Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “What is happening?” Emma asked, confusion evident in her voice as she attempted to wipe blood off of her face. She merely smeared it over her skin. “Did you do this?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  There were several bleached corpses surrounding them, as well as two that were less pale, like her own fallen attacker. One had a broken spear protruding from its chest. Fenrir was chopping away at another fallen creature, blood splattering against the walls and against his armor. Erlins, wielding Emma’s short, curved blade with his remaining hand—now dripping with crimson—was battling two creatures. As one lunged, Erlins danced smoothly aside and cut deep into its side, a spray of blood blanketing the wall. The other, seeing an opening, tried to bash Erlins in the back with a chunk of debris. Erlins sensed the intention and spun around low, slicing at the creature’s leg as it missed him with the rock. In a graceful move, he twisted back to slit the creature’s throat before turning yet again to the first opponent who’d continued coming at him, despite the visible organs sliding out of its body. Erlins lunged forward, the tip of his sword burying itself into the creature’s eye.

  “By Ultner,” Emma murmured, stunned and surveying Erlins, naked and covered in gore, his damp hair waving back and forth as he swiveled his head, hunting for another opponent. There was a clear madness in his eyes as they glinted in the lantern light.

  “It’s open. Hurry up here!” shouted Morgyn from above them. More shrieks came from nearby. Emma didn’t hesitate, climbing the rungs hand over hand as quickly as possible, hindered very little by her mutilated appendage. She could almost taste freedom and safety, and it tasted wonderful.

  The shaft grew narrower, and it was clear that she was no longer in a part of the ruins, but rather in a tunnel dug specifically to access this place. Who knew who had been entering and exiting the Plateau through this ingress, but she was thankful it was here. She pulled herself up into a dimly lit… butcher shop? Warehouse? There was meat hanging and draining from the ceiling, the room kept quite chilly by a strange substance that emitted a slow, pink steam. Morgyn was crouched by the opening that she had just exited, anxious and shivering.

  There were noises and muffled shouts coming from below as Escamilla crested the opening, grunting as she pulled her body out. She was obviously spent, but she didn’t linger on her knees. She immediately stood, twisted, and watched the opening.

  A few minutes—or what felt like a few hours—passed, with Morgyn, Escamilla, and Emma standing in cold silence in the meat locker as sounds of fighting and screaming continued to travel up the shaft.

  “We need to go back for them,” said Emma, wondering why she said it.

  “And do what? A little girl, an old woman, and a cripple against whatever demons are down there?” Escamilla asked harshly. Emma flinched at the ‘cripple’ remark. Escamilla sighed.

  “Apologies, dear. It has been a long night.” Escamilla gave her a small smile.

  Cocks, it had been the longest fucking night of Emma’s life. “Camilla, you are bleeding!” Both of them were covered in blood, but Emma had suddenly seen that Escamilla had fresh blood pulsing from a wound on her left forearm, soaking her servant’s shirt. Emma next noticed another wound on her right upper arm.

  “It’s nothing, dear. Those things take their time in dying.” Stoic, as always.

  Emma searched the room, finding some stained but clean rags in a corner. She tore open Escamilla’s sleeve, examining the wound on her forearm. It had the appearance of a bite, with two distinct rows of shredded flesh—teeth marks—marring the woman’s wrinkled skin. More howling from below, and the clank of metal.

  “Camilla, did it bite you?”

  “It appears so. I thought it dead once I ran it through, but it got ahold of me.” The effort Escamilla was putting forth in order to remain in control must have been immense. Her voice was even more measured than usual, and her fists were clenched at her sides. Emma began silently dressing both wounds just as Fenrir pulled himself out of the hole, his armor dented and awash in blood. There was no way to tell whether it was his or the creatures’.

  “Close the door! Now!” he shouted to Morgyn as he shakily rose, drawing his dented sword.

  “What about Erlins?” asked Morgyn and Emma simultaneously.

  “He’s lost. Now close the door! And lock it!”

  Morgyn did just that, slamming shut the heavy iron trap door and reengaging the complex system of locks using several different keys. Fenrir stood, dented sword still drawn, until the last lock was engaged. Then, he limped over to a wall and slumped to the ground, dropping his sword next to him. He was obviously spent.

