The Dark Witch And Her Knights

16 | The Beldams | Gavrial

The Beldams

The crones had gathered around the large mirror. Their oracle, a young girl, pale as the moon, knelt on the stone floor in exhaustion as her hand rested upon the edge of the round mirror table. Her vision of the princess shone through the glass.

The crones chirped and chittered their retched opinions and plans. The oracle's power was strained to its extent. She screamed out in pain as a wrinkled hand touched the glass manipulating the will of the universe. Another's long-clawed foot kicked at the girl, hitting her in the hip. Silent she remained using all her strength to project her gift through the magical reflection. If her hand moved and the vision was interrupted, there would be hell to pay.

"Arbor," a crone hissed in speculation.

"Loyal," another murmured.

"Controllable," the beldam by the brewing pot added.

"Strong," agreed a different one.

"Gavrial will be a prob-problem," someone wheezed.

"TSK, TSK, TSK," the others echoed their disapproval in harmony. The sound bounced off the walls making it all the more bone-chilling. Gavrial was no problem for them and if he was, he would be taken care of.

"They have formed a bond, hh- he is the one from the pro- prophecy," she rasped.

"It could be ei-either," their elder screamed out, words fragmented by phlegm, spittle pooling on her old cracked lips. "Force Ar-Arbor we shallllll," she hissed.

The rest chirped and clicked their dreadful sounds of agreeance.

The brewer went to her wall of witch pieces. She took an item from the shelf and made her way back to the pot to brew her potion. To cast a spell. She added the most important piece first. The essence of him.

"Cat whiskersss," one cackled an addition.

"Birds b-beak."

"Lizardsss clawww," another sneered and the brewer added.

"Frogs ton-gue."

The excitement grew in the hags as they called out ingredients.

"Childs tears."

"Blood of a royal."

"Bug shells"

"Chickweed."

"Yohimbe."

"Primrose... the yellow one."

"Winters bark."

"Volcanic sands."

"Vetivert."

"Lemon Verbanna," a beldam cawed with an uncontrollable sinister laugh.

"And Wormwood."

The pot smoked and sizzled with magic. Her concoction was cooked and dried then ground into dust. She brought a full bowl to the crones, each taking a left hand full.

Their free hand held the elbow of their sister to the left closing a full circle. They chanted and heaved their spell over the mirror holding their hands of ash above, then blowing the grime over the glass completely covering it. A final word was said before they all spat on the glass in unison. Setting the greatest prediction of their time in motion. In a terrible way.