Ofelia (The Book of Davoth 1)

by Martyn Stanley

  Lindie gritted her teeth. She couldn’t give up. She would rather take her chances with the ethereal, superstitious threat of the Abyss, than the real, physical threat of priests roasting her alive. Her thoughts turned to escape. After climbing to her feet, she raised her manacled hands and tried to push her iron collar off. No amount of twisting and pulling, would allow her to raise the tight, narrow band, even over her chin. She fumbled with the lock for a while, her cold, stiff fingers tugging and yanking futilely on the rough, hard, metal. The darkness meant she couldn’t even tell how it fastened. She gave up and squelched through the damp, faeces-ridden straw to the other side of her cell. The chain holding her collar to the wall just stretched long enough to let her to reach all four sides of the tiny room. To see in the dim light, was near impossible. Blindly, she ran her fingertips across the joints between the large stones, which formed the walls of the cell. Some of the damp mortar crumbled in her fingers, but the stones were solid and immovable.

  As she explored the cold, moist, walls - her spirits fell. The iron collar, the manacles and the shackles rubbed on her skin uncomfortably. Her misery was increased by the itchy, hessian rags she’d been given to wear. Nothing about her cell gave her any hope of escape. The door was a solid, thick, iron-bound lump of wood, hardened and blackened with age. Even the rusty iron bracket at the end of the chain attached to her collar seemed firmly fixed to the wall. Roaming her cell, squelching through the mire of fetid straw, did not improve her situation. All her exploration, bearing the discomfort of her cruel restraints, achieved nothing. When she retired to the hard wooden bed, her neck, shoulders and wrists were red raw. To continue her endeavour would serve nothing, but to risk causing her skin to blister, leaving her less able to resist and escape if an opportunity arose.

  This realisation having hit, she cowered, submissive and defeated, shivering in the gloom. She started playing out scenarios in her head. She played out the various ways the quisitors might remove her from this cell, but this only lowered her spirits further. Short of a visit from Ishar himself, there seemed nothing that might change her fate now. Divine intervention however, would seem unlikely, considering she was condemned to death for breaking one of Orion’s holy laws. Slowly, her strength and resolve faded. She sat contemplating her fate and broke into sorrowful, soft sobs of utter despair. Part of her wanted them to come for her, to take her away. Company, even if that company only appeared to ferry her to her doom, seemed better than sitting alone, in this vile place, dwelling on her forthcoming, grizzly death.

  Chapter 2

  ~

  The Fire and Flames

  Brael, Saul, Votrex and Elden Roth walked through the city filled with purpose. The execution of Lindie Goldstraw had been brought forward following the rescue from the palace dungeon of her partner Kaya. Vashni, and Korhan remained at Sordia’s tavern to rest and recuperate. For reasons unexplained, Vashni seemed to have decided not to whisper her wounds closed. Instead she’d asked Sordia, to clean and dress them. There would be scars, and she would suffer - so her decision not to use her ability seemed strange.

  Beneath his robes, Saul concealed the sender ring of Brael’s set of portal rings. Their destinations - the moat between the citadel and the main part of Cormaroth, and the square outside the Cathedral of the Voice; the grand church that adjoined the headquarters of the Quisition and the Praxium’s apartments.

  The previous night Elden Roth, being the least conspicuous of the odd group, had joined the citizens building the bonfire. While the devout followers of Ishar piled on bales of dry kindling, Elden had copied them. As the bonfire had neared completion, he’d smuggled in Brael’s receiver ring. When the wooden platform had been fixed above the stack, around the thick stone monolith, which acted as the stake - nobody seemed to notice the ring’s presence.

  The companions had fought a lengthy debate on how to rescue Lindie. Several times they’d almost given up. The Quisition would be heavily guarded at the best of times; Kaya’s rescue had only increased security. A large crowd would watch Lindie’s execution; Brael seemed to think this meant a conventional rescue would be out of the question. Brael had come up with an alternative, which he hoped would use the crowd to their advantage - if it worked. As they came to a junction, they split up. Votrex and Brael headed towards the Cathedral of the Voice, while Saul and Elden Roth started walking towards the moat, which separated the main city from the citadel.

  Votrex stopped and watched Saul and Elden striding away towards the citadel. He turned to Brael, ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this Truthseeker?’

  ‘I must be Votrex. For I see no other way of preventing this atrocity.’

