Tainted Blood Anthology

by Jeff Gunzel

  Oh, the pain was still nearly unbearable. But the blend of pain and terror had maxed out some time ago. As horrible as these sessions were, they weren’t actually a true form of torture, creatively designed to keep the victim guessing while causing as much torment as possible. On the contrary, the pattern had become routine. The same devices were always used in the same places of her body for the exact same duration of time. When it was over, they healed her and that was the end of it.

  Viola hardly seemed to notice as they strapped her wrists down. She didn’t flinch when her tunic was lifted, exposing her back. You must let me go, cried a voice inside her head. It will never stop unless you release me! From the corner of her eye she could see a man coming around behind her, the end of his poker a deep red. You cannot hold on to me forever.

  She heard the sizzle first, the rush of pain following as the all-too-familiar sensation exploded through her body. But it wasn’t like before. She could practically count the passing seconds, already knowing when the switch would occur. Fists clenched, her teeth mashed together as she fought through it. “Three, two, one,” she counted, embracing the relief when the hot iron peeled away from her skin. Knowing when that relief was coming made all the difference. She had gained a firm understanding of exactly how long she needed to hang on.

  Release me! “No!” Viola screamed out. Kuuma glanced down at her, then looked away with a shrug. It wasn’t strange for her to cry out during these sessions. In her half-conscious state of mind, she had often cried out for Xavier whether she knew it or not.

  The second wave of pain hit, just below the shoulder blades where it always came from. Teeth grinding together, she could smell the tangy scent of burned flesh wafting around the room. Release me now! “I can’t,” she cried out. “There will be no turning back. I don’t want to be somebody else!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, grimacing against the searing pain. Dark images flashed through her mind. She could see the man she had killed being dragged away, his unblinking eyes glaring with accusation. The vision swirled into a blur, a thousand colors all blending together. A second image flashed into her mind’s eye. She saw Umoro’s face, twisted and misshapen as she mutilated his body without a second thought.

  A third blast of pain assaulted her body from just beneath her arms. A combination of tears and sweat dripped from her nose and chin. Eyelids pressed shut, she saw a shadowy figure materialize before her. Those red eyes stood out against her soft white skin, that all-too-familiar smile reminding her once again of her own long-lost innocence. “You’re afraid to be somebody else?” her spitting image asked. “You’re already somebody else. You can’t ever go back to this.” She smoothed her hands down her front. “And where you’re going, I can’t possibly follow. Now make your choice.”

  She couldn’t fight it any longer. There was no denying it now. That innocent girl was no longer a part of who she was. Tears flowing, lips trembling, Viola whispered the words she had avoided for so long now. “I...release you.” Her image smiled back at her, the last remaining remnant of who she used to be. Arms spread wide, her image began to twirl in place. A sphere of white light engulfed her, so bright it hurt Viola’s eyes. It flashed, bursting like a soap bubble. Her image was gone, now replaced with nothing but darkness.

  When Viola had last closed her eyes, she was broken and hurt but still herself in large part. This time when she opened them, she had become...something else... She could feel her entire body, even the regions that had always seemed strange and alien. She was aware of her own heartbeat, could feel the blood pumping through her veins. It wasn’t just the essence of life she was aware of, it was untapped power that she now controlled. Her body and mind were no longer pushing against each other.

  She looked up at Diovok, staring into that red mask. Recognizing the change in her eyes, he raised his hand for the man behind her to stop. When he gestured towards her strapped wrists, two more men kneeled down to unstrap her. The guards exchanged confused glances with one another, wondering why they were stopping. The session was not even halfway through. Viola stood, her cold eyes fixed on the exotic shaman. Scratching his head, even Kuuma didn’t really understand what had just happened.

