Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Under The Stairs

  Book #1 in the Bandworld Series

  John G. Stockmyer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 John G. Stockmyer

  Discover other titles by John G. Stockmyer at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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  About this Smashwords Edition

  This version of the book you are reading is a product of the automatic file-conversion process used at Smashwords.com. As a result, much of the original formatting has been stripped out, or simplified. If you want to read a version that looks much more like a traditional printed book (with a table of contents, proper chapter breaks, and text formatted for maximum readability), you may get it (for free) from the author's web site. To download the lovingly hand-coded version of this book in .epub or .mobi format, visit the author's web site at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

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  Acknowledgements

  Cover Art: Peter Ziomek

  Peter Ziomek is a graphic designer, comic book artist and instructor in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Peter received his B.S. in Graphic Design from Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. He lived in Chicago for 14 years before moving to New Mexico in 1995. He is currently the Vice President and active creator with the New Mexico self publishers group 7000 B.C. He uses a combination of digital and traditional media to create works that range in style from cartoon to realistic. Influences include two-dimensional patterns, the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comics, The Simpson's comics, Jeff Smith's Bone and brother Paul Ziomek. He is currently co-creating an all-ages comic book entitled "Fakin' the Funk" with Paul Ziomek. You can check out Peter's work at: www.overthetopcomics.com and www.7000bc.com.

  Cover Design: Jeremy Taylor and John L. Stockmyer

  Jeremy Taylor is the Assistant Director of Business Operations and Outreach at Adams State College in Alamosa, Colorado. He received his Bachelor's Degree in Business Administration (Marketing Major) from Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico.

  Ebook Conversion: John L. Stockmyer

  John L. Stockmyer is an Associate Professor of Marketing at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. In his spare time, he dabbles in ecommerce, audio-book production and eBook design. He is also an avid disc golfer. His current ambition is to help talented "undiscovered" authors (like his dad) find an audience through the use of non-traditional media and innovative technology. Thank you for helping us shake up the publishing industry!

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  Chapter 1

  Cold! Even in her dreams the girl was cold. Even though she dreamed of her childhood in warm Malachite, of days before the black robed priests of Stil-de-grain had stolen her away. As she dreamed of a brightly colored flutterby, reaching out to touch it, she twisted on the stone shelf that was her bed, her chain snubbing tight, the iron manacle digging into her wrist so that she moaned aloud. Cold ... though she dreamed of running under a bright, green sky.

  She heard her mother call. "Platinia."

  She was awake ... listening with all her being, fearful that she had heard a footstep in the rough, flag-stoned hall beyond her cell. Could she also see motes of light edging the locked door at room end? Quicker than thought, she sat up to crouch back until the iron cuff cut into her slender wrist.

  With all her strength, she steeled herself against the terror! Surely it was only that the night had past. That the priest was coming to display her in the sanctuary.

  Footsteps. Slow. Solemn. Shuffling. She could hear them plainly now, no longer a hope that the light beneath the door was another dream. Desperately, she wished those sounds to be on other business. Surely they would pass her by ... this time.

  They came nearer. She began to pant. Chills racked her as she rolled into a frightened ball.

  The great ring of keys thudded against the outside of the ponderous door; a single key fumbled into the lock, scraped, turned with a heavy click. The rusty hinges groaned as torch light dazzled in to blind her.

  Then, in the light, she saw a form. Not the narrow priest who came to take her to the sanctuary, but the vast, shadowed bulk of the head priest!

  Now it was time to scream! And scream! And scream again!

  Three, threatening shadows shuffled in. One was the fat priest, the leader mumbling a hoary prayer-chant through his loose, thick lips, all the time placing heel to toe, mincing closer, head bowed, hands clasped above his head, long fingernails entwined.

  Two apprentice priests were close behind, hands within the flowing sleeves of thick, black robes.

  With the part of her mind, the part still sane, the girl knew it did no good to scream. For she had screamed before and begged and prayed to die ... and would again. And yet she screamed out every gasp of breath.

  Would the priest have needles, heat them before sticking them beneath her fingernails? Or keep her eyelids open with small sticks, her eyes drying, burning so that, if they let her, she would claw them out? Or would he drag out her tongue to stick needles through it until she fainted from the pain!?

  His droning chant finished, the priest waved the apprentices forward, motioned them to seize the girl.

  She fought! Bit! Scratched! But they quickly overpowered her, the burliest grabbing her wrists, twisted them together, pinned them in one hand. With his other hand he grabbed her hair, wrenched back her head. The second priest threw himself across her legs so she could not kick, then unlocked the manacle on her chain.

  Pulling her up, stretching her between them by her arms, they dragged her, crying, twisting, begging, to the sacrificial table in the small room's center and scraped her up over its edge. Holding her on her back, they spread her arms wide and tight so they could clamp her hands to the iron cuffs fastened to the stone table top. One taking each ankle, they spread her ankles wide and clamped each ankle into the irons set at the table's edges. After that, one smoothed her tunic while the other choked her by the neck to keep her still so he could brush her hair from her sweat-sheened face. They always did this before torture.

