by Alex Aguilar
* * *
It was an unpleasantly hot evening in the prison chambers of Drahkmere. The stench that oozed from the sewers was so awful and pungent that prisoners were vomiting into the waste buckets more often than was usual.
Princess Magdalena of Val Havyn had entirely given up on keeping herself clean. For several days they had put her to work with the other prisoners, mostly doing the easier tasks like washing pots and dishes or mopping up the floors of empty chambers while the other prisoners were stuck with the harder labor.
Never did she think she’d be eager for the days when she had laundering duty, for they were the only times when at least part of her body was brushed cleaned. Hauzer had taken notice of it and, much to her surprise, the red-bearded man often tried to send her along with the launderers and would almost always pair her up with Thomlin, at least when the boy wasn’t serving Baronkroft his meals and drinks.
Because of this, the boy and the princess became inseparable.
She hadn’t even bonded with her handmaiden Brie to such an extent.
When Magdalena argued with one of the prisoners, Thomlin was there to support her. When she wasn’t up to a certain task, the boy would volunteer to take her place. Then, of course, there were the bad nights… the nights in which she felt like ripping her hairs out from the misery… Thomlin reminded her of Val Havyn; without even knowing it, the boy was keeping alive her hopes for an escape.
Valleria, the grey-haired mercenary woman, came a close second. She wasn’t exactly the warmest of company; she was outspoken, aggressive, and quite intimidating. But after every argument Magdalena would have with one of the other prisoners, the woman seemed to always take the princess’s side. “You’re the only one who makes any damn sense ‘round here,” she once said to Magdalena, and she’d said it fearlessly in front of everyone else.
For Magdalena, these were her only two friends in all of Drahkmere. When they were reunited in the prison chambers after a hard day’s labor were the only times she actually smiled. And this night was no different. Hauzer escorted Thomlin back, after the boy had finished his serving duties, and Magdalena greeted him with a warm embrace.
Thomlin wasted no time. He told the princess everything he had seen. From the eerie encounter in Baronkroft’s personal chambers to the abandoned quarters of the castle, an entire section of ruins left uninhabited. And then, of course, he told her what he’d seen at the tower with the spiraling stairs. Magdalena’s jaw dropped upon hearing it all. She sat on the wet black stone and took it all, all the while thinking of ways in which she could use this information to her advantage.
“Sapphires?” she asked, something like hope in her luminous green eyes.
“A whole chamber full of ‘em,” Thomlin replied, enthusiastic and eager as always.
“Are you certain?” Valleria asked.
“As certain as ever! Saw it with me own eyes, it’s there! It’s hidden under a pile of rubble, but it’s there! I don’t think even Baronkroft knows it.”
“Where, exactly?” asked Magdalena, her mind already rolling with infinite possibilities.
“Right beneath the eastern tower, it is! A whole part of the castle left completely empty. Nothing but rats ‘n’ beetles down there.”
“Horse shit,” said a voice from nearby. Sebastien Swanworth, the imprisoned curator, sat up straight against the wall with that same look of arrogance and doubt on his face that he carried with him always. “Baronkroft’s held his lair here for nearly a year. You’d have to be daft to think he hasn’t ransacked the whole place clean.”
“It’s there, I tell you!” Thomlin insisted. “I saw it!”
“The little lad’s right,” Valleria added. “There are parts of the keep too dangerous to roam through. The rooves on the whole eastern half of the citadel are shit. I’ve seen ‘em when they put me on smithin’ duty.”
“Horse. Shit. You’ve both lost your minds,” Swanworth argued.
“Do you wish to get out of here or not?” Magdalena asked, her voice stern and unyielding.
Swanworth said nothing. Instead he slouched back with a scoff.
Magdalena looked around her. Half the prisoners in the chamber were either asleep or close to death. The other half was much too tired or scared to respond to the news.
But they were listening, all right…
It was hard not to listen when the chamber was as small as a common dining room and some fifty prisoners were cramped together inside.
“Thomlin,” Magdalena said after a brief silence. “Are you certain of this?”
“Of course, your majesty…”
“Magdalena,” she corrected him.
