by Jeff Gunzel
“Get on with it!” he ordered, tugging at her pants until they tore away. Wasting no time, he crawled on top of her body like an insect, kissing her chest. Licking up the side of her neck, he stuck his tongue in her ear, causing her to flinch and turn away.
A second backhand blasted her across the face, forcing her to turn back. He mashed his lips into hers, tongue prying its way into her mouth. She could smell his sour scent, a pungent combination of ale and sweat. He groped her breast hard, pulling and tugging while his fingers dug deep. As always, her body was cold as ice. He didn’t care, for he had grown used to it.
“Ethan, please,” she urged, pulling back as her eyes rolled towards the syringe lying on the dresser.
“Huh, what?” he groaned, following her gaze. “Oh, you want that first?” Irritated by the inconvenience, he pushed off her and went to the dresser. Angrily, he snatched it and stalked back. Eyes big, she even managed a little smile as he hovered over her. “Fine. But after this you’re mine for the rest of the night.” She nodded eagerly, hating herself for needing that damn elixir, hating herself for needing him.
He jammed the needle into her neck. Back arching, her chest rose off the bed, eyes going bloodshot almost immediately. Dark blackish-blue veins pulsed beneath her pale skin, webbing up towards her neck and face. When she blew out, a frosty mist rose, dampening the ceiling and dropping the room temperature several degrees.
After a few seconds her breathing returned to normal and she settled back down into the bed. Pulsing black veins receded, settling back down beneath her pale skin.
Ethan yanked the needle from her neck and threw it against the wall, shattering the glass. “Enough of this already!” he barked, throwing himself on top of her. “You’ve gotten your fix, now I’m going to get mine.”
His statement wasn’t entirely true. The elixir didn’t bring her any particular joy; it only managed to temporarily dull her pain. The burning hunger would return as it always did, and she would beg and plead for him to make it go away...as she always did. In exchange, she would give up her body to a man whose very touch made her sick, and around and around it went. This is the only life I’ll ever know.
She allowed her mind to drift away, even as her body rocked back and forth. The squeaking of the bed sounded far away in her ears. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stared at the ceiling, her eyes glassing over. He’s right to treat me this way. After all, I’m nothing more than an animal...
*
Morning light shone through the bedroom window. Eyes already wide open, Viola carefully rolled out from under the covers. Ethan lay next to her, his foul breath stinking with each rumbling snore. Loathing in her eyes, she glared long and hard as his chest rose and fell with deep sleep. It would be so easy right now... A pillow over his face... A well-placed knife in the chest...
But then what? Despite his gruff exterior, the man had an uncanny understanding of herbs and alchemy. Of course he would never teach her the trade secrets. Keeping her ignorant on such matters was the perfect way to ensure she would always be his slave.
Preferring not to look at him any more than she had to, Viola slipped from the room and tiptoed quietly down the hall, determined not to wake him. The longer he slept the better. Longingly, she glanced inside her sleeping room as she passed by. It was not really a true bedroom, given the lack of furniture and personal belongings, but still a sanctuary to call her own.
Normally, she slept there on the floor. Only on nights when he had his way with her did he insist she stay in his bed. Those were the nights when she hardly slept at all, and they were becoming all too frequent as of late. She sighed... Perhaps I’ll sleep tonight.
She went to the kitchen and fetched three eggs, and placed them in a thick iron pan. Setting the pan on the table, she kneeled down in front of the hearth. After rearranging the stones into a small circle, she spread out some dry hay and a few twigs to get the fire started. Grabbing the flint and steel that were just within reach, she collided the items together with a crack. A spray of orange and blue coated the straw, nearly all of the colors vanishing on contact. Several more times she struck them. Crack...crack...crack... Knock-knock-knock came a rapping from the door.