  When Diovok waved his hand to contain the collar’s magic, Viola felt a rush of energy. Like a dam breaking, her suppressed abilities came flooding back. With the collar’s suppression temporarily negated, her senses heightened. The last time he had done this, the thirst had hit her like a thunderbolt. But not this time. Umoro’s blood was still fresh in her body, but there still should have been some sort of craving, an awareness of her burning hunger at the very least. But there was no thirst, only complete awareness.

  Diovok reached into a deep pocket and retrieved a small syringe. He held it up, shaking it like a person might tease a dog with some sort of toy. The men in the room gasped, stepping away from what seemed like a dangerous game. Viola raised her hand, reaching out as if pleading for the serum she so desperately needed to keep her thirst at bay. The serum needed to keep her sanity.

  Everyone jumped as her hand blew outward like a thrown spear. The syringe exploded, tiny shards of glass spraying the air as the flesh blade cracked against the stone wall behind Diovok. Her body had responded like this before, but only to feelings of danger or threat. She had never willed it to do this on purpose. This time she was in total control. Her mind and body were united as one. The cold look in her eyes sent chills down Kuuma’s spine. She had changed somehow.

  “She’s ready?” Kuuma asked, eager to leave the room and get away from all this black magic. Diovok slowly bobbed his head. Even with his face hidden behind a mask, his approval radiated like dark energy. They almost felt his grin.

  Chapter 12

  “And then he says, touch her again and I’ll pull your guts out through your nose!” Roaring laughter ensued as off-duty soldiers slapped their knees, one nearly tumbling out of his seat.

  “That’s a good one,” said the little old man seated at their table. “I wish I could have seen his face. Priceless, I say.” A withered hand with long, spidery fingers rose up to adjust his eye patch. A hundred pounds soaking wet, this frail old man looked like the reaper may very well be lurking over his shoulder. He spun around in his seat. “Another round for my friends,” he called to the barkeep in a scratchy voice.

  A balding man, whose nose seemed to take up most of his face, set down a mug and rounded the bar. Ignoring the excited shouts from drunken soldiers expecting more ale, he knelt down in front of the old man. “I think your ‘friends’ here have had quite enough already,” he said, trying to keep his voice low. “Any more drink in them and they’re liable to start causing trouble. And trouble is one thing I’m not looking for tonight.”

  The old man touched the barkeep on the shoulder. “Well then, good sir, let me assure you that worrying about the behavior of these fine gentlemen here,” he swept his hand around the table, speaking loud enough for all to hear, “is like worrying that the sun might not come up tomorrow. These fine lads serve your king, do they not? I say they’ve earned a drink or two after a hard day’s work.” He pulled the barkeep closer, displaying an impossible grip for such a small man. “So then, let me repeat myself,” he said, speaking softly this time. “Another round, my good man.” The old man’s request carried the distinct air of a threat. With a sigh, the barkeep stood and went off to fetch those drinks.

  “Nice fellow, that one,” said the old man with a shrug. “But I fear he may have the attention span of a stone.” The soldiers laughed, half-empty mugs clinking around the table. They liked this old man. He was witty and surprisingly fun for a man his age. But most of all he kept on buying them drinks. That alone seemed to go a long way with this bunch. “Odd he should run an establishment such as this one, yet still be so quick to restrain others from having a good time. Oh well, let’s not talk about him anymore.” He threw his spidery hands up on the table. “I want to hear more about that creature.”

  A few of
the soldiers stiffened, sharing several uneasy glances. “The girl?” one of them asked.

  “Yes...yes,” the old man replied, prodding them on with a twirling hand. “Of course. The one everyone is talking about. You men are on the inside. At least one of you has seen her, correct?” Eyes around the table shifted towards a man with curly red hair and a thick scraggly beard to match. “You?” the old man asked, following their gazes.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen her,” he grunted dismissively. The mood was different now, subdued and uncomfortable. They weren’t really supposed to be talking about any of this. The barkeep returned with a tray full of drinks.

