by Alex Aguilar
Every single one except her wrist…
From afar is one thing, she repeated in her mind. It all seems too easy when your target is the size of your thumb.
Her hand began shivering again…
You have him! What are you waiting for?!
To make matters worse, Malekai’s brow lowered and he scoffed.
“Go on then,” he taunted her. “Do it…”
But she couldn’t… And she was furious at herself for it…
The image of the bandit from the hills, the one she had unintentionally killed, kept haunting her… She could practically see him again, falling to his knees, an arrow in his hand, her arrow… And as she looked down at Malekai, she felt that same jab in her chest, that jab of horror upon realizing she was now a murderer. That eye, Malekai’s eye, may have been cruel and wicked, but there was a life there all the same. And she didn’t have the heart to take it away. Not again.
“Cap’n Malekai, sir?”
Borrys Belvaine’s voice made her lose focus… And in that brief second, the captain seized her wrist and tightened it so hard that she heard a crack. And the dagger slipped from her hand and fell to the dirt. She yelped, her chest pounding and her palms dripping with sweat.
Stupid, Robyn… Stupid, stupid, stupid…
“How disappointing,” Malekai said, tightening his clasp on her wrist.
Don’t struggle. Fight it.
“And here I thought you were more nervy than that,” he grinned.
Like John would say… Fight through the pain, show them no fear…
But the girl’s hand was turning a violent shade of red. His grip was far too strong and Robyn’s jaw couldn’t help but shiver.
“Cap’n?” Borrys called again.
It was then that she caught a whiff of it…
An odd smell, like that of hot metal, dreadfully hot…
Borrys stepped into the tent. He was holding a branding iron in his hand and the tip of it was brightly lit and sizzling.
No…
Robyn’s eyes widened. Malekai seized her by the other wrist and leapt to his feet, and with immense force he threw her across the tent again. She felt her knees scrape even more. She was right back where she started, in a muddy corner surrounded by cloth and leather but nothing sharp, nothing that could help her fight back.
She crawled away, both men walking towards her.
Borrys was grinning, his twitching hand holding the blazing iron loosely.
What are you doing?! Stop…
“Hold her still,” Malekai said, taking the hot iron from his comrade’s hand.
And Borrys obeyed him like a subservient hound, chuckling and dribbling enthusiastically.
Don’t touch me, you sick pig!
Borrys grabbed hold of her as Malekai took a gulp from a bottle of whisky.
“N-No! Stop!” Robyn resisted, but Borrys was larger and stronger and his lock on her arms was nearly unbreakable. She remembered the other prisoners she’d seen in the camp, and that they all had scars on their faces, the mark of the scorpion… And the image of them was only making her more restless…
“No,” Malekai said suddenly. “Over the table. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty sight.”
“Cap’n?” Borrys raised a brow.
“Shut your mouth and do as you’re told.”
Borrys scowled. He shoved and pressed Robyn against the captain’s table, while the girl twisted and turned in protest, landing punches and kicks on both men repeatedly.
But it was no use… She was trapped…
Malekai grabbed her arm and stretched it across the flat splintery surface, while Borrys pulled her sleeve up, exposing her soft pale skin.
“I don’t have to do this, girl,” the captain said, leaning in mere inches from her face. “I’ll give you a chance… I won’t mark you, so long as you say the word. Just the one word. Say Please.”
She breathed heavily, fighting through the rage.
She could no longer fight the tears swelling up her eyes, that much was inevitable.
But the girl had never begged in her life, except to her mother, and she did not plan to start now. And certainly not with a rogue mercenary…
“Go on, girl,” Malekai whispered into her ear, his hot breath causing her to shiver with disgust. “Say the word. I want to hear you say it.”
Don’t do it, Robyn, she told herself, over and over again. Don’t.
“My patience is running short, girl…”
“My name’s Robyn!” she growled angrily, and then instantly wished she hadn’t said it.
“Ahh… And are you really that stubborn, Robyn? It’s only a word… Now, go on. Say it.”
Don’t you dare… Fight through the pain, show them no fear…
“No?” Malekai asked.