She froze. Who could that be at this early hour? No one could know about her being here, so answering the door was out of the question. Panic building up, she glanced down the hall at Ethan’s room. She would have to wake him quickly and—
A booming crash made her jump. The door buckled inward, hinges hanging loosely from both top and bottom. A second boom sent it crashing inward. Armored men stomped on the door, its last clinging hinge snapping away like a twig. Viola screamed, leaping to her feet and retreating back down the hall.
She felt as if she were running in mud, the end of the hallway seeming to move further away with each step. The crackle of shattered glass rang out as she zipped past her room, her eye barely catching a moving arm reaching in through her window. They were coming in from everywhere!
Tackled from behind, her legs buckled and she slammed into the floor, face first. The impact driving the air from her lungs, she gasped as cold armor pressed against her back. An armored knee came down on the back of her head, sending an explosion of dizzying white radiating through her head. Clinging to consciousness, fighting against the buzzing in her ears, she raised her bruised face off the floor.
Vision fuzzy, she watched them slam Ethan up against the wall, arms twisted around his back. Nose bloody, he looked down at her, glaring with pure hatred. Eyes narrowed, she returned his angry glare with a similar frost. In her mind, she once again relived the fantasy of killing him. A second knee to the back of her head sent her thoughts spiraling into blackness.
Chapter 2
The old man grabbed a stool from the corner, then walked it back towards the iron bars. Extremely tall he was, with a back as straight as a board. He spun the stool down to the floor and took a seat. He sighed, running his lean fingers through his long white hair. Mouth hidden beneath his bushy white mustache, his expression was hard to read. His light blue eyes watched thoughtfully as the man on the other side of those bars sat on the floor, trembling, hugging his knees while muttering nonsense to himself.
“Sir?” he said to the trembling man, snapping his fingers to try and get his attention. “I say, sir, do you recognize me?” he asked, to no avail. Muttering and rocking back and forth, the man’s vacant eyes wondered around the cell. “General Hyndrid Coleth! I cannot help you if you do not speak with me.”
The general’s eyes snapped back into focus for an instant. He looked at the old man, nodding as if he at least recognized his own name and former title. “Y-Yes. I—know...know who you are,” he stammered, sweat pouring down his face. “Liam. Y-Your name is Liam.”
The old man smiled, sitting up in the stool. “That is correct, old friend,” he said, reaching out to touch one of the bars. Running his long, spidery fingers along the cool steel, his expression changed to one of pain. “I’ve known you for many years, yet I no longer recognize the man sitting before me.” Liam’s white, bushy eyebrows were twisted at their center, making them rise into spiraled points. In a nervous gesture, he began rolling one of the points between two fingers.
“You’ve been branded a traitor and possible spy, old friend,” Liam continued. “Lord Alaric Bournfred doesn’t understand how you could be the only survivor after the alleged attack on your men. Why leave one alive? Truth be told, Alaric suspects you might have a hand in this. No survivors, yet you don’t have a scratch on you. How do you explain such a thing?” The general kept rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself as he mumbled to no one. “How do I even begin to plead your case? Hyndrid, you must give me something! If you don’t, they’re going to—”
Hyndrid sprung to his feet and rushed the bars, wrapping his hands around two while jamming his face between them. The clumsy impact chipped his front tooth, sending the white cap spinning into Liam’s lap. Liam leapt from the stool, surprised
by the abrupt show of aggression.
“Is that what you believe?” Hyndrid accused, a stream of blood trickling down his chin from the freshly broken tooth. “Do you think I played a hand in having my own men killed?!” he shrieked, voice cracking, crazed eyes wide open like a mad man’s.
Liam drifted back towards the bars, closing both his hand around the general’s. He held his old friend’s gaze a long time before answering. “No, I do not,” he admitted. “But what I believe matters not. As Lord Alaric’s mystic, and right hand in matters of the court, it is my duty to question the accused and relay my judgment to him. I assure you he is not a man that’s easily influenced. Once his mind is set, I can only reverse his opinion with irrefutable evidence. So far you have provided me none, and until you do I’m afraid my hands are tied.”