  “Did you see Erlins fall?” Escamilla asked, walking over to Fenrir.

  “No. As you left, more of those things came at us. I fought them off, trying to break away to the ladder. But it was as if a madness had taken Erlins. He fought like an Ultner-sworn demon. I’d never seen such swordsmanship.” His tired face showed a weary awe.

  They heard a pounding on the metal trapdoor then, and a muffled shrieking from below. Apparently, the creatures could climb ladders. Emma was almost too exhausted to be distressed by this.

  “We had a short break and I shouted to Erlins to climb, but the man was lost. More of the creatures were coming, and he rushed off with his sword into the Ultner-cursed darkness.” Fenrir sighed, vainly wiping blood from his forehead.

  “Why didn’t you go after him?” asked Emma, with more venom was probably merited.

  “Woman, look at me. I’ve little strength left. My sword is notched, my armor dented.” He met Emma’s eyes. “And Erlins was not part of my assignment.”

  “You callous bastard,” Emma spat. The man was a greedy hound, caring only about how to pad his pocket. She knew, firsthand, that he’d probably spend his earning from this job on whores and hard liquor. How had she once found his tolerance to strong alcohol to be charming?

  “Enough,” said Escamilla, voice lacking her usual strength. “As regretful as Erlins’ loss is, this night is not yet over. Sir Coldbreaker, Morgyn, what is next?”

  “Frankly, I didn’t expect to make it this far,” grumbled Fenrir. “Regardless, there is a small boat waiting to take us upriver and out of the city. We’ll need to clean ourselves up a bit and move quietly.”

  Fenrir began peeling off his dented and damaged armor, leaving himself wearing only his white wool undershirt and black breeches. Emma had miraculously retained the pillowcase tied to her belt throughout the journey. It contained a change of clothes for both her and Escamilla. She had packed her orange dress after Fenrir had provided servant’s clothes. She offered this to Escamilla, who declined and instead took the more serviceable peasant clothes.

  As the group made ready, the women changing their clothes behind a wall of hanging meat, Morgyn asked the question that was foremost in Emma’s mind.

  “What was down there? What happened?” Her eyes were still wide, reminding Emma that she really was a child.

  “They were demons,” said Emma. “Monsters. They attacked us. Wanted to kill us.”

  “They weren’t demons,” said Fenrir, his voice restrained. So unlike him. “No, Emma. They weren’t demons or monsters. Those creatures… they were people.”

  Chapter 14

  It was only a matter of time.

  Merigold sat in the cold, damp darkness, again impervious to the scent of her own filth. Had it been a month? Two months? A year? She had completely lost track of time while living in this perpetual blackness. Saren had stopped bringing fuel, and the lantern sat uselessly in the corner. Merigold continued to eat. In fact, she had been forcing more of the dried, salty jerky into her body in order to build up her strength. One could not expect to enact vengeance on one’s tormentors when weak from food deprivation.

  At the very least, since the first day that Saren had brought his friends, Merigold had been eating and drinking better. The visits, always Saren and Paul now, had become more frequent and Merigold rarely ran out o
f water before having her skin refilled, and she always had ample meat. She felt as if her strength was returning. Her body had stopped rejecting the horrid-tasting meat and she’d even taken to exercising—pushing her body off the floor with her arms again and again, sitting up to strengthen her stomach muscles, and remaining in a squatting position against the wall for as long as she could.

  When she was alone, Merigold rarely set down her makeshift dagger. The rough strips of cloth had become a second skin to her. She knew every bump of the handle, every imperfection in the nail itself. And she knew exactly how she would use it.

  When Saren next came alone, she would follow the typical pattern. She would be docile, avoid eye contact, and do what he said. She would go through her cleaning ritual, setting her pants carefully by the bed, the dagger secreted in the pocket, but within easy reach of the bug-infested mattress. Merigold would lay on the bed, on her back, part her legs, and allow Saren to violate her without resistance. After Saren spent himself inside of her, he tended to lay on top of her for several moments, his head resting against her neck, breathing heavily while he absentmindedly stroked her now knotted hair. Merigold planned on snaking her hand into her nearby pants in those moments, and grabbing the dagger and driving it into his neck—right underneath his chin. She had lain on the ground in her cell and practiced this stabbing motion again and again. And she knew she could catch him right in the jugular vein.