  The head priest, moving quickly for his age and bulk, had waved alight the angled torches thrust out around the room's slick walls.

  After the lighting, seeing she had been trussed fast, knowing he was safe from her no matter what he did, the old priest waved the younger ones away, the young priests, bowing, turning, closing the door behind them.

  She was alone with the tormentor!

  Exhausted now, grappling fast to her remaining shred of thought, she knew what she must do. Freeze her heart. Control her mind. Probe for a weakness in this priest. ............. But she could find no mercy in him. His thoughts, his feelings were about his god. He was ... in prayer ... asking Fulgur to reveal the torture that would give that god the strength to fight off darkness. Though the priest's eyes were open, they were blank, his mind in prayer.

  And so she lay, scream-drained. Her only hope that Fulgur would be satisfied, this time, with less than mindless anguish.

  As the priest's silent prayer continued, careful to make no sound that would return his mind to earth, she raised her head, straining to see what devices he had brought. Not a flask of water, surely. She would have noticed that. This time, at least, he would not force fabric into her nose and mouth, soaking the close weaved cloth with water until, no matter how desperately she tried, she could not breathe. Only wh
en he had suffocated her into unconsciousness would he allow her to gasp in air until she was awake -- then drown her with the water-cloth again. Again. Again. Strangling her. Choking her into oblivion!

  Nor had he a box for ants. This time, he would not stick a hollow tube of wood into her mouth, pour honey in, shake ants through the tube to crawl past her tongue and down her throat to seek the honey. Thinking of this, of their sticking legs and biting jaws, she gagged; tried to retch, hoping to suck the vomit into her lungs so that she would drown. .......

  Try as she might, she could not do it.

  As quickly as it had begun, the prayer was over. She could feel the priest's thoughts returning to the room, sense his excitement, feel his pleasure at the thought of making her writhe in pain for him and for his god.

  Looking up, she saw the crazed, erotic smile that creased his sagging cheeks as he fumbled within a fold of his robe ... to remove ... a small, green flask. A ewer she knew well! Only a drop from it upon her flesh was agony to the bone! The lightest brush of it on lips and tongue would bury her in pulsing waves of pain! Seeing the vial drove all other thought away but one. Where would he spread the sear-drops on her body? Where ... this time?

  Frantically, she tried to think of some way to make him use too much so that she would die. No. No. Too clever, was this priest. He would not let her pass that easily into death. Not until his god's good time.

  For an eternity she lay, stretched, helpless, waiting. For an eternity the priest knew the pleasure of anticipation, shifting in his mind the thrills he would feel at her suffering if he dropped the liquid here ... or there ... or there ...

  Then, he had decided, was tearing at her tunic, jerking it up, exposing her thighs, stripping the thin cloth above her bare, angled hips. No! Not there! She could not stand it if he touched the liquid to her there!

  Fiercely, she raised her head, strained it high, slammed it back upon the stone. Again! Again! Struggling to lift her head higher, ever higher, her fixed desire to beat her mind to senselessness.

  But ... had there been a change? In the priest's emotions? She lay still again, opened her eyes to dizziness, trying to see through sweat tangled wisps of hair. In spite of the ringing, the throbbing in her head, did she see ...? Did she feel ... lust ... in the priest's thoughts? Yes. He, too, had paused, was staring at her body, naked below the waist. There had been a transformation. She sensed his confusion, felt he did not know which pleasure he desired the most.

  Now was her time! She must penetrate his thoughts, separating out the lust, strengthening it while keeping her mind away from the pleasure he would feel at giving her pain. Quavering with the effort, she tried to concentrate.

  Slowly, with her mind, she probed delicately at the jumbled emotions of the priest, strengthening his lust, willing his thoughts away from the sick need to rend her flesh, prodding him to imagine the pleasure he would receive from having her, increasing his craving to throb deep within her, showing him that knifing into her helpless body would give him pleasure as it caused her pain. Had he thought of spreading the liquid on her body first, then of rape? She trapped that feeling with her mind, tried to alter it. He must be made to see he could not ravage her after using the torture-drops, lest he get the searing liquid on himself. For the merest fraction of a moment she allowed herself to feast upon the glee she would feel as her excruciating pain was transferred to his sensitive parts. But she could not indulge herself this way. She must reserve her mind for his alone.

  And ..... he was lowering the bottle, bending to put it on the floor.

  Exhausted with the effort, she panted in some strength. The priest was tearing off his robe, drool slobbering to drip on rolls of aged fat below his wrinkled chest. His weight would crush her as his nether sword ripped into her bowels. Better than the searing liquid. Better than the torment he and his god had planned for her.

  She closed her eyes, safe at last.

  Was there a noise? The door opening? She must focus on the priest. Nothing was as important as to inflame his passion for her. There were sounds. Shut them out.