  The old man shoved a coin into the barkeep’s apron, then turned his attention back to the heavyset red-haired man. “So, is it true what they say? Can she breathe fire? Can she kill a man just by looking at him?” They couldn’t help but chuckle at the silly old man’s wild imagination.

  “Well, that’s what they say. If you won’t tell me the truth, I suppose I’ll just have to go on believing these tales,” said the old man. The red-haired man’s eyes shifted around, as if seeking some sort of approval from the others.

  “Oh, what’s the harm in indulging an old man? Who am I going to tell? Who would believe me even if I did? I filled your bellies with ale, didn’t I? All I’m asking in return is a tale or two that you’re probably bursting to tell me anyway.”

  “Well, since you put it that way,” said the soldier, reaching for one of the drinks. He was feeling rather tipsy, and quite talkative as well. “Those rumors floating around are ridiculous. To tell you the truth, old man, I don’t think she is even all that dangerous.”

  “And why is that?” asked the old man, rubbing his chin.

  “Well, she cries like a baby for one thing. Never seen a supposedly dangerous captive act so sensitive before.” The large man took a long gulp from his mug.

  “And why does she do that?” the little fellow asked, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table.

  “Who knows? It depends on the day,” the soldier replied, wiping the froth from his mustache. “Sometimes she’s lonely, other times she whines about how the other slaves are being mistreated. She views them as her friends or something. I honestly don’t know if she reminds me more of an immature little girl, or my nagging wife!” Drunken laughter erupted around the table. The old man forced a smile that never seemed to touch his eyes.

  “Oh, but believe me,” the guard said through his winding down laughter, wiping away a tear. “There are certainly times when I don’t envy her one bit. Those hot pokers they put on her back. Quite possibly the strangest form of torture I’ve ever seen.”

  “Torture?” the old man said, a visible twitch pulsing in his left cheek. His knuckles went white as his fingernails dug into the wooden table.

  “Yes! I’ve seen some crazy things in my day, but never anything like—” A few soldiers around the table silenced him with a look, one slowly shaking his head. “Oh, he’s just an old man,” the bearded man slurred, swaying drunkenly as he threw his hand up.

  “Please, tell me more,” said the little man, leaning forward in his chair. “My days are spent wandering around the market, hoping a bird might land so I can feed it. Don’t deprive an old man of a little excitement. I live vicariously through young, strapping lads such as yourself. A discovery like this comes along once in a lifetime. I want to hear everything!” A few soldiers shrugged, reaching for the ring of full mugs at the center of the table.

  “Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers as if just remembering something. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a blank roll of parchment. “Tell me about the rooms you keep her in as well. Could you outline me a rough map? It helps me visualize the details during a good story.”

  The bearded soldier eyed the old man suspiciously. This was going well beyond a healthy curiosity. “What’s with you, old man?” His eyes narrowed, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead.

  Spinning back in his chair, the little man snapped his fingers. “We are getting a little light over here,” he called to the barkeep. “My friends are thirsty.” When he turned back, the soldier was no longer scowling. The promise of more liquor seemed to curb his suspicions.

  Another hour passed, the soldiers’ lips loosening further with each full mug. After a time, the stories just began repeating, each version slightly more exaggerated than the last. The old man took that as his cue to leave. He had heard all he needed to hear. With a thank you and a farewell, he retrieved his walking stick from the corner and made his way towards the door. “Hey, old man,” slurred one of the soldiers, wobbling in his seat. He stopped and turned back. “That’s unbelievable craftsmanship. Where did you get that staff?”

  The old man leaned it away from his body, taking a moment to admire it himself. Gleaming white with intricate designs carved throughout, the top was shaped like a goat’s head with white gems fit into the eye sockets. “It was a gift from a friend,” he said with a sigh. “Good day, gentlemen.” He turned and left the tavern.

  It was late, and the streets were mostly empty. Once he was certain no one was looking, Liam thumped his staff against the ground, muttering a few words. His face bulged, forehead growing and shrinking as his facial features shifted around. His fingers thickened and his legs grew. Within seconds, the frail old man shifted back into the towering white-haired mystic. It had been another night spent deceiving others, another night gathering precious information.