“R-Right… Sorry,” the boy stuttered. “Magdalena… I would never lie.”
The princess took a moment to breathe. She hadn’t heard news this promising since before she was kidnapped. And even now, she had only the word of a peasant boy. Still, he was possibly the one person she trusted the most in this unknown land. She simply couldn’t allow such an opportunity to pass her by merely because of her doubt. “All right,” she said. “I need to see it for myself. Do you remember exactly where it is, Thomlin?”
“Of course. I never forget!” the boy said eagerly.
“Good,” she smiled at him. “Tomorrow morning, meet me by th-”
Suddenly, there was a loud clink that resonated throughout the chamber. Normally the prisoners would have scattered in fear, except his time they were either much to weak or they were sick and near death.
Hauzer and Jyor walked in with keys at hand, and began pacing about the chamber. Magdalena felt a sudden dread at the thought that the two men had possibly overheard their entire conversation. But they didn’t exactly look angry. Serious, perhaps, but that was nothing new. As they got closer, some of the prisoners cowered into a corner, afraid of being summoned and questioned by Baronkroft’s torturers. But the two guards came to a halt right in front of the princess and her two companions.
“She’s the one, yes?” Jyor asked, a bony blue finger aimed at Magdalena.
“Aye,” Hauzer replied with a nod. “She’s the one…”
“She looks like a common peasant,” the dark elf grabbed her violently by the elbow and lifted her. “Right this way, your majesty.”
Magdalena did not make a sound, not even a yelp, but instead she glared back at him with just as much ferocity.
“What’s this about?” Valleria asked, rising to her feet like a loyal guardswoman. Hauzer and Jyor were always hard to read. Typically, the prisoners were all taken at once and assigned to different labor. Whenever a prisoner was taken from a chamber alone, however, it was unclear whether or not that prisoner would ever return.
“Back off, wench,” Jyor growled.
But Valleria was more resilient than that. “Where are you taking her?!”
“I said back off!”
Valleria did not back off. Instead, she did what no prisoner would ever consider doing. She placed a hand on Jyor’s forearm and gave it a yank. “What’re you gonna do to the girl?!”
Jyor growled viciously all of a sudden. He threw Magdalena forward and she landed on Hauzer’s arms before she hit the floor. The elf turned and landed a heavy slap on Valleria’s face. So heavy, it was, that the woman stumbled down to her knees. She then glanced up, shivering with rage, her cheek starting to go red.
“Leave her alone!” Magdalena shouted.
“You’ll speak when spoken to, you wretche-” Jyor had lifted an arm at Magdalena but, before he could strike, Hauzer’s massive hand stopped him with hardly any effort. The elf glared at his partner furiously, the kind of glare one gives an enemy rather than a friend.
“Enough, lad,” Hauzer grunted.
“Get your dirty hands off me,” Jyor pulled his arm loose. “She’s just a foreign bitch… Why d’you care anyway?”
“I don’t,” Hauzer said. “But Baronkroft does… Ye leave one bruise on her ‘n’ he’ll have ye castrated. Now calm yerself, will ye?”
With a grunt, Jyor left the chamber first, leaving Hauzer behind to drag the princess along. Magdalena took one last glance back at her only two friends, and both the boy and the woman looked troubled. The princess was quite concerned herself, but she wouldn’t dare show it to the two guards, for she was much smarter than that.
They took her up a set of spiraling stairs that seemed endless. By the time they reached the top, her legs were aching and shivering. They shoved her into a cold dark room that looked like a torturing chamber, with hooks hanging along the walls and a drain wedged between the stone at the center of the room. For a moment, she became frozen with fear.
“Take yer clothes off,” said Hauzer.
The princess hesitated. “What for?”
“You heard ‘im, girl!” Jyor growled and clutched her by the collar. “Strip!”
He gave it a good yank and the dress ripped right at the sleeve.
“Enough, lad!” Hauzer said, but the elf didn’t seem to care much; he tore at Magdalena’s dress until it could no longer stay on unless she pressed it against her chest.
