Ageless Fury

by S L Matthews

  The businessman’s eyes were wide as he quickly reversed his intent. “Oh my,” Thibold proclaimed. “Viktor. I mean, Lord Wray. I must elaborate.”

  He pulled his robe up his shoulders and slid to the edge of the bed, taking glances at Ava whenever the moment presented. “I simply meant that a nice breakfast and a hot bath would do wonders for a…” He paused, seeming to search for the words. “For a gentleman such as myself.”

  Ava rolled her eyes, certain he had failed at guessing his own description, but relieved the nightmare had been avoided−for now. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as the men exchanged questioning glances.

  “Oh! Yes, yes,” Thibold said, withdrawing a small stack of coins from his purse. Ava’s heart grew frigid while he counted with deliberation and placed the pieces on the nightstand. Eight Marks, she thought. This is my value.

  Ava’s mind drifted to a darker place and a darker time. She recalled screaming and clawing at a man, a man who was ripping her away from her mother’s arms. She glimpsed a much younger, much thinner Viktor Wray handing a small, leather coin purse to her father. Ava remembered the sound of her mother’s voice and the indifferent nod her father gave as Viktor escorted her away from her home. Even as Ava rounded the corner, her mother’s shrill cries echoed off the walls…

  Then fell silent.

  Ava’s thoughts returned, her eyes fixed on the stack of coins and the old leather coin purse. Is that what I’m worth? Is that the value of his only daughter?

  She paused, wondering how many rounds of ale her life had bought her father.

  When the last coin fell, Thibold gave them a gentle pat, as though praising a loyal dog. The businessman tugged at his robes and worked toward the center of the room. Ava glared when he passed by her window, but his gaze was averted, his eyes bouncing between the floorboards and her feet.

  She watched intently as he made a wide berth, smoothing the wrinkles in his robe and clearing his throat. His eyes never landed directly on her. She studied the man and his odd behavior while he wobbled to the center of the room, meeting Viktor with a hearty handshake.

  “Ava will be happy to serve you, my friend.” Viktor said, grasping Thibold’s hand and drawing him closer. Ava’s shoulders sunk knowing once again, she would have to play her part. One more role, one more indignity, one more shameful performance in her master’s elaborate play.

  “Mr. Wray,” Thibold whispered, nervous tension cutting through his words. He glanced to Ava once more before leaning in. “There’s something you must know−about the girl.”

  The hair on Ava’s neck bristled. He can’t be referring to me?

  She spun back to the Promenade, hiding her confusion, when something caught her attention−a billowing cloud of dust. She peered beyond the walls, far south of the city as a cloud lifted from the horizon. Ava’s heart leapt. Travelers, she thought with renewed excitement. Her back straightened, her heart raced, and her chest lifted as she gazed beyond the Outer Quarter. She tried to remember the last time she saw visitors from Cambridge. Her forehead creased. She tried to remember ever seeing visitors from Cambridge. The old highway was abandoned. It always had been. Hadn’t it?

  Her eyes widened as her cloud of hope bloomed on the horizon. But the excitement soon waned. You’re a fool, she thought. They’re not coming for you. Why would anyone care about a simple slave? Her posture loosened and her shoulders rounded as she remembered her master’s orders and her part in his play.

  “AVA!!” Viktor scolded as venom returned to his words. “Your customer... is waiting.” Ava gave the docks and the cloud of hope one last glance before her eyes fell his way, careful to appear surprised at her master’s request.

  Ava fought to hide her thoughts, equal parts laughter and contempt, but the comedy in their appearance forced a smile at the sight of the businessmen “holding hands.” She turned away and strolled toward the door, eager to make her exit. Before she made it to the ornate rug, however, Ava felt a sharp tug against the back of her dress.

  She did not have to look to know he was there. The faint wheeze with each breath, the rancid scent of his sweat, all clues that let Ava know Viktor was, to her dismay, still present. She felt his eyes upon her, his mind flooded with thoughts civilized men would not dare.

  Ava slowly turned.

  Viktor’s muddy, steel boot was standing on the hem of her dress. An expression of malice greeted her as he stared her down in defiance, daring her to retrieve it.