Hyndrid slipped his hands down the bars, away from Liam’s touch. For a moment, his eyes cleared, a sharp, intelligent gaze Liam recognized, if only for that fleeting moment. “When did you become such a fool, old friend?” the general asked, raising one eyebrow with a lopsided smile. “What reason does any organized force have, be they man or beast, to leave a single survivor alive to tell the tale?”
Hyndrid shook his head when Liam didn’t respond, then went back to sit in the corner of his cell. “They are coming, old friend,” he continued. “And what’s more, they want everyone to know it. They drink our fear as if it were fine wine. Letting me live only served as a warning to the rest.”
“Who? Who is coming?” Liam replied, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. Hyndrid fell silent, eyes clouded over once more, rocking back and forth while muttering nonsense. Liam sighed then turned to leave. “Know that I will plead for your life. Perhaps Lord Alaric will listen to reason for a change.”
Hoarse, raspy laughter filled the room. “Your pleas will fall on deaf ears, I assure you. Lord Alaric is not his father,” yelled Hyndrid, each work spit out between mad cackling.
“On this much we agree,” Liam grumbled to himself. “Lord Alaric is certainly not his father.”
Nearing the steps, he heard the clattering of armored men coming from above. Angry shouts came next, followed by the sounds of a minor struggle between soldiers and a new prisoner being brought down. Distracted by his unsettling conversation, Liam paid little attention to the ruckus. He stepped aside so as not to block their way.
Down they came, pushing along a large man with dark, greasy hair. An ugly man indeed, he grumbled in protest, resisting futilely before taking another of several forearms to the back of the head. That calmed him. No longer struggling, he leaned forward and spit on the floor. One of the soldiers fumbled around with a set of keys on his side, unlocking an empty cell before pushing him in. The big man stumbled through, turning back immediately only to have the barred door slammed in his face.
Liam shrugged, his mind on more important things. A horse thief no doubt. I’ll question him later. He didn’t care one way or the other. This man’s end would likely be the same all the rest. Petty theft, murder—nearly all offenses ended in execution.
Liam began his ascent once more, but was waved back by another soldier suddenly appearing on the top step. From the cell behind him, the new prisoner burst into a crazy rant.
“She’s a damn witch I tell you,” he roared, rattling the bars of his cell. “She-She held me captive against my will. I was a prisoner in my own home. You-You brave men saved me from her darkness! I’ll see you all rewarded. I’ll make sure you all—”
“Silence!” Liam boomed, his enhanced voice vibrating the floor as he glared back. The prisoner let go of the bars, backing into the cell with his hands up. Liam was not normally this short tempered, especially with those poor souls already sentenced to death whether they realized it or not. But this had already been a trying day, and his patience was at an end. Forced to reason with a madman he once called his friend, now some new prisoner off the streets was babbling about witches and being held captive. It was all he could take for one day.
“And you’re sentenced for harboring that witch,” one soldier added, flashing a glare of his own towards the cell.
“Enough of this witch talk,” Liam grumbled under his breath.
The rattling of chains descending drew Liam’s attention back to the steps. Two soldiers came into view, each holding one end of a chain attached to a moving pillory. This must be a dangerous one indeed to take such extreme precautions. Head and hands trapped between two thick slabs of wood, Viola looked up just as her feet reached the bottom step. Dried tracks from tears streaked her cheeks, her lip quivering in fear.
Liam froze, staring into the eyes of what looked to be a walking corpse. Her irises were blood red, skin pasty white, and her lips were nearly black. But other than the death-like lack of color in her skin, she looked quite normal. Pretty, even.
“That’s her! That’s the witch who—” Liam took a step towards Ethan, his piercing gaze cutting him off. Ethan was not a small man, but this towering fellow was at least a head taller than him. Shriveling under those intense eyes, he closed his mouth and backed away.