  ‘But you, to be declaring a miracle, a divine intervention... When you were the unraveller of religion and faith in the underdeep? This seems absurd.’

  ‘Maybe because I know Orion and Ishar to be lies, I can do this without fear of divine repercussions. Faith is a tool, which can be used for good or evil. I intend to use it to stop this tragic waste of human life.’

  ‘Have you rehearsed what you are going to say?’

  ‘No. I need to judge the mood of the crowd and the atmosphere. I know the Book of Creation better than all but the most learned priests - I will come up with something.’

  ‘Are you sure this scheme will work?’

  ‘I do not know. If they keep feeding water through the portal it must dampen the flames, preventing the fire engulfing her. The risk is that the volume of water is either so great, it raises suspicion or so great it overloads the sender ring - making the runes burn out.’

  ‘And the Quisition won’t suspect magic is at work?’

  ‘All the magic happens at the sender ring. I have never shared the secrets of portal rings with anyone. They should have no reason to suspect magic is at work.’

  Votrex looked at the dark elf for a moment, pondering his chances of success. Brael had an air of assuredness. Votrex mused that Brael seemed the sort of person, who if he set himself a goal, would pursue it relentlessly. Brael had tenacity. He also had a great deal of wisdom and understanding. Despite Brael’s impressive knowledge of magic, something told Votrex that thus far they had only scratched the surface of the gravian’s capabilities. Votrex stopped and grabbed Brael’s elbow. ‘Truthseeker, I still don’t understand, the receiver ring is buried in kindling - surely when Lindie drops the censer it will land above the ring so-’

  ‘The receiver ring in the bonfire is inverted’ Brael interrupted ‘as it’s upside down, the downward momentum of the water entering the sender ring, will be converted into upwards motion. This will cause the water to be thrown up, out of the ring, dousing the flames.’

  Votrex eyed him thoughtfully. He’d seen Brael’s portal rings in action, but the concept of folding space-time still made no sense to him. He’d seen many strange things in his long life, but Brael’s portal rings seemed to transcend mere works of magic. They opened a window into a reality, which seemed unfathomably complex and nonsensical. The fact that Orion, Ishar and the many other divine beings worshipped in Torea also seemed to be imaginary, did not help matters. Whenever Votrex allowed himself to dwell on Brael’s revelations, he found himself struggling to come to terms with them. He was happier with the world being created, life having a purpose, death being followed by an afterlife, chosen for you based on how you’d lived your life - it all made sense.

  The crowd in the square had started to build. It seemed perverse that such a vile, horrific atrocity would be a spectator sport. The atmosphere was jovial, children played, running about the square. Traders had set up stalls. The towering bonfire in the centre, dominated the scene. A tall, thick stone pillar rose from the piles of dried twigs, which made up the bonfire. The very presence of the pillar seemed absurd. Here it stood, outside the Cathedral of the Voice, Orion’s holiest place of worship - yet this monument was actually stolen from an ancient temple in the southern continent. The deity, to whom this monolith was dedicated, was long forgotten. The ci
rcular engraving on the top suggested it might have been a sun god. Now it appeared to Votrex, to be nothing more than a shrine to cruelty, pain and suffering – perhaps it always had been?

  ***

  Saul and Elden at this time neared the moat, which separated Cormaroth from the citadel. They managed to exit the sprawl of Cormaroth a distance from the bridge to the citadel. This was intentional - the location would allow them to perform their task away from the prying eyes of the citadel guards. Luckily, the moat side was fairly quiet. The few people who did amble past Saul and Elden, paid little attention to them. They appeared too busy, trying to scrape a living, to worry about an ageing wizard and a middle-aged man with his ears tucked into his hat. Once the street had become deserted, Saul and Elden began the slow descent of the slimy, damp, moss-covered stone steps to the moat. Its water smelled of mildew and rodents, but it was cooler down at the water’s edge. The stone flags lining the moat side path were worn smooth and slippery. Saul cast a glance about. The bridge to the citadel in the distance was undergoing repair. Saul spotted the simple wooden scaffold in the water. The centre of the bridge was being propped up by wooden supports while the keystone was being replaced. Luckily the workmen didn’t appear to be around, perhaps having taken a break to enjoy the spectacle of Lindie being roasted alive in Cathedral Square. He turned to Elden. ‘I believe the coast is clear. Do you think it is time?’