  Ava stepped forward and looked down, meeting his gaze.

  “You won’t be needing this,” came a heartless whisper, and a twisted smile across his face.

  What the Hell does he want now? As she studied Viktor’s eyes, his intent became clear. Ava sighed and stated, “Am I to assume you’ll keep us waiting?” She paused and looked away before finishing, “My king.”

  “You speak this way to your king?” Viktor gasped. “You’ll get his breakfast any way I see fit, you damn wench!” He reached to grab the strap of her dress. Ava reacted, grabbing at his wrist. With all his might, Viktor yanked against the emerald fabric, ripping it away from her shoulder. The frayed remains fell to her waist, exposing her chest. Ava quickly pulled the strap back to her shoulder, shielding herself from their prying eyes.

  Viktor grew agitated. With his other hand, he clawed at her wrists, prying them away from her body. Anger swelled within Ava and her humiliation grew. Her heart beat faster and her face flushed with indignation. Viktor’s taunts echoed through the chamber. He stared, pointed, and jeered, all at Ava’s expense as she fought to cover herself. Something snapped. The insults and indignity endured as fury overtook her. Amidst the laughter and taunts, her blood boiled.

  “No!” she screamed

  A voice echoed off the walls, but not like any voice she had ever heard. It was not a girl’s pitiful cry for help, but that of a woman. Strong. She snapped her wrists out of Viktor’s grasp and lunged forward, her eyes piercing his soul.

  “I said…NO!” He staggered backward, for the first time in her life. Viktor’s face filled with confusion. Silence cloaked the room while she stared.

  Viktor lashed out, striking Ava across the face. Her body bent backward and her cheek burned like fire, but the pain was different. She recalled every moment he ever touched her, countless times in eight years of their torturous history. It had never been like this.

  She turned back to him. Viktor squared his feet and struck again, but her fiery gaze returned an instant later. Ava tied her shoulder strap, then dropped her toned arms to her side. Her spine straightened. She stood upright and proper, as her mother taught her when she was a little girl. Ava met her master’s eyes and stared at them−through them. She held her gaze and waited until his expression faded. She stepped forward, eyes unyielding, then turned toward Thibold.

  He was pale white, his face matching the luster of his robe. The expression on his face could only be described as sheer terror.

  Ava strolled across the room with the grace of a princess. Her hips swayed to the metronome of her step, and with an air of dignity, she approached the open-mouthed businessman. “What can I get you from the kitchen, my lord?” she asked with confidence, a generous curtsy added for flare. Thibold had no words. His lips quivered. He looked to Viktor, then back to Ava. He opened his mouth again, but still, no words.

  Ava stood there, patient and unwavering, while her radiant blue eyes reflected in his. Thibold’s gaze darted back and forth across the room−Ava’s did not. She knew he was intimidated, by her beauty, by her confidence, by every curve she brought to bear. He shivered at the sight of her, then fell silent.

  Ava leaned in, her lips inches from his ear. Thibold shrank. He stood perfectly still, an oversized statue, frozen in fear. Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles as she whispered into his ear.

  “You know something, and you are going to tell me.”

  “Your order, Aerent,” came Viktor’s unmistakable voice. “Tell the bitch what you’d li
ke to eat.” Ava heard the uncertainty in his voice−one she had never heard before. This was new to both of them. He regained his composure and added venomously, “And if you mess this up, the three of us will play a little game.”

  Thibold, spurred on by Viktor’s words, caught his breath and stammered, “Uh, right. Eggs. Please,” he added, followed by a gasp. “And toast!” he proclaimed as a glimmer of courage took hold.

  Ava’s stare intensified, pushing the businessman farther away.

  Once more, she whispered into his ear. “Do you really think he’ll let you leave?”

  Thibold’s jaw fell open as Ava acknowledged his order, then turned toward the ornate double doors. She stepped into the hall, the echo of Thibold’s last words churning in her mind.