Two chains in front, two behind, four men total walked the dead-looking girl over to a massive wooden door. Multiple deadbolts were undone, followed by two more heavy locks opened with a black key ring. The door was so heavy, it took the thick-armed soldier considerable effort to swing in open.
A second soldier lifted his smaller set of keys to each side of her neck. Two locks fell to the floor, followed by their chains and both halves of wood. Free of the substantial burden, Viola dropped to her knees, gulping air as if she had been underwater. Only a second or two passed before she was hoisted back to her feet, then slung into the dark room. Clearly fearing the dead-looking girl, two of the soldiers quickly slammed the heavy door as fast as they could. Breathing sighs of relief, the four of them headed back towards the steps.
Staring at the door, Liam grabbed one of the men’s arms as he passed. “Is she the one I keep hearing about?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” he replied. “Dangerous, that one is.”
“The chains, pillory, and now that reinforced cell—do you think all that was necessary for some young girl?”
The soldier stared blankly for a moment, unsure as to how to respond. “S-She’s a demon, sir. Just look at her. Who knows what the witch is capable of?”
Disgusted, Liam released his arm with a less-than-gentle push. “I strongly doubt she’s a demon,” he grumbled, advancing towards her cell.
He opened the sliding eye slit with a snap, and peeked into the pitch-blackness. Through the eye slit, he could smell the musty stench of a damp cell that was rarely used. Through the darkness, he heard her sobs coming from the far corner where she must have crawled. “What is your name?” he demanded, peering into the dark with only a minimal indication of where she might be. Her sobs only intensified, confirming at least one of his suspicions. Demons don’t cry because they’re left alone in the dark.
“Very well. I will leave you be for now,” he continued. “But when I return, you will be questioned. Do you understand what will happen if you do not cooperate?” He waited patiently for her to respond. No longer hearing her sobs, he pressed his eyes all the way up to the slit, searching through the darkness.
A pale face with red eyes flashed across his vision, causing him to stumble back. “I don’t want to be in here,” came the soft voice, pleading. “Please, let me out. I just want to go home.”
“You are here for a reason,” he said harshly, trying to filter any hint of sympathy from his voice. “You shall spend the night in there and I will return in the morning.” He snapped the eye slit shut and turned to leave. He winced at the sound of her renewed sobs. Most prisoners made threats while kicking the walls. They didn’t cry. It was clear to him she was genuinely frightened.
In the morning, he reassured himself, picking up his pace so he wouldn’t have to hear her crying. In the morning I’ll get to the bottom of her story. But first things first...<
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He hurried back up the steps, rounding the corner at the top. Ignoring the salutes of soldiers as they passed by, his mind spun as he replayed the conversations in his mind over and over, looking for clues he might have missed. He would have to make his report, and it was imperative that he got the facts in order before he did.
No matter how many years he had been doing this, he never grew complacent in his duties. As always, lives were at stake, and he refused to take that lightly. Everyone’s side must be heard. All facts must be considered.
He went up two more separate flights of steps, stopping in a large hallway. Servant girls dusted the paintings on the walls, each bordered with thick gold and silver frames. Many designs were abstract, swirls of random color with a moderately discernible figure at the center, anything from a screaming face to a dead tree. Lord Alaric seemed to have unusual tastes when it came to art.
Striding across the thick white carpet, Liam stopped before a set of white doors with green trim. He gave each of his eyebrows a final twist, peaking up each point before pushing back the doors. Heads turned when he entered, high-class folk raising their wineglasses in silent salute. Women in fancy dresses smiled, wagging their ring-covered fingers in his direction. Men tipped their large hats, giving nods of acknowledgment to the city mystic.
It disgusted him...
After a few handshakes and formal greetings, he made his way towards the long table covered with meats, boiled potatoes, imported olives from leagues away, and other fancy dishes most common folk would never sample in this life or the next. Watching as a stout woman licked the sauce from her fingers, dribbles of red spotting between her breasts, it was all Liam could do not to push her round face down into her soup bowl. Entitled pigs...the lot of you!