahleya was swept towards the centre gate of the Colosseum and past the market, the glory of Darr Khazzid. With a sigh of longing, she could only glance at the fine wares on display, reminders of her distant past. She was pushed through the gate and onto the bleachers, where she quite lost her patience and began to thump people with her staff, pushing them out of the way. Any words they might have said regarding their sore heads died on their lips at the sight of the hideous, malevolent head peaking out of the filthiest, smelliest hood they’d ever witnessed.
A path opened before she and she shuttled down it in a crab-like side-stepping manner faster than thought possible. She moved in this half-run, half-fall fashion until she reached the tent where the ‘Champion of Penblight’ was fastening on his armour.
“Tulipa have mercy,” was the cry when she entered. “What are you doing here, M-M-Mother Dahleya?” Having grown up in the deadliest of swamps, very little scared him--except for her.
“I’m here to ensure no one hexes you, you fool.”
“What? Why would they do that? It’s a contest of arms and strength, not hodge-podge.”
“If you believe that, you are a bigger idiot than I thought. Here, take your sword. I hear your name being called.”
She watched with satisfaction as the lumbering fool sheathed his weapon and walked out into the sun. Reaching for his water jug, she quickly rubbed off the remnants of the potion she had smeared on his blade. She stood just inside the tent, watching with satisfaction as he faced off the Neran—a fighter of deadly renown who had killed more than once in the arena, though that was not strictly allowed.
“I promised your wife that she would not lose her husband and the father of her children.”
A cry rent through the crowd. The Neran had fallen and the Penblight fighter was crowned victor, to the surprise of all. The fallen fighter was taken off the field in a stretcher, and our fearless hag followed, her stick tap-tapping, hitting the ankles of unfortunates who got in her way.
The Neran was lying in the middle of the physicians’ tent, blubbering like a child. “My eyes, my eyes,” he cried. “I can’t see.”
The physicians left the tent, conferring with each other on the reasons for his loss of eyesight, a concussion being the favourable explanation. Mother Dahleya waited until they were out of hearing and then crept over to the Neran, pinched his nose to force his mouth open and poured the contents of a vial down his gullet.
Spluttering, choking, the fighter retched and asked, “What is that? Who are you?”
“Shh, I am one who can help you regain your sight. Those quacks know nothing.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with me?”
“Aye, and I’ve given you the antidote. But if you want to heal faster, then I suggest you travel to Delmunya and bathe in the aura of Draigh’s Monument. That will aide in ridding of impurities from your blood.”
With nary a whisper, she was gone, leaving the Neran to ponder all that had happened. She scuttled out of the arena and into the marketplace as fast as she could, haranguing a poor merchant until he allowed her to join his caravan that would pass very close to her lovely hovel in the swamp-infested, poison-ridden, noxious fume laden village of Penblight.
The seaside town of Greybright will be changed to “Darr Khazzid” pending name approval. And I hope to see many face pass through... or pehaps stay.