  “Lord Wray, we−we need to talk.”

  | Chapter VI

  Black Water

  Rowan eased back into his chair as the passengers cleared out of the Guilded Wyrmling Inn. While his men sat around the table wearing their looks of amazement, he glowered at the trinket passing from one to the other, each more excited than the other to simply touch it. Rowan knew it was a fake, or at least, he assumed it was. He had fallen for Cooper’s tricks before and had hardened himself against falling for those parlor tricks and silver-tongued words again.

  Rowan pulled a used cigar from his vest pocket, flaking the excess burned bits onto the floor. He reached high overhead, dipping it into the light of a wall sconce, then placed it between his lips. His mind relaxed and the echoes of the eager passengers, along with the clamoring of his men, faded into the distance. It wasn’t refined syrup, but a few flakes rolled into his cigars made all the difference.

  “Do you have any idea what a golden royal is worth?” one of the mercenaries interrupted, unable to contain his excitement. “This piece o’ shit town hasn’t seen one o’ them in years!” He looked on in wonder, until he caught the grimace of his leader.

  “I don’t know what a golden royal is worth,” Rowan said with disdain. “But I know the value of this one.” His darkened gaze drifted to his empty mug, then to a small piece of parchment nestled against his boot.

  The parchment was brittle, torn along its edges, yet unrolled with relative ease. The words were handwritten with a coarse quill, and in quite a hurry, Rowan assumed. His eyes floated from line to line, growing wider with each passing moment. By the time he had finished the scroll, his face was flushed of color. His cigar hung limply from his lower lip, then fell into his lap, though he didn’t notice.

  He stood from his chair and walked around the front of his men without uttering a word. His gaze unfocused, he stared up at the balcony, into the gaping maw of the inn’s second story.

  “Boss!” came a shout from his table. “Rowan, I said is everything alright,” it continued.

  Rowan was slow to react, but turned to his men. The golden coin lay in the center of the table. The mercenaries no longer seemed interested, all eyes turned toward him. He glanced back at the scroll, rereading the passages.

  “Right,” Rowan said, clearing his throat. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he addressed his men, glancing to the balcony between thoughts. “We ‘ave a new job, boys.”

  His men stood, sensing the urgency on Rowan’s face. He pointed a crooked finger to two of his men, beckoning toward the double doors of the inn. “You two, go north and gather the rest of our crew.”

  Rowan turned and pointed to another mercenary, “Arros, go find Jorel. Tell him a relic of Valshyr is boarding the Promenade.” He thought for a moment, staring at the surface of the table. Rowan leaned in and scooped up the golden royal, flipping it in his hands.

  “Give him this, and tell him it’s worth about a hundred of these.”

  The eyes of the mercenaries shot open.

  “A hundred royals,” one of them said, air in his voice. “Why tell them about it? Let’s just—“

  “I’m not worried about some damn necklace,” Rowan interrupted, his eyes drifting to the shadow of the stairwell. “Something far more valuable just went up those stairs.”

  His men stared at one another, then back to Rowan.

  Arros said, with hesitation, “Well, let’s just wait for the fat man to come back down an’ steal it?”

  Rowan let loose a small chuckle, meeting the eager mercenary’s gaze. “There’s only one person coming back down those stairs. And she ain’t gonna be happy.”

  The remaining men gave a questioning gaze, as if each was afraid to ask. Finally, one broke the silence. “What are you going to do, Sergeant?”

  Rowan rolled the parchment and stuffed it into his vest, glancing back to the second floor. “Gather your things. I need to see the Captain.”

  Life aboard the Promenade was full of hope. The deck bustled with excitement, a stark contrast to the life its passengers left behind. With the great city of Wyvern’s Rest in despair, families and merchants deserted in search of prosperity in other regions of Cyrea. Taryn leaned against the wooden rail, joining other passengers to peer back at the desolate skyline. Some reminisced about opportunities lost, others condemned the crumbled walls and empty spires. Together, they severed their ties to years of pain and suffering – a debt never to be repaid.

  The ship was packed, alive with chatter and conversation, but Taryn could do nothing more than stare. His eyes were unfocused as they set themselves upon the old stone inn, and the empty second story window. Taryn knew he had failed her. For years, his cowardice had earned her nothing. He wanted desperately to rescue her from her prison, but time had taught him that day would never come. He patiently waited for a blonde-haired, fair-skinned angel to appear in the window, yet was secretly relieved when she did not.

