A Stunning New Novel
By Michael Scott Clifton
Tressalayne
Chapter One
The cart rolled to a stop.
Wooden wheels squeaked and grated while settling on the dirty, uneven cobblestones of the village. Canvas-covered ribs formed a pitched oval around the back of the cart, its interior cloaked in murky darkness. A line of buildings stretched into the gloom of the night, their only consistency being no two structures were exactly alike. Ranging from single story to several stories high, more than a few leaned precariously on their foundations as if ready to collapse at the first puff of wind.
Here and there a torch sputtered casting a weak illumination. The flickering light revealed a deserted, narrow thoroughfare along which the haphazard collection of shops, taverns, and dwellings were located. Stone gutters, overflowing with refuse and debris, ran alongside the road. The sulfurous, rotten-egg reek of rotting garbage, competed with the equally potent smell of human waste thrown out of windows to spatter onto the cracked and stained cobblestones.
Warped from wind and weather, a wooden sign hung unevenly from a rusty iron pike bolted to the side of a nearby tavern. Two rust-spotted chains held the sign to the pike as it swung, creaking, in the evening breeze. The cracked and peeling paint on the sign revealed the picture of an enormously fat soldier, his belly spilling over his belt. The soldier held a pike beneath which was etched, The Potbellied Pikesman.
A cloaked figure studied the sign from the padded bench of the cart below.
“You know how to pick’em, Morganna,” a voice called from the back of the cart. “Why must we always stay at pigsties and hovels in every village?”
Morganna ignored the comment and continued studying the sign. Blood-red lips were pursed in concentration, as she tapped the cart bench with her forefinger. A long, scythe-like nail grew from the appendage. Deep in thought, Morganna scored grooves in the wooden cart bench with the razor-sharp nail. As if reaching a decision, she abruptly threw back the cowl of her cloak revealing long, raven-black hair. A pair of dark eyes glanced back to the canvas-covered interior of the cart.
“Get out. We finish our business here tonight.”
Groans greeted her command.
“Why here? Why must it be at this pestilent flophouse? Why can’t we at least stay someplace where the bed lice aren’t the size of rats?”
Scowling, Morganna replied, “I’ve told you before, we must keep a low profile. We cannot afford to bring attention to ourselves or our activities. The last thing we need is to give the Hunters a trail to follow.”
The hinged back of the cart banged open, and two figures climbed out. A brace of flickering, smoking torches bracketing the scarred door of the tavern revealed two women of breathtaking beauty. One had hair the color of spun gold and eyes of deep blue, while the other had rich, burgundy-colored hair and emerald-green eyes.
Identical lockets were draped about each woman’s neck. The chains holding the amulets were made of highly polished silver, and inset into each locket was an opal as black as night—as if no light was reflected or received by the gem. The surface of each opal appeared to ripple like water.
The three women stopped in front of the tavern door. Each stood taller than most men as they conferred with one another.
“Let me guess. Whores again?” quipped the blonde.
“Of course, Argatha…and stop complaining before I turn you into a marsh toad!”
Tittering and cackling erupted from the women before Morganna finally brought it to a halt by chopping her hand.
“Enough! Tressalayne, get our implements from the cart. Argatha, follow me.”
The burgundy-haired woman turned and began rummaging in the back of the cart while Morganna and Argatha approached two scrawny horses hitched to the cart. The lathered horses, underfed and with ribs protruding from tightly stretched skin, were still heaving from the exertion of pulling the cart.
Nodding at Argatha, Morganna touched the nearest horse. Immediately, a bright green light enveloped the animal, and when it subsided, a man appeared. Gaunt and naked, he was on his hands and knees.
“Stand!” Morganna ordered.
The man stood unsteadily onto his feet, the leather harness falling from his emaciated shoulders. His eyes, vacant and blank, stared sightlessly, while saliva dribbled in a thin rope from the side of his mouth.