Robyn looked up at him… There it was, that sinister smirk. The sizzling brand was in the shape of the scorpion, about half as long as her palm, and when she realized she was going to have that scar for life, her shivering worsened…
She opened her lips suddenly. And Malekai’s ear waited eagerly.
“Eat… shit!” she said.
And then her heart dropped…
A moment passed… Malekai’s eye twitched, he was so stunned…
And then he did it again… A grin, a chuckle, and a head nod, as always.
“What’d I tell you, Borrys?” he said. “Quite nervy, this one.”
And with that, Captain Malekai Pahrvus violently slammed the hot steel onto Robyn’s forearm. Robyn screamed, and it was a scream that echoed all through the camp.
“Shut her up!”
Borrys pressed a filthy hand over her mouth.
Robyn’s face was a vicious red. The tears escaped her eyes unwillingly as she watched the iron melting her skin like butter. The smell of sweltering flesh began to fill the tent, as the sound of Borrys’s laughter loomed over her muffled screams.
Then, after several seconds, Malekai removed the iron.
And Borrys released her from his grip.
Robyn slid off the table and shrunk to her knees into the mud, holding her bleeding trembling arm against her chest. Her face was a hot mess of sweat and tears and snot. She took a moment to examine herself. And the sight was more dreadful than she had imagined. The scorpion was there, slightly misshapen from the blood and blisters, about four inches long across her forearm.
Her entire arm was numb.
She wondered if she would ever be able to shoot an arrow properly again.
It’s over. Breathe, Robyn… Just breathe…
“Tie her back up,” Malekai ordered, giving the girl a look of displeasure.
Borrys, loathsome and snickering as always, did as he was told. He grabbed Robyn by the arms and pulled her to that same filthy corner of the tent where she sat before, as the captain headed towards the outside.
“I’m going to kill you…” she muttered suddenly.
Malekai’s foot sunk into the mud. He bent his neck to look at her.
Robyn’s glare was almost frightening. And Malekai’s response only angered her further.
A grin, a chuckle, and a head nod…
“The next time you try, be sure to follow through with it,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll give you to my men. And, believe me, they’re not nearly as kind and patient as I am.”
And with that, he left the tent. And Borrys followed behind him.
Robyn sat there, her mind racing with a million thoughts, distracting her from the throbbing pain, considering every single possibility…
Fight through the pain, show them no fear, she said to herself.
Fight through the pain… Show them no fear…
X
Desperate Times
In a constantly changing world, where wealth and power are more influential than morality, the painful truth is often blurred, hidden, buried beneath a mantle of lies and deception. Nobody ever talks about the things that happen in the dark, for how easy it is to turn the other way
, to pretend there’s nothing there, if only for a peace of mind.
But reality is much darker, much more cruel, and much more rotten…
It is difficult to turn the other way when one is living through such hardships.
It is difficult to ignore, say, the sound of a soldier getting lashed, the sound of a weeping mother who’s recently lost a child, or the gut-wrenching stench of a pile of burning corpses…
Such was the reality for Princess Magdalena, and she never imagined it would ever come to this. She was on laundry duty when her nose caught the smell, and the wet sheets slipped from her grasp when she saw the black cloud rising to the skies.
Hauzer and Jyor, the two guards assigned to look after the prisoners, stood before a pile of them. Prisoners who had either given up or were beaten to death were stacked over one another in a dark corner, away from the crowds, among the heaps of decade-old rubble. They poured oil over the pile and Hauzer threw a lit torch, and instantly it lit up in flames, swallowing every bit of dead flesh all around.
The red-bearded man and the elf scurried off as quick as they could, trying their best to breathe through their mouths to avoid the smell, as pointless as it was every time. The stench was pungent and disturbing and too often one of them ended up vomiting all over the dirt.
“I tell ya, Hauzer,” Jyor groaned as they walked side by side towards the crowded center of the dead city. “One day… One day, I’ll have enough. That sleazy bastard thinks he can treat me like a pet hound.”
