She attempted to focus on her surroundings, hoping it would drown out the pain - a cave of sorts, it seemed. It was rather small from her angle but hospitable nonetheless… or so the grass bed in which she lay upon suggested. A blanket was placed over her body, keeping her warm – it was red in colour, and it made the injured woman itch.
At least I’m warm, she thought, sliding her bare feet across the so-called bed and onto the warm, dirt-covered surface of the earth. Wrinkling her toes, Beatrice tossed her blanket aside and attempted to get up on her feet. Her body protested against her attempts, but she paid her aching self no heed – or so she tried. Inhaling and exhaling at a rapid pace, Beatrice took in her surroundings at a better angle, confirming that she was, in fact, in a small cave of sorts. It was rather plain in terms of looks, it being occupied by Beatrice’s bed and a stewing pot in the very centre (which emitted a rather welcoming odour of stew, much to the pleasure of Beatrice’s grumbling stomach). A cupboard occupied with wooden bowls and spoons hung on the wall and a five step flight of stairs which led to the cave’s entrance – the main source of warmth and light.
Pushing her messy hair behind her ear, Beatrice looked down upon her body. She was relieved to see her rescuer had the decency to leave her clothes on. She was not relieved to see the sight of it, however. Her once elegant purple dress was ripped to shreds here and there, almost as if mauled by a wild bear. Bloodstains were present on it, causing her eyes to water. Her tears were not from the state of her dress but of how it got to be how it was. Screams of two days prior echoed in her head as fragments of the event played in her mind.
It had all moved too fast for her to recall the details correctly, and her pounding skull did little to improve her memory. It had been night time - that much she was certain of - and she vaguely recalled Eileen forcing her on a horse with her screaming “go, go now.”
Her eyes began to swell, and resentment began to dig its claws into her. She did her best not to sob as memories flooded back. Eileen chose to stay behind, her inner voice said. She did so to protect you. She hated herself for what happened, wishing that she never picked up witchcraft as a child.
Her self-loathing session came to a halt, however, as the clopping of hooves made their way to her ears. She straightened herself, spreading out her hands to the side and clawing her fingers. Energy flowed through her as the cave took on the scent of a rainy day. A spark began to form between her fingertips, purple in colour, as that was Eileen’s favourite. The spark emitted from her fingers began to increase in pace and swirled around her arms and then her body, eventually giving her eyes a purple shade.
The clopping of hooves got louder, and with it came a whistling tune that Beatrice was not familiar with. A cheerful satyr walked in, holding a towel. “I see you’re awake. That’s gre- oh my Yaan!” he yelled, dropping the towel and backing away from Beatrice while bleating like a goat.
Beatrice tilted her head, examining the cowering and frightened satyr before her. He continued to bleat as Beatrice continued to simply stare. She felt foolish, thinking him a foe, and quickly dispersed the spell, returning her appearance back to her normal, injured self.
“I’m sorry,” she said, giving him a toothy, apologetic grin as she stumbled to find her footing. “I thought you were here to harm me.”
“Harm you?” the Satyr screamed. “I saved you!” He bleated once more.
Mouthing sorry, Beatrice blushed, giving him a puppy dog look. Sighing, the satyr picked up the towel, attempting to dust off as much as he could before giving a defeated a sigh. He trotted towards his boiling pot, scooped up a bit of the stew, giving it a light taste and smacking his lips. “Needs more salt,” he said, mostly to himself. “But I guess it will have to do for now.” He gave a disappointed sigh.
Beatrice moved towards him, looking down at what the satyr was making exactly – fish stew, it seemed. She sat herself down by the boiling pot, allowing the raging fire to comfort her while looking over her rescuer and losing herself in the odour that it presented.
“What’s your name?” he asked, not taking his eyes off his almost-ready meal (or so Beatrice hoped).
“Beatrice,” the witch responded.