Using her scimitar-like fingernail, Morganna quickly drew it across the hapless man’s jugular. Blood spurted in a crimson stream from the severed throat which Argatha nimbly caught in a chalice tossed to her from Tressalayne. Chased in arcane symbols, the amber-colored chalice never overflowed despite the torrent gushing into it. Within moments, the fountain of blood slowed to a trickle. Eyes rolling back into his head, the man died, toppling face first into the hard cobblestones. His limbs were still twitching when Morganna repeated the procedure with the remaining horse-faux-man. The bottomless chalice welded by Argatha once again caught the hot, crimson stream.
Morganna picked up both bodies as if as light as straw, and carried them to a dark, filth encrusted alley running beside the tavern. Rats scurried away from the witch, disappearing in moldering piles of rotten food and garbage. With an effortless heave, she sent both bodies flying down the narrow lane where they landed with a graceless thud. Wiping her hands on her dress, Morganna turned back to Argatha and Tressalayne.
“Another advantage of staying in these seedy taverns is that dead bodies rarely draw much attention. A couple of dead men with slit throats in a back alley is more likely to elicit a yawn than any kind of investigation. I’ll wager they’ll lay there until they become so ripe the smell forces the tavern keeper to remove them.”
Quickly changing tack, Morganna asked, “Tressalayne, do you have the changeling powder?”
Tressalayne nodded and handed Morganna a corked bottle whose contents glimmered in the weak light from the torches.
With practiced ease, Morganna pulled the cork from the bottle while muttering words in a harsh, guttural, language few if any in the village, county, or even kingdom would recognize or understand. Arranged at arm’s length from one another, Argatha and Tressalayne stood while Morganna tapped a minute amount of powder in her hand. Blowing a portion of it from her cupped hand, first on Argatha, then the next on Tressalayne, Morganna re-corked the bottle and waited.
At first nothing happened. Only the mournful creaking of the tavern sign relieved the quiet of the night. Then, like embers or ash from a slow-burning fire, sparks began to fall from both women. Sluggish at first but building in intensity until with a crescendo, the sparkling fire completely enveloped both women. With a pop the sparks disappeared, and in their place were two shorter, scantily-clad women. Argatha wore a stained, blue gown that opened to her navel and barely covered her straining breasts. Of a light, transparent material, it left little to the imagination. Tressalayne wore a torn and patched green gown. The gown contained a slit that traveled to mid-thigh exposing milky skin and shapely legs, while her breasts threatened to fall out of the loosely-laced bodice. Cheap jewelry in the form of rings and bangles flashed from both women’s hands and wrists.
Scrutinizing them, Morganna, nodded, satisfied. Handing the bottle of powder to Tressalayne, she said, “My turn.”
Tressalayne stared at the bottle before comprehension began to sink in. “You mean…you mean—”
“Yes. You are ready. You have earned the right,” Morganna said smiling.
“But you haven’t even let me try transmogrification and I am older and more experienced!” Argatha protested.
“True,” Morganna conceded, “but then Tressalayne is already more skillful than you and I have no doubt, more powerful. Now shut up and let’s get on with it.”
Argatha opened her mouth as if to supply a further protest, but a steely glance from Morganna caused her to quickly swallow the comment.
Fumbling with the cork, Tressalayne almost dropped the bottle. Fighting to keep her hand s
teady, she spilled some of the powder into it while repeating the spell spoken moments earlier by Morganna. Finally, she blew the powder onto Morganna.
Time passed and nothing happened. Argatha began to chortle and Tressalayne despaired that she had incanted the spell incorrectly. Just as she was about to ask for a second chance, sparks dripped from Morganna’s figure. Building into a roaring, twisting tornado of sparkling light, with a bang, it winked out.
Morganna stood before them, a shorter and plumper woman in a worn, wine-red gown. Clinging tightly to her voluptuous figure, the gown was low cut exposing the deep valley of Morganna’s enormous bosom.
Examining herself with a critical eye, Morganna nodded in satisfaction. “A little overboard with the tits, but otherwise well done.” Turning to Argatha, she said, “Go get our ‘guests’.” Cackling, Argatha returned to the cart.
