by Chloe Hodge
The darkness held her chin in his hand and studied her face before shoving her away. She wasn’t attractive. Mildly perhaps, with a bit of makeup. Her body on the other hand curved in all the right places, as did the gowns she wore. A bit extravagant, but it amused him to see her crow at the guards and order the grunts around.
He had plucked Vera from a pleasure house. Not a stately, grand affair with exotic men and women, but a hovel of a thing, with mediocrity served on a platter. He was her knight in shining armour, taken in his by charms and promises of a better life. He’d fallen in love, he said. He’d one day marry her, he said. That was before she realised who and what he really was.
Now she was in too deep. If she ran, he’d kill her. If she crowed, he’d cut out her tongue. As it was, it was the only thing of use to him. She was his spy, her body the weapon. She offered men herself, and in return learnt everything she could of the world outside their base. Because of her talents, he had discovered the whereabouts of some mercenaries held in high regard by members of the black markets in Maynesgate— underground gangs of miscreants who ran illegal businesses and trade deals in secret. The markets changed location regularly to avoid any spies leaking information on their whereabouts, but the darkness had his methods, and find them he did.
He had approached the mercenaries and assigned them a mission to find the seer, Harrietti Hardov— and with Vera’s help, find her they did, though they lost her to thieves in the night. He didn’t have to guess who. Their meddling interfered with his plans, but little matter, events had unfolded for the better, and now he had the assassin in his grasp.
The mercenaries had received their reward for failure. Honestly, if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.
The darkness turned his attention back to Vera. She stood at attention; eyes averted while she waited patiently. Her dress was particularly revealing today, and he appreciated the view while he let her stew uncomfortably. She noticed. Poor little Vera. The only thing she had was his twisted love. And she didn’t even have that. He strung her along, used her when he felt like it. When he got bored, or she’d served her purpose, he would do what had to be done.
“Any word of the elf?”
Vera pouted, tugging at his waist. “Why are you always asking about this girl?”
He bristled at her whiny tone. “Because she serves a higher purpose than you do. Answer the question.”
Vera shifted sulkily. “She has not been spotted since your encounter on the Isle of Dread. None of our spies have made any reports.”
“She’s more resourceful and cunning than expected. The wizard did well.”
“What are you going to do to her when you find her?”
His eyes glimmered. “So many wicked things.”
◆◆◆
She was sleeping fitfully in the corner. The once proud warrior reduced to skin and bone, her chest heaving as she wheezed in air. It was stifling down here. The stench of sickly prisoners, urine and excrement acrid in the air. The Onyxonite was stubborn to the end. Not one word had she leaked of her village, of her mission, of Ashalea. She refused to give in to the pain, refused to look at her brother as he carved into her flesh. She was tough, but she would break, and his prized soldier would be all the stronger for it.
The darkness watched her for a time, then turned and glided along the prison hallway. Most of his guests were asleep, but those awake saw the shadowy mist and wailed in front, skulking into their corners, placing hands to head and rocking in dismay. He often visited the dungeons during the night, floating down in his ethereal form, silent and swift as the shadows. His captives were a varied bunch. Murderers and rapists who had done foul deeds at his request once upon a time. The darkness had nothing against such beings, but it pleased him to see their faces turn to shock when he threw them down here— no doubt wearing expressions like their victims.
Then there were the unfortunate innocents and thugs who defied him. All proved useful as test subjects for experiments. He eagerly anticipated the results, but such things could not be rushed, and he wanted his minions to be perfect.
The darkness liked to keep his prisoners on edge. He would call for beatings on a whim, and guards would flurry down the stairs and unleash agony in the blink of an eye. It reminded the prisoners to never get comfortable. It reminded them that there was no way out. This was their life now.
His frustration was simmering tonight. The progress with Shara was much slower than expected, and his patience was wearing thin. He needed to blow off some steam. Cupping a hand to his lips, he uttered a long eerie whistle into the depths. The prisoners woke and began shrieking in protest. They shook the bars, pleaded with him, moaned to him. Guards filed down the stairs, armed with batons. They visited the cells simultaneously.
