Free The Two Torcs by Debbie Viguié Page B

were patches of crumbling skin the color of ash that flaked and dusted the long gnarl of beard that hung from his jaw.
    “Why ask me?” The Mad Monk’s voice rolled through the air between them, years of reciting incantations not meant for human throats giving his words odd inflections on and between their syllables. “I am no more privy to a reason when summoned than you.”
    The moment he began speaking, all the others in the room grew quiet, eyes on the two of them.
    “Ah, but you are infinitely more curious than I.”
    The monk scoffed. “That is simply a lie.”
    “From these lips?” Her fingers slid across her chin, nails scraping the edge of her bottom lip just enough to make it swell and become plump. “Never.” Dark eyes glittered. “Surely you have something in that mad, swirling head of yours.”
    He stared at her. Slowly his hands slid down his body until they clutched at his own jutting hipbones like milk and blood spiders. He sniffed deeply through a hawkish nose. “It may have something to do with the upcoming solstice.”
    “A solstice is special,” another witch muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.
    “Ah, but not like this one. This solstice only comes every one hundred generations. The druids had a name for it, I believe.”
    Enough!
the Sheriff thought from his place of concealment.
    Dropping his magick with a shrug, he appeared in the center of their gathering. Most of the people reacted sharply, jerking away from the sudden intrusion, reeling from the backwash of eldritch energy. Only the Mad Monk and the necromancer remained as they were; only Agrona did so with a smile on her face.
    “What progress have you made in countering the magic of the forest?” he demanded as he moved from the center of the room, pinning each person with his eyes.
    “We… we still haven’t found a way to break the geas that keeps you from entering,” the insane monk replied. “It is ancient, primordial. It’s like nothing I’ve worked against before.”
    The Sheriff was not surprised, however. Frankly he would have been surprised if this motley assortment had managed to make
any
progress in that regard. Normally he would show his disappointment, choosing one of them to be an example, but not this day.
    “Keep at it,” he commanded, “but I have a more immediate need, something that must be addressed at once.”
    “Is it the long night?” the necromancer asked, slithering her way across the floor toward him.
    Instantly he could feel Glynna’s hatred of the woman, like a physical force. The woman was not long for this world, he feared. A shame, since she had her uses. Best to get something out of her while he could.
    “I need a potion,” he said. “One that, when it makes contact with the skin, drives the victim into a state of pure paranoia, so that they are gripped by fear, suspicion.”
    There were people protecting the Hood. Of that he was certain. If he could undermine their trust in him, at the very least he could remove the outlaw’s safe havens. At the most he might bring him down without sinking either sword or arrow into him. The best way to do that was to turn the Hood against his own allies. Thus he needed to turn the man into a pariah.
    Murmurs went up around the room. Finally a voice from the back replied to his instructions.
    “It would be easier to make something that, if drunk or eaten, would produce the same effect.” The murmurs turned to agreement.
    “Easier, yes, but not what I require,” the Sheriff said, putting just a hint more menace in his tone. The murmurs ceased.
    “It will be done as you wish,” the necromancer said. As she did, he could feel Glynna’s hate deepening, and he couldn’t help but smile.
    He wondered how the woman would die.
    * * *
    Tuck tugged at the buckle on the harness. Despite the cold, it was slippery with horse sweat. He looked over the back of the docile animal.
    “You could help.”
    Alan-a-Dale smiled. “I could, in theory.”
    The