  Except that the priest's mind had changed -- to fear -- to terror -- to suffering -- to ....... nothing. Unconsciousness, nothingness. The link between her mind and his had snapped.

  She was confused, terrified again!

  She lifted her head to see that the priest was gone. In his place, stood another ... man! ... A man she had not seen before. A man ... in .... She had never seen a priest so dressed. Thinking, did she remember men with the king, men with that dress? Many full-lights ago. The king's guard?

  But ... where was the priest? Had he left the room? Was he beyond her reach? Was that what had broken the connection?

  Struggling to lift her head once more, she saw the foreign man bend below her sight, rise up again, walk to the bottom of the table below her stretched and opened legs. He had ... the key ... was unlocking her ankle. One. Then the other.

  With great effort she closed her legs, her thighs weak, shaking, the muscles strained, her calves covered with cold sweat.

  The man was at the side now, the girl turning her head to watch as he unlocked her wrist. Wearily, eyes upside down, she rolled her head to follow him as he crossed behind her to unlock the other cuff. Not knowing what might provoke him, she eased her arms to her sides, lying still for fear of him, holding her mind within her body, not knowing what to do. He had not hurt her yet. But he was a man ... like the priests.

  The man motioned her to rise, clasped her arm to help her sit, supported her as she dragged her numb legs over the table's side. Trying to stand on wooden feet, he gripped her under the armpit. "Follow me," said the strange man, his voice the growl of cold command, his rough tones echoing from the hard walls of the narrow, high ceilinged, flame lit room. Looking at his face, she could see that he was cruel, a hard-faced man with old, white scars on cheek and forehead. A dagger was in his belt.

  Holding her, he pulled her across the room. There, still supporting her, he paused to wrest open the heavy door, the girl looking back to see the priest lying on the other side of the sacrificial table, blood oozing from the thin slit in the priest's fat throat, the last of it dripping softly into a thickening, red pool.

  The girl spent, panting, she sagged against the man, the man shifting his arm to her waist to hold her up while he forced the door and guided her through the opened slab.

  There was noise in the high hall. And other men dressed like this man, but more dully. Running past. Waving bloody swords. Yelling, but pausing to salute the man beside her. They were the man's soldiers. She could feel that in their many thoughts.

  Down the hall she saw ... other priests ... lying on the floor. Bloody. Dead. Killed by the men. Even at faint-point, she felt joy at the destruction of the priests!

  The man beside her was giving orders now, her mind not comprehending.

  The girl awoke to find herself in the sanctuary, the man still keeping her upright, pressing her back against the gilded altar. Her head lolling back, she opened her eyes to see the many torches circled below the room's domed ceiling, the torches forever lighted to illuminate the bands of color on the dome -- violet at the center, circled by blue, then green, yellow, orange, with red bordering the outside -- to simulate the sky at full-light. Looking down, she saw that the golden chains were dangling, the chains that held her when she was taken there for viewing by shrine-supplicants. More awake, she realized that the man had not clamped the chains to her wrists, did not seem to know the purpose of the chains. Instead, he was waiting, waiting for his men to come into the room. ... And they did, in twos and threes, still waving swords, still yelling.

  Alert again, the girl reached into the emotions of the men, finding barbaric rage, the killing frenzy still upon them. Concentrating, she strengthened their darkest thoughts, the men yelling anew. Until the man at her side, though he was shouting at them, trying for control, could not be heard.

  The others, eyes wild, rushed out the back again, swords above
their heads.

  Alone, the man at her side cursed loudly, steadily.

  The man's men straggled back at last, hanging their heads, tired, soaked with blood.

  "Form up!" the man at her side commanded as they entered. "Form up!" And they did, making ragged rows. Many men. More men.

  "Have you gone insane?" their Head snarled when the last man had completed the back row. "Have you forgotten the king's command? Do you wish your heads to hang before the city gates on gibbets?"

  At that, the men straightened, were soldiers once again. "It is time that we left this place. Past time!" The man's voice worked on the girl's skull like a priest-drill grinding into the nerves of her back teeth. "Riss!" A man with a yellow band across his chest stepped forward, head bowed. Remembering, the man looked up to salute, then ducked his head once more. "Have you organized the party that will create the fraudulent trail to Realgar?"

  "Yes, Head Soldier," said the man, saluting feebly.

  "No one must see you make that false path. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Head." The man with the sash saluted, this time more smartly.

  "Then do as you have been commanded!"

  At that, the sash-man, turning on his heel, signaled to some others, several forming a unit. On command, they quick stepped after the man with the golden sash -- to trot out of the sanctuary. "You!" the Head soldier said to another. "You will disguise our true course. You can do that, can you not?"

  "Yes, Head Soldier."

  "You and you," the Head signaled, "take the girl. I will lead. No one must see us near this place. It is Yarro's command. Your heads on it if we are discovered!" They saluted, then stepped forward, one to each side of the girl, turned, each gripping her by an arm. "Follow me."