“Begin.”
Screams bounced off the walls, the sound of club on bone a sweet whisper to the darkness’ ears. He floated before Shara’s cell, watching her eyes widen in fear before her expression dulled and she retreated into her mental safe place. I almost have you. He shuddered with delicious content, and when he had his fill, he called off the brawn and made his way to Vera’s rooms.
They slept apart, unless he said otherwise, but tonight he was lusting for more than bad blood. He floated through the stone wall, hovering above her bed. She was naked, wrapped within silk covers, her face less harsh, more pretty in its relaxed state. He curled a black tendril across her cheek and her eyes fluttered open, shocked at first, but then hungry. The same hunger he shared. He returned to his physical form and laid on the bed, watching her like a wolf, steel eyes glinting as she straddled him.
“Begin.”
Before the Dawn
The wounds, ugly and un-healing, were bad. The emptiness was worse. Shara huddled on the slate floor, shivering on the unforgiving cold, hard stone. Her olive skin was a sickly yellow, her shiny hair now limp and tangled. The features of her face were lost, her golden eyes a dull brown, sunken as a ship to the sea beneath the gaunt depths of her skin.
She was covered in gashes; a canvas wearing thin. Each time her brother laid a knife to her, another slither of her soul was taken. She had no more to give. Her mind was crumbling and most of the time she slipped away into a dark recess of her mind. She liked it there. It was like playing hide and seek. Sometimes she’d be found, and she’d come racing back to the present. To pain, to suffering, to endless trauma. But other times, she stayed hidden, and only after the deed was done would she return to see the marks of a man long lost, etched as a constant reminder into her skin.
With what small fragments of sanity remained, she often thought of the countless individuals whom she had tortured once upon a time. Did they feel like this? Or did they take comfort in hope? No. Hope is for the foolish.
Shara counted the cracks in the floor, tracing slender fingers along the tiny fissures. How many days had she been down here? She suspected it had been around a week, but there was no way to tell time. She had not seen the light of day for so long and it was dark, so very dark down here.
The all familiar sound of a key turning in a lock echoed in the silence and she immediately crawled to the corner, eyes bulged in fear.
It was just the simpleton. Meff, his name was. He delivered the prisoners’ rations once a day, and while the others shrank in fear at his hulking body, Shara found his visits most enjoyable. In return for his frequent stares, she’d one day given him a gift for all his troubles. He’d opened the chute to her cell and slid the food through, his meaty hands lingering just a little too long. In seconds his arm was broken in three places and Shara had spat on his face, cackling in glee.
She still giggled like a madman sometimes, the memory offering her some solace, though every time he approached with rations now, the contents were hurled on the ground from a distance and he would bear a toothless grin. It was bad on soup days when she was forced to lap up the cold, flavourless liquid like a dilapidated mongrel.
Still, the wary expression on t
hat slack jaw face was enough to give her pleasure— the only thing that kept her smug smile in place and her existence from crumbling to the same conscious level as his.
Meff opened the chute and threw a stale, mouldy roll onto the floor, barking out his glee. She snatched at it hungrily. Shara was proud, but she wasn’t stupid. What was a wounded ego in the scheme of things after all? If she somehow survived this ordeal, then soup off the floor and mouldy rolls would be the least of her concerns.
She had information that would be invaluable to Ashalea and the others. Vera and her stupid blood red mouth had assured that. Shara just hoped that the miracle she was holding out for would happen sometime soon. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
Hours passed. At least she surmised they did. The comings and goings of Meff and other guards in the underbelly of this beast was all she had to mark the day by. Then there were the nightly surgeries.