Looking into the back of the cart, Argatha commanded, “Come!”
Immediately, two figures climbed out of the cart and stood at attention before Argatha. One was a young man. Tall and slim with thick, curly hair falling to his shoulders, the handsome youth was clothed in an expensive tunic and riding breeches. The other half of the pair was a young woman. Lustrous blonde hair fell halfway down the woman’s back and framed a face of flawless perfection. A shimmering, light-blue dress clung to her youthful curves, the tightly laced bodice molded to her modest bosom.
Both the man and woman stared blank-eyed and unblinking.
Reaching into the back of the cart, Argatha grabbed a canvas bag and tossed the chalice in it. Then, pulling a wand from her sleeve, Argatha tapped the cart three times. Shivering like a leaf in the wind, the cart began to shrink and continued shrinking until it was a hand-sized object resembling a child’s toy. Placing the tiny cart next to the chalice in the bag, Argatha closed it and motioned to the young couple. Walking with wooden, jerking motions, they followed Argatha as she returned to Morganna’s side.
Taking a last look around to make sure they had been unobserved, Morganna turned the iron handle of the tavern door and they walked in.
Unlike the quiet of the darkened street, the common room inside of the tavern was a maelstrom of noise, light, and commotion. A cacophony of dozens of voices assaulted the witches’ hearing, some bellowing for more ale, others raised in argument.
In one corner, a half-dozen men in the rough, worn and stained clothing of drovers, herdsmen, and farmers were engaged in a game of dice. Boisterous shouting erupted as one bald, grizzled farmer threw the dice, the roar from the winners mixed with the groans of those who lost. Moments later a fight broke out over disagreement on the payment of wagers.
In another corner, a group of men were throwing darts at a chipped and pitted dart board. A gap-toothed barmaid in an ale-stained apron struggled to negotiate her way through the knot of men. Slapping and in some cases, punching, at the rough men whose groping hands attempted to pinch her ample backside, the barmaid went about her business of pouring ale and picking up empty leathern jacks.
The smell of sour ale, smoke, and unwashed bodies was overpowering, and Morganna, Argatha, and Tressalyne had to stifle their reflex to hold their noses. Morganna’s sharp eyes spotted the tavern keeper wiping a worn and age-darkened wooden bar a number of paces to their left. The rag the tavern keeper was wiping the bar with looked little worse than the clothing he wore. A sweat-stained leather apron covered his wide girth, and a thick growth of grizzly chest hair erupted from the top of the bib like a shock of wheat. Jug-eared and balding, the tavern keeper warily watched the three women approach.
Stopping before the bar, Morganna purred, “We’d like a room for the night.”
Running a critical eye over Morganna and her companions, the grizzled tavern keeper took his time answering. Finally, he said, “Ten coppers.”
Morganna bit back a retort knowing that five coppers would be more than a fair price at such a backwater tavern. Reaching into the canyon between her breasts, she took out a small leather purse.
Before she could flip the coins to the tavern keeper, he thrust his chin toward the young man and woman standing behind the three witches.
“And five more for your clients.”
It took every ounce of self-control for Morganna not to cast a strangling spell on the fat tavern keeper. Her plan of smoothly arranging for lodging and exiting the common room was in jeopardy. The longer they lingered, the more attention they would garner…the last thing she wanted.
Already some of the men in the tavern were pointing to the women. Others were staggering to their feet, no doubt to inquire as to the price for a night’s companionship. Quickly, Morganna took a silver coin from the purse and pitched it to the tavern keeper. Deftly catching it in midair, he bit down on the coin. Satisfied, he reached under the bar and produced a sturdy iron key. Smirking, he handed it to Morganna.
Turning, Morganna led the entourage up a creaking staircase some ten paces to the left of the bar. Impatient, she waited at the top of the steps slapping the iron key in the palm of her hand. She was anxious to get started.
There was much work to do.
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The Treasure Hunt Club Page 32