A witch was dying in a torture chamber, in the dungeons of the Tower of the Council of Mages.
The room was small, with a low ceiling.
In the far corner of the cell door there was a hill of dirty rags. Next to it, there was a charcoal fryer in which torture instruments were rolled. Next to the fryer was a low table with the tools that had been laid out.
The witch's body lay in the center of the cell, on a low, strong wooden table. The arms and legs of the dying woman were still chained to the table.
The light of a few lamps was enough to see clearly any change in the face of the one being questioned.
The executioners of the empire were masters of their craft. By the intonation of their voices, by the smallest changes in their facial expressions, they were able to recognize lies, and make sure that confessions were true.
The door to the cell was open.
There were three at the entrance.
The girl, as soon as she came in, didn't feel well.
The atmosphere in the room was creepy. Too much agony, moaning, screaming and suffering absorbed the walls of this cell. The stench of excrements, the smell of burnt flesh, and the strange stench of blood spilled on the girl made her ill.
She dared not lift her head to see the bloody body in the center of the cell again.
The girl put the hood of her cloak over her head, put her face down, and pressed herself against the side of her companion.
It was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the Emperor's Guard Armor. When he entered, he took exactly one step forward towards the torture table and froze. No emotion was reflected on his face.
He stood a statue, as if he had taken up guard duty on another, familiar duty.
An old magician stopped next to him.
The gray long-bearded wizard looked at the dying witch with his eyes faded from old age. It was the wizard who called for his servant.
The executioner dwarf Dorkin had never been wrong in such matters, and immediately reported to his master that the witch was dying, she would not survive the night.
The witch was no longer shouting, arguing, moaning.
She didn't even have the strength left to suffer.
The head of the Council of Mages, the venerable Zohran looked sadly at his girlfriend's tortured body.
It wasn't nice and it didn't turn out well.
The head of the coven of the Night Sisters, a good acquaintance accused her daughter. The daughter accused the mother of performing rituals of human sacrifice.
It was a serious accusation.
But Zohran knew for sure that his old acquaintance was innocent.
She was a good, kind woman, a strict and attentive coven master, responsive to his claims.
The magicians did not interfere with the witches' affairs. Women who had the gift of magic were only engaged in the treatment of other women.
Witches were not interested in politics, they never interfered in the affairs of the Empire. Women helped women.
And the Night Sisters were respected and appreciated for their work.
The old magician found out the reasons for the denunciation and the terrible accusation.
The witch had a daughter who wanted to succeed the head of the coven after her mother died. But the mother did not take her as a personal apprentice. She did not give her any secret and basic knowledge about the intricacies of handling women's affairs.
Mia stood by her side.
She looked at her mother's body from under the hood with a smile.
She was doing great! Today, this ungrateful woman will die.
And Mia will get everything: the primacy in the coven and the undivided attention of handsome Meogred.
She has moved closer to her lover.
Meogred, the Emperor's Guard Commander, looked calmly at the dying witch. Why is he here? He was indifferent to this woman.
And her daughter was already fed up with her excessive passion.
He must keep order in the capital.
What is he doing in this torture chamber? He has enough of his criminals, ordinary thieves, robbers and contraband men. There's too much to worry about to allow himself to be wasted.
Suddenly, the witch opened her eyes.
She felt it was the best time to die. And for revenge.
It was the night of the full moon.
It was a good night for curses.
She closed her eyes.
There's no need to draw these people's attention to yourself.
The body burned with pain. There was no living space on it. Bleeding incisions, burn marks, broken bones, cut skin. The executioner did a good job.
The woman did not let herself smile when she felt new pain.
This one was special, only women's known and familiar pain.
The witch could feel the blood flowing from her crotch.
A small trickle was inconspicuous between the bleeding thighs. Like a snake, she slipped on the surface of a table flooded with old blood.
The blood obeyed the will of a witch who was dying but had not lost her strength.
The blood drew strange symbols, unknown even to old and wise magicians.
It was a heritage of ancient female magic.
And the curse was Ancient. Terrible. Creepy.
The witch wasn't smiling.
You can't attract attention!
She slightly opened her lips, and began to quietly whisper the Ancient words.
Her lips did not move, only her tongue moved, and quiet, inaudible, almost hissing words were born in a world that was not yet aware of future troubles.
The witch knew that she would give her life to give full power to the curse.