He always came, and soon enough her brother made his way to her cell and strapped her in for another gruelling session of pain. She stopped fighting now. A few times she’d tried to escape, but the punishment was too much to bear. Instead she lay there, trying to find the darkest corner of her mind. When it didn’t come, she watched the methodological and practiced hands carve her like a roasted pig. If she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes darkened each session, the irises almost snuffed out, the reflective light almost gone.
He was ruthless tonight, and she screamed again and again, her voice hoarse and scratchy until she could utter only an agonising moan. The pain was so overbearing that stars twinkled in her vision until she passed out.
When she woke, she was still strapped to the table, blood dripping down her bare arms and legs to pool across the metal slab. Her back was now exposed and the unrelenting slices, scrapes and twists of her skin and bones had halted. She craned her neck, aching to get a view of the room. There was no one there. Something was amiss.
Shouts broke out in the floor above, along with a few thumps and bumps; the sound of a struggle taking place. The prisoners wailed in their cells, bars clanging in protest as several inmates too-far-gone bashed their heads against the metal. When the clamour above ended, the wails stopped, and it was silent momentarily until the jangle of keys rang and the door was thrust open. Multiple steps descended, quiet and practiced. Shara’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be?
The howls of prisoners rang out in unison; some pleaded to be released, others cried of prayers that had been answered. Hands grabbed at the black uniforms of soldiers as they ran the length of the hallway, the tell-tale silver braid of a tall elf swirling as she peered at faces behind bars.
Shara’s eyes widened, and she tried helplessly to form words. “Ashalea,” she croaked. She licked her cracked lips. “Ashalea!” Green eyes snapped to the cell and long strides had the elf there in seconds.
“Shara, praise the Goddess.” The keys jangled once again until the correct one slid home and the beautiful face of the Moonglade princess registered shock, and then denial. It was quickly buried, but not before Shara saw.
“I’m…” she swallowed, “I’m the picture of good health, aren’t I?” She barely managed a crooked grin.
Ashalea returned the gesture. “You just can’t stay out of trouble without me, can you?” The elf set to work on untying the manacles, stifling a gasp as she eyed off the deep wounds on her friend’s back. It was a bloody mess.
“Let’s get you out of here. Let’s get you home,” the elf whispered in her ear. Shara barely heard her as she began to slip in and out of consciousness. One moment she was on the table, the next she was hauled over someone’s shoulder.
She saw the other prisoners being freed, no doubt to face Onyxonite trials later. If they were found innocent, they would be free to leave. If not, well, justice was swift when administered by a clan member’s blade. She almost felt sorry for them, having been trapped in here for who knows how long.
Then she remembered the screams of female prisoners who had the unfortunate pleasure of being locked in with rapists and murderers. Her stomach twisted in disgust. She would point out the faces of the ones she knew. And she would have the tongues of those she’d heard speak ripped out. No tolerance. No mercy.
As vengeance sparked a new light in her mind, she spied the hulking figure of Meff, lifeless on the ground, his body riddled with multiple lacerations. His favourite club was clean, unused until the moment his body sighed its last breath. Good. Rot in Fari’s dungeon.
Her eyes struggled to stay open. The pain seared like a blade in forging with each step of her carrier. They were upstairs now, passing the bodies of several guards. There was little blood. Onyxonites killed clean unless they wanted the victim to feel it. One section of the room, however, was painted with it. Several fallen soldiers were dressed in black, their mouths and eyes open in dismay. A sick feeling told Shara who dealt the final blow.
She panted. “Flynn, where is he?”
Ashalea’s face looked back in a blur. “He’s going to be okay, Shara. You will be okay.”
“Flynn, Flynn,” Shara muttered. Her head lolled up and down as the soldier carrying her raced for the next staircase.
A skirmish broke out on the level above and the grunts and yells of men echoed down the steps. Steel rang on steel and Ashalea disappeared as she fought to clear the path. Shara squinted but she could see nothing in the dark. Then she heard a sound from behind and suddenly she was falling, tumbling down into the dungeons of the darkness once again. Each jolt was searing agony to her bones, and the thin veils of skin trying to plaster old wounds split open to spit blood upon the steps.