  But as far as Liam was concerned, they hadn’t been gathering information quickly enough. It had been weeks now, but truly useful intel had been hard to come by. They knew where she was now and had gained some idea of what the layout of her desert prison might look like. Liam had done a reasonable job playing an innocent old man, simply curious about the dangerous work these hero soldiers were forced to do. Inflating their egos while filling them with liquor at the same time had worked wonders to loosen their tongues.

  Meanwhile, Owen had been using a slightly different approach, one that was much more straightforward. Hunting down pit survivors in the slums at night, he had broken many a jaw to get some of them talking. One at a time, four at a time, it made no difference to the hunter, who was largely unchallenged when it came to physical prowess. Tough guys claiming to fear nothing after their time in the pit generally became sniveling cowards within seconds. But more importantly, they talked.

  Owen was able to discover things like how closely the guards watched the prisoners, how long they trained outside on an average day—any information that might help them form a plan to break Viola out. Even the most mundane details might prove to be crucial.

  But what Liam had discovered tonight proved to be most unsettling. He never thought she was being treated particularly well, but he never dreamed she was being tortured! The details of what that soldier had said were now burned into his mind. He could actually visualize it, which was the last thing he wanted. Nearly running, he moved swiftly through the empty streets, trying to get back to the inn. Thatra and Assirra would be awaiting his return. Two tarrins walking the streets asking questions would attract too much attention and were too easily identified, so they stayed behind most nights.

  When Liam got back, he raced up the stairs and burst into the shared room without so much as a warning knock. Startled, the girls whipped their heads around. Drawn maps and written notes were hung all around the room. They had been going over everything they had learned, seeing what matched up and what might have been storytelling so as not to get smacked around by Owen. Upon seeing the desperate look in Liam’s eyes, their blood chilled.

  “Liam?” said Thatra, setting down a map she had been studying. “Liam, what’s wrong?”

  Out of breath, he just shook his head, not knowing where to start. “They’re...they’re hurting her,” he began. “We have to get to her. We have to get to her soon! There’s no more time.”

  *

  A cool breeze chilled the beaded sweat across her neck and forehead. Eyes closed,
Viola took a deep breath through her nose, the grainy dry air biting at the back of her throat. She exhaled, arms rising up over her head, hands clasping together.

  Focused on her internal energies, she was one with the world, her mind and body whole for the first time. She inhaled again, arms drifting down near her waist. She twisted her hips and shifted her stance, one arm flowing up in front of her face while the other stayed back. One foot forward, she bent her knee and exhaled. Her slow, fluid movements were poetry in motion. Smooth. Peaceful. She was one with herself, connected with the world around her.

  “Begin!” Ozryn ordered.

  Her eyes snapped open. There came an explosion of movement around her, wooden swords slicing in from multiple angles at once. Viola’s body bent straight backward as blades whipped past her face. Her hands planted firmly in the sand, body contorted in a full backbend, she snapped her legs up and over, intercepting two more blades with the balls of her feet. The combatants gasped as she landed, completing the smooth back flip. How had all of them missed? Impossible!

  Both Nald and Kalmton attacked at once, each rushing at her from opposite sides. Viola dove forward as their blades whiffed, one barely flicking the back of her hair. Knees tucked, she rolled across the sand and sprung to her feet. Feeling their pursuit, she spun back just as their blades came down. Ozryn had warned them not to hold back. They were coming at her with everything they had.

  Their swords cracked against something hard, the force of their swings coming to an abrupt halt. Viola grinned at them, their weapons held fast. Her arms were no longer her arms, but flesh blades hard as steel. Trapped just across her face, she slammed her flesh blades together, crushing their wooden weapons like twigs. Splintered shards burst through the air as the weapons practically disintegrated.