  Viktor Wray cast a wide net of influence. Taryn knew the more he tried to pull her away, the more endangered she would be. He could barely go a moment without thinking of her, yet those were the feelings that threatened her the most. His stomach churned as the Promenade signaled for the last time, then slowly pulled away from the docks and the old, familiar market.

  “Stop! Please stop!” cried a panicked voice from below. Taryn leaned over the rail to find a man in large white robes, running for the ramp. “One more!” he yelled again as the ramp fell back onto the pier.

  Thibold? Taryn thought, his eyes glancing back to the old inn. The white-robed man climbed aboard the Promenade as the last ramp lifted away. He walked through the sea of people, approaching Taryn. He ripped off a crumpled old tablecloth and tossed it onto the deck, revealing one of the mercenaries from the inn, wearing a leather vest and weapons on each hip. The dark-haired man was centered in a hole, cut from a large, wooden table.

  One of Rowan’s men?

  The mercenary unfastened the straps and the tabletop fell limply to the deck. He stepped out of it, joining the rest of the passengers in celebration. As he walked past, he offered a villainous wink and a profound slap on Taryn’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  “Let’s see how funny your brother is now,” the mercenary said. His mischievous grin faded, replaced by a scowl of contempt.

  Confusion crept into Taryn’s heart while the mercenary strolled past him. “But−Thibold?”

  The mercenary spun, pointing into the city and the old inn.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout the fat one. He ain’t makin’ it outta there alive.”

  The man disappeared into the sea of jubilation, as though all his cares in the world had just been dropped onto the deck. A carnival atmosphere permeated the rest of the vessel as people sang and danced away the thoughts of years lost, yet Taryn’s mood remained unmoved.

  Taryn’s heart sank. His mind reeled at the mercenary’s words; yet through the inner turmoil, a singular thought surfaced.

  Ava. She was in trouble. Taryn felt it. She needed him and he−had just left.

  “Bet you’re glad to be rid of her, aren’t you?” shot a joyous voice over Taryn`s shoulder. Taryn spun around, rage in his heart for the man who dared make such a clai
m. His eyes hardened and his brow narrowed as he turned to face the arrogant mercenary. He puffed his chest and clenched his fists, ready for the fight to come.

  “What do you know, you pompous…” Taryn began, expecting to find something, anything but a small, joyful child. Before him, his hair a jostled mess, stood a young boy waving a small banner in the air. The child’s eyebrows drew skyward as he recoiled, stumbling onto the deck of the crowded ship. His flag flew from his hands, trampled under the mass of dancing feet.

  “I just meant−the city,” the boy cried from his knees. His cheeks flushed and his eyes filled with tears. He crawled away from the monstrous expression on Taryn's face, then turned, fleeing through the sea of joy and happiness.

  “No,” Taryn said, reaching out. “I didn't mean to−“

  He peered through legs while the boy scampered away. As he knelt, he heard a playful giggle, followed by a subtle bump against his side. Taryn turned, his heart still racing. Laying on the deck was a small girl. Her light, blonde hair had fallen into a tangled mess, her mother’s careful knot a distant memory. She pulled her hair aside, revealing her fair-skinned, freckled face. Her apologetic, blue eyes looked up to Taryn while he stared back in disbelief.

  For a moment, neither spoke. The girl was too afraid while Taryn couldn't ignore the resemblance. “Ava,” he whispered, looking back to the city. “I mean. I’m sorry, you looked familiar,“ he continued, but turned back to find an empty deck. He spun to see the young girl galloping around the stairs, toward the juggling act that had just begun.

  Taryn leaned against the railing while the Promenade distanced itself from Wyvern’s Rest. His eyes scanned the skyline and the broken walls, but like a moth to a flame, could not avoid the old stone inn and its second story window. A silhouette passed the darkened opening, and Taryn's heart leapt. The darkened shadow was not that of a pretty young girl, however. Taryn imagined the worst, a large, repulsive man with a sinister expression.