When she hit the bottom of the stairwell, Shara’s thin body instinctively retreated into a ball. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to wish the pain away. Her heart couldn’t take it anymore. They had come so close to escape.
“You don’t think I’d make it that easy, do you?”
Shara struggled to identify the voice in her confused state of mind. Her body threatened to black out again, but before she welcomed the abyss, her eyes popped open to reveal red taffeta on the ground before her. She hissed.
Vera.
Shara’s thoughts turned to burning hatred. “Gods and Goddesses woman, what do you want? Just let me go. My being here serves you no purpose.”
“You’re right. I don’t really care what happens to you. But the master does. He’ll be so pleased to know I was the one who stopped you from escaping.”
“Where is the darkness?” Shara croaked.
“Attending to his army. He’ll be very displeased with what’s happened tonight. I’ll be lucky to escape punishment as it is, but you my dear, you will save the skin on my back.”
Rage filled Shara’s soul. It didn’t matter if she was wounded and about to pass out, this pitiful woman would pay if it was the last thing she did. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.
“He’ll tire of you, Vera. One day you’ll end up several feet underground as feed for the worms,” Shara said vehemently.
Vera sneered and kicked her hard on the mouth. Blood dribbled from her lips and Shara laughed a little manically. The woman in red ignored her, picking the assassin’s legs up and slowly dragging her body across the floor.
Shara’s vision flickered as she sought to pull away. But she was too weak. Her legs barely moved, her hands grabbed at the smooth stone floor, finding no purchase. She could hear the fight upstairs as blades bit into flesh and men drew their last breaths. No one was coming for her. Vera would hide her away in a hidden passage and it would be too late.
NO. Not after all this. I am Shara Silvaren. I am an Onyxonite, and I WILL NOT be a prize for this vile woman. Find something, ANYTHING, to stop her.
She fought to stay awake and her hands brushed the unconscious body of her former carrier. The curved edge of a shuriken glinted at his waist and she fought with all her might to reach the weapon and pull it from its sheath.
Vera sighed with annoyance as her grip on Shara weak
ened. “For goodness sake, girl, what are you—”
As she turned to face Shara, her mouth dropped open in shock and she fell to her knees, clawing at her throat. A thin red line ran from one side to another. Ruby red, just like her lips. Her perfectly manicured nails clutched at white skin, trying to stem the flow of her lifeblood. She glanced at Shara with accusing eyes. They would stay that way until the worms took them.
Shara lay back on the floor, her body burning with fiery pain. Dirty tears trickled down her face and she gasped after exerting the last of her energy. She didn’t know how long she lay there, but eventually, the soldier next to her roused from his slumber and called for help. Footsteps trudged down the stairs and Ashalea’s face filled her vision again.
“We’re almost there, Shara. The soldiers are down. The darkness isn’t here. Time to get you home!”
She couldn’t muster the strength to answer. Her body flinched in agony as she was once again hauled over someone’s shoulder and carried to the stairs, but this time, they broke free. Dull brown eyes registered darkness and light as it melded into one. She felt the prick of a cool breeze on her skin, little bumps forming on her arms and legs. The group burst aboveground, free from the warrens where she’d been caged. Free from her cell and from endless torment.
The night sky smiled in welcome. She inhaled the fresh air, the scent of pine trees in her nose. Nothing ever smelled so good as freedom. As they raced across the rocky ground her eyes adjusted and she picked out a line of trees before a mountain just yonder. They were close to Hollow’s Pass then. The darkness had carved a base underground, right next to the Diodon Mountains.
Guess he’ll have to move now.
Her team of rescuers fanned out; shadows in the night. Ashalea conjured a blue orb and she saw the faint outline of Shadowvale waiting within its electric frame. Home. A shriek echoed from underground, laced with rage and disbelief. It was the darkness; of that she had no doubt.