Ageless Fury

by S L Matthews

  “What are you doing?” Taryn screamed, waving his hands across the broken vessel.

  “What am I…what are you doing?” Cooper glanced back to the shadow of Wyvern’s Rest. “Now you listen to me?”

  Screams of war sounded as Cyrean soldiers poured onto the Promenade’s broken deck, weapons drawn. Cooper grabbed Taryn’s arm and shoved him out of the way, then reached down to grab Jorel’s cutlass.

  Crimson-cloaked soldiers screamed across the deck. Cooper’s expression contorted to one of confusion. He relaxed his shoulders, lowered his weapon, and turned back to Taryn, asking simply, “Where’s Ava?”

  | Chapter VIII

  Purple Lotus

  Ava stood at the top of the darkened stairwell, her thoughts lost amidst the clank of glasses and the hushed murmur of the tavern below. The musky odor of the inn blended with the salty sea air to form a crude scent, one she’d learned to love, and hate: the scent of home. As she stood, her emotions battled, as did the pain forming across her lip and cheek. Her anger boiled, yet she found solace. Repulsive, abominable excuses for men toiled at their leisure, at her expense; yet they were weak. For the first time, she felt something new, a subtle ray of light.

  But first, she had a part to play.

  She listened from the hall while Thibold and Viktor’s voices echoed inside. Their words were muffled and broken, until the doors clicked closed. Despite her efforts, there was only silence. The familiar creak of the tavern doors rattled from downstairs, followed by a brisk, morning breeze that whistled through the darkened stairwell.

  Cool air filled the upstairs hallway, seeping through Ava’s dress and covering her skin in gooseflesh. She examined her gown, torn from the neckline to her navel, and split down the side, held together by a simple knot that limply clung to her shoulder. Ava reflected on the events of the morning, appalled that of all she had heard and seen, the state of her favorite dress bothered her the most—until her thoughts turned to the small boy, crumpled in the darkened corner.

  Her head snapped to attention. “Dari!”

  She ran to the edge of the balcony and peered into the tavern below. Dari sat quietly on a bear rug, warmed by the heat of the giant, blackened hearth. His face reflected the flickering firelight, as did the tears falling from his cheeks.

  Ava ignored her master's words, leaping toward the shadow of the stairwell. She bounded down the steps and pushed her way through the few remaining customers, determined to reach Dari. He sat in the center of the rug, his elbows resting against his crossed legs. His feet were blistered and bleeding and his pants were ripped at the knee. Ava had never felt more sorrow for another life.

  His gaze remained fixed on the fire while Ava knelt before him, desperate to learn what atrocities had brought him to this inn.

  “Dari,” she whispered. “It’s me.”

  The young boy flinched, as if awakened from a dream. His eyes fell on Ava and his spirits lifted, though the expression did not last. His look contorted to one of confusion as his eyes followed the curve of her face. He gasped, horror draped across his face.

  Ava sensed a tense silence fall over the crowd, and felt the eyes upon her. As she lifted her gaze to meet the onlookers, she was met with the same expression as Dari. Many women had their hands cupped over their mouths while the men just shook their heads.

  A warm sensation fell onto Ava’s breast, turning cool as another breeze whistled through the tavern. She looked down, spotting blood dripping onto her chest. She dabbed at her nose, withdrawing a bloody forearm.

  “Oh, damn!” She gathered the hem of her dress and pressed against her nose while Dari looked on in confused horror. “It’s okay, I just—I tripped. Let me go get cleaned up. Stay right here!”

  She sprang to her feet and raced for the kitchen doors, brushing past judgmental stares and pitied glances. Ava jumped behind the bar and slipped behind the doors on her simple quest for eggs—and toast.

  She sprinted behind the carving table, collapsing onto a makeshift pallet of blankets and potato sacks. Ava bundled up her dress and dabbed at her cheek, pulling away blood-soaked silk each time. Anger seethed and frustration consumed her as she wondered, Will this ever end?

  A tall shadow drifted nearby and knelt beside her while she wiped her lip. A warm, gentle voice called from overhead. “Sorry miss. You appear to be lost.”