“Stop! Stop this now!” Magdalena wailed angrily, forcing back the tears. It wasn’t exactly that she loved the dress, but it was the only thing she’d brought with her from Val Havyn when she was taken. As Hauzer kneeled and mixed soap into a bucket of water, Jyor kept tugging at the dress, cursing and spitting on the princess, as if it pleased him to see her vulnerable and helpless.
“No! I order you to stop!” Magdalena cried, and then released an unintentional “please”.
By then, the dress was nothing but a bunch of rags. The princess refused to let go of her raggedy corset, the only thing shielding her otherwise nude body. She felt cold and exposed and angry. And she wished suddenly for a weapon, any type of weapon, despite the fact that she’d never had to use one before.
“Let go of it, girl!” Jyor said frustratingly. And when she refused, he growled and reached for the nearest bucket.
“That one ain’t ready yet,” Hauzer warned.
But Jyor did not care. He splashed Magdalena with the ice-cold water and she instantly released a shrill cry that must have echoed down a few floors.
“That should teach you, you dumb bitch!”
“Oi!” Hauzer shouted, getting up and snatching the empty bucket away from the elf. “What the fuck’s the matter with ye?! Did I not just say tha-”
“The wench thinks she’s in charge ‘round here!”
“That ‘wench’ is Baronkroft’s key!” Hauzer shouted back, and the princess couldn’t help but overhear. “If ye can’t keep it together for just a few minutes, lad, then get outta here and I’ll take care of it!”
“Piss off! Baronkroft left us both to do it!”
“Aye, ‘n’ just wait ‘til he hears ye put yer filthy hands on ‘er.”
At that moment, Jyor unsheathed a dagger with his good hand. But Hauzer did not seem the least bit phased by it; he looked at Jyor as if the elf was holding a mere butter knife.
“What?” Hauzer stepped forward fearlessly. “Ye gonna kill me, are ye? Hmm?!”
The elf was shivering from the rage. He couldn’t bring himself to swing, knowing very well that Hauzer was three times his size and could break his wrist with little effort. He took one last glance at the naked princess, wet and shivering in a dark corner, and then curtly put his dagger away.
“Fuck off, the both of you,” Jyor left the room and slammed the door behind him. And there was a brief moment of silence as Hauzer lowered his head and sighed exhaustedly.
“Damn Rabbits,” the red-bearded man whispered to himself.
Fretfully, Magdalena reached for the torn pieces of her dress and used them to cover herself up between the legs. Hauzer took a glance at her; the princess was slender to begin with, only now he could see the bones in her ribs and chest. She was pale and weak and nearly dying. And he, in return, seemed to almost pity her.
“I, uh,” Hauzer cleared his throat. “Baronkroft said I have to wash ye…”
He bent down on one knee in front of the bucket of warm water and kept stirring the soap. Magdalena didn’t feel safe but she also didn’t feel alarmed, not the way Jyor made her feel. She wiped the cold water from her face and straightened herself up to her feet. She breathed slowly, over and over again, as Hauzer set the bucket down nearby and prepared to bathe her.
“Wait!” she blurted.
Hauzer looked at her. He appeared almost uncomfortable by her naked body.
“Please,” she said, her voice dry and hoarse. “Could I… just… maybe have some privacy?”
Hauzer closed his eyes and sighed. “Can’t do that, girl. Ye know I can’t.”
Magdalena took a second to think… She knew the man was not heartless; it wasn’t at all hard to tell, based solely on his demeanor towards her and the rest of the prisoners. But he also wasn’t dumb, and tricking him was going to take a lot more effort than that.
“Then I would like to be bathed by someone else,” she said, and then felt the need to clarify, “A woman.”
“Ain’t no women in Baronkroft’s troop,” he muttered.
“Doesn’t have to be from his troop…”
Hauzer thought about it for a moment, and then he grunted and said, “Wait here.”
Magdalena was left alone for several minutes. She slouched to a sitting position and, once she could no longer hear the man’s echoing footsteps, the tears began to flow on their own. She didn’t sob, she didn’t whimper, she hardly even made a noise. She simply allowed the tears to flow until they were finished. Then she used the torn cloth that used to be her dress to wipe her face clean and dry.