She was ready.
And the time had come.
Suddenly there was a wild witch's laughter in the cell.
The watchers shuddered with surprise.
The laughter sounded disgusting, ugly, creepy.
The old magician thought for a moment that his girl friend could be a terrible and vicious creature to his enemies.
The body of the dying witch bent and swung over the table.
And then it fell.
Everyone felt weird.
A wave of magical power swirled through the cell room.
The lights of the lamps and the fryers were flashing.
Dust and dirt, and pieces of flesh on the floor of the cell boldly against the walls, in different directions from the torture table.
The magician hadn't had time to put up protection.
Zohran sensed no threat, no degradation.
"She died."
He understood and added in his thoughts, "Goodbye, old one. I will miss the conversations with you."
Suddenly, the magician felt uncomfortable being in the same room as these people. He could still understand the guard, but he didn't understand the young sister of the Night. He concealed it.
"Dorkin! It's your fault. She died too soon. There is no confession. There's no explanation. You've aged for this service."
A bunch of dirty rags in the corner of the cell moved, and it was clear who was lurking in the corner.
A dwarf on his knees crawled out of the corner and approached his master.
"Master, it's not my fault. I'm sorry, Master. She wasn't talking. She was always silent. I don't know what happened. She shouldn't have died so early. It's my fault."
"I already said it," the magician frowned and thought.
He made a decision and told the servant:
"You should rest. Leave the capital. Visit your relatives in the north. I don't want to see you. You've got a month of free time."
The dwarf didn't answer.
He threw his head up and bowed in a bow. Now he could be confused again with a bunch of trash on the floor.
The old wizard thought the faithful servant should be removed from the capital for a while.
This young cunt is ready for evil deeds. What could the old dwarf have heard when he tortured the witch? She knew many secrets.
Hah! She could tell about their longtime passion and the nights they spent caressing and stupidity.
Zohran turned around and looked at the girl.
Mia knew immediately that she didn't belong here. And she was happy.
Her mother was dead.
She saw her death and she could leave this filthy place. There's a lot to do. There are those who won't accept her wish to be the head of the coven.
But now her enemies will be afraid. Many have learned that she was the one who sent her mother to the torture chamber.
"Good night, Head Zohran," she nodded at the magician and looked at her lover. "Shall we go?"
Meogred stopped thinking about one important thing and agreed with her,
"Yes. Let's go. Head of the council, good night."
The guardsman and the girl have left the torture chamber.
The old mage did not remain silent for long.
He thought that tonight he'd drink that pitcher of wine he was given years ago, a wonderful wine, rare.
It's time he relaxed.
It's a bad excuse. Sometimes you have to let yourself rest, otherwise you can go crazy with all the problems of the Empire.
Zohran came out of his cell and went to his chambers.
The old dwarf knew what he had to do.
He took the body of the deceased off the table and went to a special room. The dwarf put the body on the floor in a hollow and went to the wall. He took a jug with a fire potion of dwarves and began to pour a mixture over the corpse. It was a mixture that the dwarves used in their blacksmiths. It wasn't suitable for lights, the flames were too hot and dangerous. To burn the corpses, the mixture was perfect for it.
The witch's body was on fire.
The dwarf sat in the corner and stroked the pocket with little finger in it.
He cut it off when he tortured the living witch.
Everyone knows it's gonna be a strong amulet.
A witch's dried finger brings good luck.
Dorkin was not offended by the master's words.
He did a good job. He'll rest well now.
In the far north, amongst the snows and mountains, he is not welcome.
He doesn't give a damn! He'll find entertainment for himself. He's got enough gold. Faithful friend, his axe hasn't tasted the blood of robbers and other scoundrels in a long time.
Dorkin smiled and watched the flames. Soon he would gather the ashes in a pitcher and bury them in the dungeon wall.
And then he is free! A whole month of freedom. A month of tavern fights, a month of whores nights, a month of drunkenness with worthy new friends.
The dwarf was smiling.
***
Three days later, all the men in the capital began to change.
Men were turning into women.
Hair of beards and mustaches disappeared.
The breasts changed. Muscles of arms, legs, asses changed.
But the most terrible and nasty thing happened between men's legs!
When your penis shrinks and turns into a small, miserable pimple the size of a fingernail...
Chaos has begun in the capital of the empire.