“Pretty name. I’m Dorien,”
“Pleasure to meet you, Dorien,” Beatrice said, her smile unwavering. She brought her knees close to her chest and leaned down on them. “Aren’t you going to add salt to that?” Beatrice really didn’t mind whether or not it had any, she simply wished to keep an ongoing conversation.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Dorien responded, kindly returning the smile but only for a fraction of a second. “What happened to you back there?” he asked, as his expression turned grim.
Beatrice’s once vibrant smile wavered, turning into a half frown. “It’s complicated,” she said. “I’m a, well, a witch and-”
Dorien raised her hand, indicating that she should say no more. “I know very little of the laws of man. Magic is forbidden amongst you, yes?”
Beatrice nodded.
“May I ask why?”
“Magic was outlawed after it was abused,” she started. “The court mage of Kyros, Luke, he...” she took in a deep breath, “went insane.”
“Insane? I thought the mind of a wizard was protected by all sorts of spells,” Dorien said, confusion grasping him.
“It is. We don’t know what caused his breakdown, not exactly. Luke was a stupid wizard – cheerful, but stupid. He always tinkered with some spell or tome.”
“What happened to him?”
“Well, after his breakdown he... well, I think you know.”
Dorien shook his head.
“Raised the dead.”
“Wait,” Dorien said, “he is behind the dead walking?”
Beatrice nodded.
“What happened to him then?”
“A war broke loose, and he lost,” Beatrice said. “But those things he raised, they still walk, and the Order of Yaan had magic outlawed, and those who practice it are put to death.”
Dorien rapidly blinked in response, unsure as to how he should respond. He shook his head, looked over at his stew, and went to grab two bowls and a spoon. He seated himself back, pouring himself a bit of the stew and for Beatrice, who sipped it slowly, to avoid burning her tongue.
“So they caught you?”
Beatrice nodded as she blew on her spoon.
“And you ran?”
Beatrice nodded again.
“Well, Beatrice, you don’t have to run anymore,” Dorien began. “You’re safe right here.”
Two days turned to nights, a third day was on the horizon, and Eileen was no closer to escaping. She was lying down on the cold, hard floor (prisoners were not given the luxury of a good night’s sleep) with her half-eaten meal lying inches away from her. Whatever appetite she once had was long gone, and she was left nursing the marks on her wrists.
Silence was all she had for company and all she desired at that given moment. She found her mind to be a cage, trapping her in memories of days she had lost hope to see.
Like hell I won’t. She shot to her feet, unwilling to lie about, moping of her condition. She once again examined her cell door, looking for any hints of weakness. Her fingers traced upon the cool, metal surface of the bars, collecting its dust in the process and found naught a weakness.
Frustration took hold of her, grasping at her. It took every ounce of her strength to resist letting out the scream that formed in her throat. She would have begun kicking the door, but she had done just that during her first day captive and yielded little to no results.
Placing her hand at the back of her head, she stomped across her stone prison, trying to clear her head of any ailing thought – trying to think of a plan.
Picking up on a thump-like sound in the distance, Eileen moved two steps to her right to peek out towards the direction of the disturbance. She soon realised that she could not get a good look at what was happening. The sound of clashing steel soon came, follow
ed closely by a scream and Eileen was all too aware of what had just occurred – the guards had gotten into a duel, and someone was either dead or dying.
Footsteps made their way towards her cell, footsteps belonging to a single pair of legs, and with each passing step, the clunking of metal armour got ever louder. Eileen traced her steps backwards until her back came in contact with the wall. She instinctively reached for her weapon only to bite back a curse as she realised it was not present. She raised her fists, keeping them ready in case she had to fight her way out.
Why didn’t I think of that before? she miserably thought.
A knight in black armour soon came to her sights. He stood tall, being a giant compared to Eileen. His armour was plain in look, and had it not been for the colour, it would have barely stood out from any other armour set. Simple in design but effective in combat, Eileen appreciated that. Two weapons were strapped onto the armour: an axe around his waist and a sword which hung over his shoulder.