  Elden paused, staring at the towering outer wall of the citadel, which loomed ahead of them on the other side of the moat. ‘Give it a while. They will set the fire at noon, I think we are too early, looking at the position of the sun.’

  Saul raised his hand to shield his eyes and looked up. The waiting was torturous. Brael had been furiously improving and refining the runework on the sender ring during the night. Should his endeavours prove successful, it would mean the ring would send a greater volume of material, without burning the runes out and remain stable for longer. Still - activate the runes too early and the portal’s stability would perhaps fail before its job was done, activate it too late, and the flames might be too strong to be doused. Elden waited, then cast a final glance around. ‘Tis nearly time - get ready.’

  ***

  Lindie was sitting alone and silent in her cell when they came for her. All hope had left her. Her stomach spasmed with fear, nearly making her sick. She’d actually vomited into the straw earlier. She’d tried to sleep, but hadn’t achieved anything you could describe as ‘sleep’. Her mind would drift to the dark stories of the Abyss, told to her from the pulpit of the Isharian Church. The quisitors had told her that if she showed courage and died well - Ishar might notice and fight Avanti for her soul, winning her a place in Kirkfell. They made it sound like a trial by ordeal whereby success would be won by allowing the flames to consume her, without screaming or begging for mercy. She’d seen others roasted alive by the church of course - for various crimes. They all tried to remain stoic and courageous, few succeeded though. Writhing in agony, screaming as their clothes, then their flesh became burnt, charred and blackened. A party atmosphere would resonate within the square. After her lifeless remains had cooled, the priests might break off her fingers or rip out her teeth, to sell as souvenirs. She wasn’t sure what happened to the rest of the remains of the condemned - the Quisition would close off the square and remove her corpse once the crowd had dispersed. Thinking about these things almost made her retch again. She wanted to avoid considering her impending fate, but it sat there in her subconscious all the time, nagging at her. She would have thrown up again, but she was so stunned, so in shock at what was about to befall her, that she was frozen, glued to the hard wooden bench, almost incapable of moving.

  The door swung open violently and a priest, flanked by several guards became silhouetted in the doorway. The priest stepped forwards and began unlocking her restraints. She didn’t move or offer any resistance; she was overcome with fear and regret. The priest sighed as he finished by removing her collar. ‘I’m sorry child, your time has come.’

  The priest stepped back having freed her, then he thrust a simple, white cotton dress at her. She just sat there, drained of strength. Eventually the priest coughed. ‘Ahem, if you don’t get dressed - I’m afraid we’ll have to dress you.’

  She glared at him. ‘Some privacy?’

  He looked like he was considering refusing her, but he sagged. ‘Alright. You may have a moment to prepare, be quick.’

  She watched them leave the cell and close the door. Her restraints had been removed, but this didn’t help her situation much. She’d already explored the dark recesses of her cell - there would be no escape. Better to comply and try to give her captors a false sense that she’d accepted her fate - making them complacent, then be ready to make a break for it when the time seemed right. She changed quickly, throwing off the rough, scratchy hessian rags she’d been given to wear. The soft, luxurious white cotton dress, in contrast, cosseted and soothed her skin. It looked a plain garment, sleeveless, with a high neck and a tie around the waist. It seemed absurd in many ways; the cloth was the finest she’d ever worn - yet it would soon go up in flame. The reason could only be, to make her sacrifice look holy and noble, as if she were being welcomed into Ishar’s waiting arms. Having made herself look as presentable as possible, the door flung open again and she stood, startled, blinded by the torchlight. The priest stepped in and gestured towards the waiting guards. ‘Please.’

  She stepped forwards, feigning compliance. As she stepped over the threshold she almost darted for the stairs, hoping to barge past the guards. The moment she’d left her cell though, heavy hands clamped firmly onto her wrists. She sighed and allowed herself to be led along the narrow, dingy corridor. Poised, like a coiled spring to make a break for it, the moment an opportunity arose. A moment didn’t arise. She found herself climbing the narrow, winding, stone steps up to the ground floor of the headquarters of the Quisition. Drawing up to an iron gate, one of the guards released her to unlock it. While she had only one guard holding her, the priest pressed a tiny phial into her palm, whispering into her ear. ‘My child, before you are secured on the bonfire, drink this. It will numb your senses and ease your passing. Nobody will think worse of you and nobody need know if you are discreet.’