  Ava let loose a small chuckle, rolling her eyes up to meet her dear friend. Dijor was an older man, with a whiskered chin and prickled, salt and pepper hair. His skin was the color of dried leaves on an autumn day and his eyes were warm and inviting. Wrinkles crept into the corner of his eyes and lips, and his hands had a gentle shake—they were always shaking.

  Dijor always had a kind word and a quick jab about Viktor, and Ava was thankful this morning would be no exception. He leaned in, kissed her forehead, and folded a rag in his shaking hands.

  Ava grimaced at the sharp pain in her cheek, then exhaled an exhausted breath. “I told him no.”

  Dijor stopped, then chuckled once more, explaining only the way he could.

  “Well,” he said, folding the towel around Ava’s wrist. “Seems you borrowed his favorite word without asking.” He grabbed another towel, folded it slow and deliberate, and with all the care in the world, wrapped Ava’s other wrist, concealing her woven, insidious brand. Most would not have noticed the gesture, but everyone in the kitchen, everyone in this town, knew the deeper sentiment. His wrinkled hands covered Ava’s mark of enslavement as he drew her into his arms.

  No one who served Viktor was free from his emotional torture. All had been taken from their lives and placed under his tyrannical roof, and Dijor was no exception. He never told Ava how he came into Viktor’s service, and she never asked, but there was no one she felt safer around in all of Kel Doran.

  She leaned her head into his chest and wept. Dijor did what he always did—held her.

  “I’m scared, Dijor,” Ava said through her tears.

  She felt him pause. She knew he would try to reassure her.

  “Little Bug, there’s nothing to—“

  “No, Dijor,” she interrupted. “Something’s happening.” She lifted her head, bringing her gaze to meet his. “The stranger. He’s terrified of me.”

  “But Ava, you must understand. Men like him. They don’t—well, when they see someone like you—“

  “No,” she interrupted again. “It’s not like that. He knows something…I think it’s about me.”

  Another voice echoed from the far side of the carving table. “What does this man know?” Elhora joined Dijor, kneeling beside Ava on her makeshift pallet. Her hair was a weave of gray and brown, pulled high to a plump bun resting neatly atop her head. Her faded blue, tattered dress looped around her neck and tumbled loosely to her knees, complemented by stains, tears, and the occasional patch. Her accent was heavy, her words thick and muddy. “Dis man does not know you, dear.”

  Ava explained the events that brought her to the galley, her descriptions of the men upstairs dripping like a bitter toxin. Her friends soaked in every word, gasping at the same moments, seething at the same indiscretions. She looked up to pairs of brown eyes—saddened, angered, and touched for the same reasons—united in solidarity.

  At that moment, Ava understood. They would never leave her. They would never hurt her. This was her family, her only safe haven in this world.

  “Maybe I should go find out,” Dijor said, a hint of anger resonating through his words.

  Elhora’s eyes sharpened. “You do no such thing!” She stared at the old man, her wrinkled eyes meeting his. “She won this battle, you must let it go.”

  Ava stopped to ponder the thought. She was a crumpled, emotional mess. She was crying, bloodied, and humiliated at the whim of spineless men—certainly not a victor. She thought for a moment. “I heard it in his voice,” Ava whispered. “I—stood up to him.”

  Ava shook her head, creasing her forehead and dropping her shoulders.

  “But f
or what?”

  She lifted her gaze, meeting Dijor’s soft, brown eyes. “We both know what will happen,” she said. “Maybe not this morning. Maybe not even today.” Ava dabbed at her cheek, wincing at the slightest touch.

  “He’s angrier,” she continued, folding her arms around her knees. “The beatings. They’re getting worse.”

  Dijor furrowed his brow. His jawline firmed and his warm breath caressed Ava’s shoulder. She sensed his anger.

  “It’s okay Di…”

  “No!” Dijor yelled. His old eyes followed the curve of her face, then darted to Elhora. “It’s not okay. Not anymore.”

  He jumped to his feet, and Elhora followed. “Dijor, you do nothing!” Her hands tugged at his sleeves, but he yanked them away.

  “No, you do nothing,” Dijor said, straightening his tunic. “This girl is like a daughter to me. She is an angel, a flower, yet every day I find her hiding behind this table with new bruises.” He paced back and forth, his eyes darting to the doorway. He lifted a finger, shaking his fist.