He held up his hand, giving Eileen a look at a circular metal rod with keys hanging down on them. Is he rescuing me? Eileen questioned, rather bewildered at the situation at hand. The knight tried one key, followed by another, and the cell door only squeaked open after five or so attempts. The knight invited himself in, towering over the imprisoned woman. Eileen’s heart raced, and her clenched and raised fists were starting to sweat from nerves. The closer her rescuer – possible executioner – got, the tighter Eileen clenched her fists, whitening her knuckles. The colossus reached to his back, unsheathing his blade, driving Eileen’s nerve into a sense of panic.
“Oh, I am not dying in this hellhole,” she muttered under her breath, launching a right hook towards her “guest.” The knight dodged the attack, causing Eileen to lose her balance and fall face first down onto to the ground with an unpleasant umph. She shot up to her feet - dizzying herself by the speed in which she did – ignoring her pain. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her fists once more and was just about ready to toss in another strike but withdrew at the sight of her target; he stood straight, showing no signs of offense or defence. He held his withdrawn sword by the blade with the hilt pointed towards the prisoner.
“Are you offering me a weapon?” Eileen asked, surprised and with an eyebrow raised. She took hold of the leather hilt as the knight nodded in response. She examined her newly acquired weapon, tracing the blade with her thumb and tapping the tip of the blade with her index finger. “Perfect,” she smirked, rather pleased at the sting she felt and the prickle of blood that formed at the tip of her finger.
Lowering her weapon, she gazed upon her rescuer. “Thanks,” she said. “I could use its sheath, though,” she added, holding the blade over her shoulder. Her ever so silent guardian kept up with his mute act and simply walked towards the hanging cell door. He looked back at her and motioned her to follow. She did so.
They crept along the dungeons with the black knight in the lead and Eileen following suit. There were not many prisoners about, and the knight showed no signs of wanting to aid them, not that Eileen cared. She wanted out of her cage, and she got her wish.
The duo took a few lefts and a single right before coming across the set of stairs leading to an exit. Eileen stood dead in her tracks, not recognising the flight and doorway before her. “This isn’t the way out,” she said. The knight, ignoring what she said, climbed the set and burst open the doors, allowing a warm breeze to flow in.
Huh, Eileen thought, following in her rescuer’s footsteps. A backdoor to a dungeon? That’s unexpected.
Coming out, the two found themselves looking over the forest with the night sky doing little to illuminate their way. Eileen looked over her shoulder and came upon a large wall towering over them and overlooking the forest. Eileen knew well what the wall hid: the Kingdom of Kyros. She had never seen the stone construct up close, and she doubted many had.
A metallic rod tapped her shoulder. Looking over, Eileen saw her giant of a rescuer waiting for her. His features may have been covered, but his body language oozed impatience. Not that Eileen blamed him; being out and about in the woods dead into the night was not the brightest of ideas.
Eileen motioned him to lead the way, and he crept around the wall with Eileen tracing his footsteps. The knight moved towards the wall, hugging it as he crept along. Raising an eyebrow, Eileen simply stared and followed his direction. The knight came to a halt, tapped the ground with his heel, leading Eileen further into confusion and to question her rescuer’s sanity. He kneeled down, opening a trapdoor which revealed a ladder that led downwards. He looked over at Eileen and pointed downwards.
“Yeah, I got that much,” Eileen told him. He climbed down first with Eileen not far behind and eventually dropping down into the sewer system with her boots causing a small splash. Eileen wrinkled her nose as the wretched smell of piss and feces assaulted her nostrils. They went in farther, and Eileen assumed that the farther in they went, the darker and colder it would get. Much to her surprise, the warmth and light of torches came in contact with her. They were placed over the walls, illuminating the grim underground tunnel. The waste water came to its end as well, as Eileen’s boots came in contact with a dry stone surface.
“This just keeps getting weirder,” she mumbled under her breath.