  She looked at him shaking, stunned at this. She hadn’t expected this kind of help. It was expected that the condemned would show their courage; to do so with the aid of potions seemed like cheating somehow. Nonetheless, if it was on offer, she’d take it. Should a chance to flee before she found herself fastened to the stake come up, she would take that instead. She gripped the phial hard into her palm. She would have liked to have thanked him, but she was numb with fear. Wild thoughts ran through her mind, how to escape, how she’d got here, what had become of Kaya. The thought that Kaya had already been burned to a crisp haunted her. There was something though, nobody had told her so, but there had been a change in the atmosphere, security had been tightened. Might Kaya have escaped? She would like to think so, her own fate would still be abhorrent, but she would rather meet her end knowing Kaya was safe.

  Eventually the guards and priests led her past the cell where Vashni had spent an uncomfortable night. They then dragged her into the bright sunlight, forcing her to close her eyes. Days locked in an underground dungeon, with no sunlight at all, had affected her vision. Eyes closed, she heard the crowd jeering and calling. When she did manage to force her eyes open, she found herself being jostled along a narrow corridor between guards and priests towards the bonfire, flanked by quisitors and soldiers on both sides. The guards holding her wrists gripped harder. The stone monolith with the dry kindling around the base loomed closer and closer. Lindie groaned as her stomach almost churned up again, her legs went weak, almost collapsing underneath her. The chances of her escaping seemed to be getting slimmer and slimmer. As she was dragged up the makeshift wooden staircase, to the tiny stone platform at the top of the bonfire, Lindie went into a trance-like state. She drifted like a pa
ssenger in her own mind, almost outside her body. She was bound tightly with slim chains around the waist, shoulders, neck and legs, immovably fastened to the rock. When they pulled her wrists back to secure them, the little phial slipped from her hand, tumbling into the kindling. She gasped and flailed at it, but it was gone. She would face the fire and flames without the aid of a potion - all she had was her courage. More dry kindling and twigs were stacked on the bonfire, resting against her immobile legs. She gazed out at the jeering crowd. Stalls serving mugs of ale and hot food lined the outside of the square. She shuddered, indignant that the horrific fate that she had been condemned to would be a spectacle, an event to be enjoyed by the masses. As she thought this, a priest began walking around the bonfire, splashing lamp oil onto the kindling and her white cotton dress. Melchiot appeared on his balcony, with some senior members of the church. He wasn’t there to give a sermon though, but simply to enjoy the spectacle and ensure that Orion’s will was carried out. One of the priests approached with a small flask. He climbed the steps up the bonfire and sprayed her with droplets of water, uttering a prayer. Finally he placed his palm on her forehead and spoke loudly, as if to the crowd as well as Lindie. ‘Ishar our saviour, son of Orion, our Lord and master - hear my prayer. Give Lindie the courage to die well, drag her from the clutches of Avanti and guide her mercifully to Kirkfell. May her sins be forgotten and her passing be swift.’

  The priest turned his back on her and descended the steps. The censer bearer appeared next from the Quisition building, dressed all in black and wearing a faceless hood - ensuring his anonymity was maintained. He carried a heavy, burning oil filled censer on a short chain. The crowd went silent as he approached the bonfire and Lindie struggled in her chains, starting to feel sick again. The censer bearer didn’t speak. He climbed the wooden steps of the bonfire and offered up the metal bar at the end of the chain to her mouth. She kept her lips tight and shook her head, cursing her restrictive chains. A hand reached up and pinched her nose hard. She was helpless, her hands shackled to the sides of the stone behind her. When she gasped, the metal bar was thrust into her mouth. The hand withdrew and she was forced to grip the steel in her teeth, to prevent it falling. To grip the metal bar in her teeth proved difficult. She tasted iron, shuddering as the heat of the burning oil flickered around her waist. She had to strain her neck, leaning forwards to avoid resting the scalding hot censer against her body. Slowly, the steel bar started to edge out of her mouth and she gripped harder. She would have tried to swing it and throw it clear of the lamp oil soaked kindling, but the censer bearer hooked a slender chain, dangling from the bottom of the censer to the chain around her waist. Even her best throw, would leave the fiery ball swinging back into her ankles. Preventing it falling was challenging enough. Melchiot’s voice echoed above the silent crowd. ‘You may drop the censer when you are ready to meet your fate. May Ishar guide and protect you.’