  “That man sits on top of his wall. He thinks we can’t hurt him.” Dijor’s pacing increased. “One day, someone will pull the right brick and his little wall will collapse into the sea.” Dijor stepped closer to the kitchen door, his fist shaking in earnest. “Ava. You will be free of him.”

  He motioned toward the door, pushing it open as the noise of the tavern spilled into the galley. Ava jumped to her feet. “Dijor, No!” she screamed. Elhora jumped in front of Ava, reaching for Dijor.

  “Not now. Not yet” she pleaded.

  Dijor’s eyes bounced between Ava and Elhora and his chest heaved. He poked his head into the tavern, saying, “I will tend to the tables then.” He pushed the door wider, then slipped out of sight. Ava stared intently as the door fell shut, silencing the whispers of the crowd.

  Ava wrapped her arms around Elhora, then stepped toward the pantry.

  Elhora spoke in her thick, muddied accent. “Stay here, my child. Viktor is angry. I do it.” Her warm hand pressed up Ava’s shoulder. “You already prove to him.”

  Ava spun to meet Elhora’s soft gaze. “I have to finish this,” she said, lifting her shoulders. Her words lacked assurance, but she knew what would fulfill her part in Viktor’s evil play. Ava spun away, determined to complete Thibold’s order.

  “But…my child,” Elhora pleaded.

  Ava entered the pantry and grabbed a loaf of Cambrian Rye. She scoured through a basket of eggs, gathering three that didn’t smell foul. She re-entered the main galley and placed the loaf on the carving table, handing the eggs to Elhora.

  Ava shrugged her shoulders. “Says he wants eggs and toast.”

  She placed the Cabrian Rye on the cutting board and reached for the carving knife, but it wasn’t there. She pushed aside scraps of food and searched under dirty plates. She scanned the floor and under the table.

  “Where’s the knife?”

  Ava’s curious gaze drifted to Elhora, who had been watching. Elhora’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. The eggs tumbled from her fingers, crashing into the floor.

  The hair on Ava’s neck bristled. She spun and sprinted to the door, screaming, “Dijor, no!”

  Viktor Wray leaned against the large oak table, trying to look dignified for his guest. “While we wait for the damn girl, shall we proceed with what brought you to our humble city, my friend?” he said, his lust palpable. “I was promised…rare merchandise.”

  “Umm, yes my Lord,” Thibold said, peeking toward the double doors. It was not clear, however, if he hoped Ava would return or if he longed to take her place. He delayed the act of standing, but eventually came to attention before Viktor. “Before we begin, my Lord, there’s something…“

  “Before we begin?!” Viktor snapped, his eyes matching the newly formed bulge in his forehead.

  “Eh…yes. Well, you see,” Thibold pleaded.

  Viktor drew himself upright, pressing his engorged belly against that of his business partner. “Now you listen here, you fat shit.” He leaned forward, pressing further against Thibold, forcing the man from Crossroads to retreat. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. I will not waste time listening to the pathetic whimperings of an overdressed street rat!”

  Viktor thrust forward a single, indignant finger and shook it to the tempo of his words. “Are we clear, Aerent?”

  Thibold’s shoulders slumped as his gaze once again drifted toward the doors.

  “But…” he began. His eyes came back to center, back to the face of the inn’s owner. Viktor’s pulsing eyelids said all that was required.

  “Very well then. If you’ll just excuse me, I shall get my bag and we can begin.” Thibold stepped to the corner and retrieved a crude leather satchel. As he hoisted the sack to his chest, Viktor flashed a wicked look of disappointment.

  “Well then,” he gristled, eying the worn satchel. “I’ve waited this long. I can only hope the contents bear no resemblance to the, eh…vessel they arrived in.” Viktor wrinkled his nose while he attempted to glean insight into its contents.

  Thibold fumbled with the straps. “Ye-yes, of course, Mr. Wray,” he said. His words lacked confidence, tasty morsels to the Wray’s of the world. Viktor leaned forward and snatched the satchel out of his hands.

  “Now see here—” Thibold protested, but relented once again at the sight of Viktor’s expression. “Well…the—there you are then.” With a wave of his hands and a giant step backward, he urged Viktor to explore the bag’s mysterious wares.