Hauzer grunted. “If Baronkroft didn’t notice ye before, he sure as hells ain’t noticin’ ye now that ye’re half-handed.”
Jyor kept glancing at his left hand, as if making sure his fingers were actually missing or if he had dreamt it all. But they were gone, all right. His hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth and it was entirely numb… He loathed it. He’d felt belittled before already, and now the other soldiers were laughing at him, at the fact that an old woman prisoner had done that to him. And his dream of one day becoming a commander was shattering before his eyes.
“I’ll make ‘im notice!” he growled.
“Settle yerself, Jyor.”
“He treats us like scum, Hauzer! Makes us do his dirty work and for what?!”
“I say settle down, ye stupid lad…”
“For his own good, that’s all!” Jyor wasn’t settling down. “So long as he grows and grows, to hells with the rest of us, right? Well I say to hells with him!”
“Curse yer stupid tongue, lad!” Hauzer came to a halt just before they reached the main city grounds. They could hear the commotion coming from the set of tables where the soldiers were having their first meal of the day. And Hauzer had to speak low so as to not be overheard. “Are ye lookin’ to get yerself killed?!” he gave the elf a shove. “If so, tell me now so I can stay the hells away from ye!”
Jyor allowed it… Once. But he was watchful for a second shove.
Hauzer may have been large and broad-shouldered, but Jyor was faster.
An altercation between the two could end with either one of them dead.
“Don’t touch me again…”
“I’ve had ‘bout enough of yer whinin’, ye dumb fool,” Hauzer growled at him.
“As if you don’t think the same thing?! I’ve seen you. You loathe your job. And yet you stay quiet and let ‘im shit all over you.”
“Of course I’m sick of it!” Hauzer said, nearly shouting. “But ye don’t hear me cryin’ over it… Look, ye want power ‘n’ riches, I get that. Every bloke with an arse wants that!”
“Aye, well some of us don’t go lookin’ for it outside of our homelands like you!”
That was the last straw… Hauzer tolerated many things from the elf, but this was low even for him… He swung his fist and landed a heavy blow to Jyor’s jaw. And the elf grunted and fell back, spat blood on the dirt, then looked up at his companion with a frantic glare.
“Listen ‘ere ye little shit!” Hauzer said, his voice frightening and his expression even more so. “That place we’re invading? I came from that place, you didn’t… Ye have no idea what it’s like in there… They call Baronkroft crazy. But ye know what I call crazy?! Separatin’ folks like they’re fuckin’ animals…”
Jyor’s angry panting began to die down, his angry glare beginning to shift.
“Look at me,” Hauzer took a step forward. “Look at me!!”
Jyor growled and hopped to his feet, swinging his arm forward, but his fist missed Hauzer’s jaw. The man caught the elf’s arm just in time, stared him right in the eyes, mere inches from his face.
“Are ye an animal, Jyor?” he asked.
The elf didn’t answer at first, only pulled his arm back.
“Are ye an animal?!”
“Fuck you!”
“That’s right! Fuck me!” Hauzer barked back. “I look at ye ‘n’ I see no animal, Jyor… I see a hard-tempered stubborn little shit, sure. Not an animal… And ye got brothers ‘n’ sisters out there who are bein’ treated like they are… Like it or not, Baronkroft is the only man with the power to fix that place. And yeah, he may be a heartless bastard, but he’s all we’ve got!”
Jyor’s breathing slowed back to normal, and he felt the rage leave his chest.
Hauzer was right, he knew, as much as he hated to admit it…
The chattering from the nearby tables became rather palpable all of a sudden, and the two men realized how loud they had been, how easily they could have been overheard. When they shifted their glances they noticed a boy, dark-skinned and weary-looking, standing nearby with an empty tray in his hands; it was obvious he had been listening.
“What’re you bleedin’ looking at?!” Jyor snapped at him. “You done?!”
The boy nearly dropped the tray, he was so startled. “Y-Yes, sir.”
“Stupid littl’ bugger,” Jyor took a step towards him.
“Sit yer arse down ‘n’ pour yerself a damn drink,” Hauzer gave the elf a shove again, then turned to the boy. “Ye got two more battalions to feed before ye’re done, lad.”