Her companion remained silent and trotted along with her alongside him. They reached a dead end in the form of an iron door. The knight knocked twice, with a voice responding from the end, “Password?”
“Cockatrice.”
He speaks, Eileen thought as the door swung open. She walked into a metal chamber which was circular in designs. Lanterns, as opposed to torches, lit the room, giving Eileen a clear look at it. The room was small, allowing no more than ten people, including Eileen and her knight in dark armour, to fit in. At the very centre lay a rectangular table with a map on it. The occupants each sported armour as plain and dark as that of the knight, only without the headpiece, and they all occupied themselves with whatever they could – be it sharpening their weapons or partaking in a conversation. Some chose to simply stare at Eileen – some with suspicion, others with lust.
Whatever, Eileen thought as she moved alongside her once more silent guardian. He moved over to the war table (or so Eileen thought of it) and removed his helmet, revealing a middle-aged man with a thick beard and a near balding head. Eileen stood dead still in her path with her eyes wide open and jaw agape.
“You... you’re the...”
“Yes, it is I,” he said, “your King.”
It had been two hours since Eileen had discovered the identity of her saviour, and the former prisoner was still incapable of processing the information. She paced about the metal chamber, attempting to wrap her head around all that was told to her: Henry Irons, the King of Kyros, was leading a rebellion against the High Priest.
“So, you’re all, what, mystic sympathisers?” she had asked.
“We wish to end the tyranny of Elias,” Henry responded. “Surely you can understand.”
“Oh, I get it, trust me. Elias is a, well, he’s a dick.” Henry chuckled. “And I want him dead as does the next person, but why you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have someone close to me who I nearly lost because of his rule, everyone gets why I’d be mad as hell, but you?” Eileen pointed at Henry. “What’s your story?”
“I wish to see my kingdom prosper,” Henry said, “and it can only do so under my rule.”
“You already rule,” Eileen stated. “You’re the King of Kyros, aren’t you?”
“What good is a King without subjects? After the war with the dead, they all turned to Elias.”
“So this is about you regaining your people?”
Henry nodded.
“So you’re in this only so you can make that proverbial crown of yours mean something?”
Henry nodded again.
“So what you’re saying is you’re only out for yourself?”
“And where do you dr
aw that conclusion from?”
“From where? You just said so yourself.” Eileen was close to yelling. “All you politicians are the same, looking at your own best interests. Elias may be a dick, but you... well, you’re just another type of dick.”
“You watch your ton-” One of the rebel knights began to yell before Henry cut him off.
“And what if I am? Would you have preferred I be motivated by some tragedy?”
“Would have been hell of a lot better than just being a self-serving ass.”
Laughing at her remarks, Henry found Eileen’s attitude amusing. But she found herself caring little for what he, or his lackeys, thought of her. Henry laid out his plans to her: a plan that caused little racket and no mess but it ended with one conclusive result that Eileen was on board with: Elias dead.
Eileen believed Elias to be many things, but lustful had never been one of them. Yet that was exactly what Henry’s plan depended on: the High Priest’s sexual desires. It was not known among regular folk, of the priest’s nightly activities, yet the rebels (posed as Elias’ personal guard) realised he would have a woman or two visit him late at night. Eileen was his next companion.
She strolled across Elias’ manor – a rather spacious building with stone architecture (as were most buildings in the city). Elias had occupied his home with all manner of luxurious furnishing, showing off his exquisite taste and admiration for the colour red – given how carpets, curtains, and even couches were all red. How humble of him, she thought, passing the dining hall and noticing the golden goblets placed on the table.
She cared little for the High Priest’s expensive tastes and made her way to his chambers. She sported a simple, grey robe - with a pocket sewn into its sides - that covered her nude figure. She missed the feeling of her armour on her skin, offering her protecting against any and all enemy blows – she wished to wear them, yet it was risky to do so; should she be forced to remove the robe, the sight of armour would have given her purpose away. And so she strolled, without armour and weapon, wearing a robe and nothing else.
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