  Viktor required no invitation. He ripped the leather bag open and dove in, grabbing anything within reach. The first item withdrawn was a rusted, onyx necklace. The gems were dull, lifeless, and scratched beyond recognition. Viktor let the old piece dangle from his fingertips while he shot a loathing expression toward the businessman.

  “I can only assume this fell in by accident?” Viktor said in contempt. He snarled his lip and flung it to the darkened corner of the room.

  Thibold’s eyes widened, diving for the necklace as it tumbled through the air. He turned to Viktor, pleading with his arms stretched to the corner.

  “But that…”

  “Shall we see what else I paid for, master Aerent?” Viktor said in a slow, deliberate voice. He reached back in and retrieved a handful of intricate, polished gems in a rainbow of colors—enough for any family to live on for years. A rhythmic clank rang throughout the chamber as he callously flung them as well, joining the old necklace among the shadows. His gaze met Thibold, who was now sweating profusely.

  “M-Mr. Wray…please, you must listen,” Thibold began, raising a hand to the leather satchel. His eyes implored while they darted back to the doors. “It’s about the girl. I must tell y—”

  “Enough!” Viktor exploded. “You will not interrupt me again, Aerent! Do I make myself clear?” he continued, staring through the businessman. Without a word, Thibold shrank back, his gaze returning to the ornate double doors and the vacant hallway beyond.

  Once more, Viktor scoured the inside of the old leather bag. His eyes softened while he paused, then pulled out a brilliant, golden necklace. Its gems were red and pure. The intricately woven facets pulsed with the light of the sun. Viktor drooled. It was like nothing he had ever seen. He stared, refusing to take his eyes away from the lustrous jewelry. With a perverse intent, he looked to the businessman and said, “You found...”

  “Yes, yes,” Thibold interrupted. “Now please, listen to me.” He reached into the satchel and withdrew a long, slender weapon. Its tip was impossibly sharp, leading to a sleek blade that was cold to the touch. A hint of frost enveloped the blue metal as it contoured toward the handle. Nestled atop the hilt was an intricately crafted flower: a purple lotus.

  Thibold carefully balanced the weapon with both hands, palms up, and offered it to Viktor. He extended his arms as his gaze once again darted toward the hallway.

  “Viktor. There’s something I must tell you!”

  Ava’s
heart fell as she leapt up the stairs, desperate to beat Dijor to Viktor’s room.

  She did not.

  Ava entered the chamber and found her old friend standing on the large rug in the center of the room. A large, serrated knife lay at his feet, a fine line of crimson coating its broken tip. Thibold had taken Viktor’s place in the over-sized chair, spun to face the rug. A startled expression stretched across his face, one that petrified when Ava burst through the door.

  “Eggs…” Viktor’s wretched voice echoed, “and toast.” Ava gasped as she scanned the room, searching for the source. She took a few cautious steps into the room, certain she was stepping into a trap.

  “Eggs and Toast!” he bellowed again. As his words rang out, the origin of Ava’s fears emerged from behind Dijor. A fresh cut glistened under his left eye, a thin line dripping down his cheek. Viktor’s devilish eyes sank into her with contempt.

  “Instead, you send an assass—”

  “Don’t hurt him!” Ava interrupted. Her mind reeled. There was no way out. A pit formed in her stomach, knowing she could never forgive herself if something happened.

  Oh Dijor. What have you done? Not for me.

  Viktor’s gaze grew violent. If his eyes were weapons, they would have done irreparable damage; instead, his visage changed from anger to spite. He stared right through Ava as his loathing deepened.

  Suddenly, Dijor’s eyes widened in horror. He gasped for breath but was cut short. Ava peered at her friend, then saw the tip of a frosted, metal blade protruding from his mouth. Blood pooled in the corner of his lips, spilling over as the weapon pressed forward.

  “Nooo!” Ava’s cry rang out.

  Dijor’s eyes rolled backwards while his body slumped forward. With a crash, he hit the floor face-first, blood pouring from his mouth. Ava was incensed. She stared at her friend, speechless, then snapped back toward Viktor. He stood there, a stiletto dagger in his hand and contentment across his deviled grin.