  But Merigold would not let him die easily. She would push him aside and give him a dirty rag—the one that he’d made her clean herself with—to staunch the flow of blood. Then, she would drive the nail under his kneecaps, first his left and then his right. Ragen had once told her that the most painful injuries were in the knees, and she wanted Saren to suffer. And, oh, how she would make him suffer. Given that Saren had been torturing her with his manhood for weeks, or months now, Merigold would spear his berries also, one by one. And, she planned on piercing his twig, right down the middle. All while he bled out of his neck. All while she stared into his sick, soulless eyes.

  But, Saren had not yet returned alone. Each time he had been back, Paul had been with him, his long, graying hair slapping her face as he grunted and heaved, driving himself into her. His rough, calloused hands grabbing her hard enough to leave bruises—bruises that she could feel, but not see, once confined to her lightless cell. Saliva dripping from his rotten-breathed mouth, hitting her in the eye. Sometimes, the men would take her one at a time, with Saren going first while Paul leaned against the wall, watching, his hand clearly stroking himself under his pants. Other times, they would take her simultaneously. Dear Yetra, she had thought about biting down, grinding her teeth, and tearing off a cock when this happened. But, she needed to be patient if she were to be afforded her vengeance. And, by now, she had the patience of Ultner.

  Yetra, Ultner. The other pagan gods. So often had she prayed to Yetra in the weekly services and before bed, asking for Ragen to be healthy, for Saren to be safe, for Sandra to finally find love. Never selfish, always thinking of others, just as Taneo Marsh preached. Just like Yetra’s living example, knowing she was to pray for others, never for herself. Those who prayed for selfish, greedy, and self-serving reasons would eventually be punished. Taneo Marsh said that they would not be punished by Yetra herself—you couldn’t expect a lightning bolt to strike someone from the sky, but rather, a balance—Harmony—was maintained in the world through this praying, and avarice would tip the scales. Eventually, something would occur to even the scales.

  Early on, Merigold had wondered what she had done wrong to deserve this horrendous punishment. To be imprisoned in the reeking darkness. To be raped, again and again, by a man she’d thought she loved. And another man who had always made her skin crawl. Had it been her lustful thoughts about Saren? Or even her immoral thoughts about Sandra from time to time?

  Sandra. Sandra was someone who she tried not to think about. Her big sister, the girl who’d taught her more about the world, and herself, than Ragen ever had. The woman who Saren said was a whore. Not like the village women said, as an barbed insult meant to wound, but that Sandra would part her legs for money. For travelers. For men in town. For Saren. And… even for her father.

  “You’re a good fuck, you little witch. Nice and tight. Nice and wet. But I do wish you would move a bit more,” Saren had said last time, slapping her across the face as he violated her. “Now, your little friend Sandra. She doesn’t need to be told to move. She does everything she can to please a man. But I guess you get what you pay for, and she cost me a month’s wages.”

  Her eyes must have widened at that, despite her efforts to show no emotion during these visits. He’d laughed, slowing his thrusts a little bit.

  “Paul, can you believe it? She didn’t know! The little witch didn’t know that her best friend’s a whore! Not only are you evil, you’re also dumb. Why do you think she spends so many nights at the inn with strangers? By Yetra, your godsdamned father has even fucked her!”

  Merigold hoped it wasn’t true, Sandra selling her body. But dear Yetra, it made too much sense. Sandra was always going on dates with men in town, and even with travelers at the Duckling. Older men, men her age—she was always with someone different. She had told Merigold that she didn’t want to be fettered by any one man, that marriage was for folk who didn’t like to have fun. And have fun, she did. She often told Merigold of her exploits, about what different men would do to her. Meri would blush and avert her eyes, but continue to listen behind a shield of hair. She’d used to wish men would do those things to her, and that Sandra would… well, no. Not that. Never that.