Young Thomlin set the empty tray down and the red-bearded man escorted him to a different part of the city, where the other battalions were lodged. It was a long day, and by the time the boy finished serving them all, he was famished. After being fed scraps, he was taken back into the half-standing brick dwellings, down towards the dungeons, where the prisoners were kept when there was no need for labor.
It was in this dungeon, where the sun’s light was utterly nonexistent, where our indomitable princess Magdalena sat, rocking back and forth in a dark corner, fueled with dread and despair after having witnessed the burning earlier that day. She could still see the black cloud, could still smell the appalling fumes of scorching dead flesh. And it didn’t help her sanity that the prisoners’ dungeon was so near the torture chamber, where at least three out of five nights somebody would be either punished or beaten for interrogation, and their bellowing cries would reverberate through the corridors.
This was one of those nights…
Baronkroft was plotting something, and he needed information. Prisoners were being taken every few hours and not many were ever seen again. The few that were brought back had been horribly beaten, some were missing a hand or two, and others were left to bleed out in the darkness of the dungeon.
Hauzer walked in at one point and the prisoners scattered away in fear, avoiding his gaze, hoping to prolong their lives as long as possible. He dragged young Thomlin inside and unlocked his cuffs. And the boy instantly darted towards Magdalena, who waited for him with open arms. They embraced and proceeded to shrivel and disappear into a corner, so as to avoid Hauzer.
But the red-bearded guard noticed her still. It was difficult for him not to notice a princess from his own homeland. She may have looked like any other prisoner, but to him she stood out like a block of gold among a heap of black coal. He walked right past her, for he had specific orders from Lord Baronkroft to not harm her, ‘not yet’ at least.
He paced along the chamber, as if searching for someone, and his feet came to a halt when he locked eyes with a man, young and strong-built, whose clothes were once regal but were now filthy and tattered like Magdalena’s dress. Hauzer grabbed him and pulled him up. And then a much older man leapt to his feet and began pulling at the guard’s sleeve.
“No! Not my son! Please, not my son!” he begged.
But Hauzer was far too strong. Without a word, he shoved the old man away and dragged the younger prisoner out of the chamber, the iron door shutting behind him.
The old man fell to his knees, cried angry tears, his hands in fists, wishing he could break something. Several captives had recognized him but were too afraid to get near, for many had heard of his wrath and his authoritarian ways. Lord Olfur was his name, and he was from Yulxester, a city in the southern coast of Halghard where the streets were made of water and citizens traveled in boats instead of horses and carriages. After the death of King Frederic, which brought about the war in Halghard, Lord Olfur found himself at liberty to rule Yulxester at his own bidding, and having never had so much power in his life he used it to his own advantage.
Of course, Lord Olfur was no fool…
He recognized royalty when he saw it…
And through his tears he spotted the trembling figure in the corner…
“You… I know you,” he said, lifting himself up.
The princess looked up at him. There may have been a subtle glint in her eyes, but her expression was not at all a timid one.
“You’re Princess Magdalena… The motherless daughter of King Rowan,” Lord Olfur said as he towered over her menacingly, his anger taking full control of him. “Aren’t you?!”
Magdalena and Thomlin were still wrapped in each other’s arms. The boy was more frightened than she was, though he tried his best to mimic her sense of valor.
“Stay away from us,” Magdalena ordered.
“I’d recognize you anywhere,” the old lord said, spitting nastily at her feet. “You must have your mother’s eyes. You look nothing like your cursed father. If he even is your father, the old bastard.”
Magdalena was much too exhausted for such folly, but there were eyes watching her, expectant eyes, and she simply could not allow for her reputation to be stained this way. She let go of Thomlin and stood up, glaring right back at the old lord. There wasn’t much she could say to calm him, the old man was speaking through his rage, yet his words stung her all the same. For years, the rumors of King Rowan’s Curse stained her, tarnished her name, and several nobles questioned whether she was indeed the rightful heir to the throne, seeing as the cursed king could father no son.