  But Sandra being with Ragen? That had to be a lie—just Saren trying to hurt her. Meri had no doubts.

  ---

  Creeeak. Clunk.

  The telltale sound of the door unlocking and opening to the cabin. Merigold immediately woke from a light, troubled sleep and twisted to her feet, her hand already clutching her dagger. Her salvation. She listened as footsteps moved hurriedly across the cabin toward the mattress. One set of footsteps. No additional voices. Saren had finally come back. Alone.

  Merigold felt a bright flash of hope, but she forced herself to smoother the feeling. She couldn’t allow Saren to see any hint of her intent in her eyes. She had to feel, and look, as empty as always. Just the little witch whore, locked in a cellar, coming out to play once every few days. She squeezed the cloth handle of the dagger tightly, settled the weapon into her pocket, and released the handle. As always, she felt helpless without the rough fibers of the cotton-wrapped nail in her hand.

  The scraping of the bed being dragged. The jingle of the chains. The clink of her cell being unlocked. The brightness of the candlelight as the cellar door opened, her constricted pupils burning.

  But no rope for her bucket. Just the ladder?

  “Merigold. Get up here, you little witch. Now!” shouted Saren from above. There was an odd tone in his voice. She couldn’t identify it, but she was afraid. Meri patted her pocket to check for her weapon before slowly climbing the ladder, attempting to embody the empty shell that Saren expected.

  Saren stood several feet back from the cellar opening, his arms at his sides and his fists clenched. He was dressed in short pants and a short sleeved, button-down red and white shirt. Summer must be setting in. Merigold recalled that her last evening out, with Saren, had been a bit chilly, though she had been sweating from the long walk.

  Wait, though… his shirt wasn’t red and white. It was streaked with something crimson, with what looked like blood! Was Saren bleeding? His face showed no trace of physical pain, and although it was streaked with tears, it seemed unlikely that so much blood was his. She almost asked him what was wrong, but caught herself.

  “What have you done, you fucking witch?” he asked, his voice full of menace. “Answer me!”

  “I… I don’t know what you mean,” Merigold stuttered, her voice hoarse from disuse. She took a small step forward, moving away from the cellar hole.
He jumped backward, raising his fists.

  “Stay back! You know what I am talking about!”

  “Saren,” she said his name. He flinched. “Saren, I truly don’t. Please believe me.” Her eyes were downcast, her hair across her face, but she could just barely see him from beneath her lashes. She stayed still, watching and waiting for an opportunity.

  “The fuck, you don’t. They’re dead, Meri. Everyone is dead!” He gave a shuddering sob and wiped tears from his face. “And you killed them, you fucking witch! You killed them!”

  Saren hurtled forward and slapped her to the ground. She fell heavily, twisting from the force of the slap, her knees hitting the floor and aching more than her face. Meri wanted to shout ‘I’m not a witch!’ to remind him that he himself had started those rumors about her. That there was no evidence of witchery. But she restrained herself, remaining outwardly calm, empty. Obedient. And she climbed back to her feet.

  “I’ve been here, Saren. Down below,” she mumbled, averting her eyes once more. She had realized over the past weeks that the man was like an animal: he took a direct stare as a challenge. But even looking away did not help Merigold this time. He punched her in the eye, closed-fisted, and she nearly pitched backward into the cellar hole. Dear Yetra, the pain! He had never hit her that hard, and she couldn’t open her eye, her head feeling as if it had been crushed with a keg.

  “The fuck, you have. I’ve seen your witchery. Dead plants, mangled corpses. My parents…” he moaned again, covering his face with both his hands. She regarded him covertly with her good eye while reaching into her pocket, her hand wrapping around her weapon. It was evident that Saren was mad with grief and rage, and she did not intend to be killed without making him hurt. Making him bleed.

  Saren straightened, eyes still leaking tears, but with his face strengthened with resolve. “Dunmore has had enough of you. I’ve had enough of you. I don’t know how you did what you did, but I’d rather you die than continue to fuck a murdering witch.”