You’ll make it through this, she told herself, aware that she may very well not.
She soon realized that this was the first time since she was taken from Val Havyn that she had any privacy at all. When she ate a meal, when she changed her monthly towels, and even when she relieved herself, there was always a guard watching her. Angrily and miserably, she pressed her head onto the filthy torn cloth and screamed as hard as her lungs would allow it, careful to muffle the sound so as to not alert any guards nearby. She remained that way for several moments, until footsteps began approaching again.
Hauzer unlocked the door and in walked a familiar face that made the princess sigh with relief. “Ye got 10 minutes,” said the red-bearded man. “Make sure she’s clean. I’ll bring ‘er somethin’ to wear for the evening.”
When the door closed, Valleria remained where she stood, staring down at the sad figure of the shivering nude princess. Then, with a deep sigh, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her. Magdalena returned the embrace, crying into the woman’s chest.
“Those vile fuckin’ animals,” Valleria growled. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing,” Magdalena said, once she was able to catch her breath. “Baronkroft ordered them to have me cleaned…”
“Cleaned? What for?”
“I don’t know. They said he needed me.”
“What for?” Valleria asked again.
“I’ve no idea,” said Magdalena. “But I have a feeling I’m about to find out…”
* * *
Stupid boy, the Lady cursed under her breath. Spoiled, arrogant, stupid little boy…
Lady Brunylda Clark was unsure of what exactly it was that was holding her back from retreating to her chambers. And she certainly did try, but after the first set of spiraling stairs her feet refused to go any further.
Damn him. Damn them all!
But then she heaved a sigh of fury and stepped into one of the common rooms on the second floor of the royal palace. It was quite dark all around, and the Lady very much preferred it that way. Every candle remained unlit. Every curtain was shut except for one.
She creaked the window open just enough to overhear yet remain hidden. She could see the crowd some twenty feet below, twice as large as before, holding torches and shouting nonsense as they slammed the gates with stick
s, stones, and hammers. And standing right in front of them all, like the head of a snake, was the mad preacher known as Baryn Lawe.
What a fucking catastrophe, the Lady thought to herself. She was thankful that she’d brought liqueur with her from her chambers, she was so irritated. Suddenly, as she sipped from her flask, the palace doors opened right beneath her feet. She hesitated, still unsure if she should stay and watch.
It wasn’t that the Lady cared much for Darryk Clark… She fought hard to reject the notion that she was feeling any form of compassion for the man, she tried to convince herself that it was no more than pity. Darryk was, after all, an outsider in Val Havyn. And the Lady knew very well what that felt like, for she felt like an outsider every time the king gathered his court in the assembly room. The rest of the advisors would often glare at her as if she didn’t belong, the very same way she would often glare at Darryk, in fact.
The crowd began to roar and shout angrily when Darryk Clark walked down the front steps of the palace. Some were surprised to see him in armor, but the more radical ones cared very little. When they threw whatever rotten produce they had left over the gates, they aimed for him this time, and some of it splattered right near Darryk’s boots.
From above, the Lady watched, feeling the ache in her chest turn into rage.
Don’t you dare show them weakness, she advised the young knight silently. Show them who is in control.
She wished suddenly that she had said this to him personally. Then again, a proper leader shouldn’t have to be told any of this.
As Darryk Clark approached the gates, his head was held up high like a proper knight. Though he was dressed in armor, he still wore the silver crown of Lord Regent over his black head of hair. He had his back to the palace, and so Lady Brunylda was unable to see his face, but she sensed that he was holding himself together, as the man often did even when he was shivering on the inside. Such was the burden of a noble; showing others your fear could shatter your reputation in an instant.
Suddenly, there was loud stomping and the clinking of metal coming from the western road outside of the palace gates. A formation of about twenty guards had marched out from the western gates inconspicuously and walked around the angry mob, lining themselves in an arch so as to cage them all in. They were armed with blades and round shields of steel, all of which had been crafted with care by the blacksmith Evellyn Amberhill. Another ten guards remained inside the gates with their swords drawn, awaiting orders from their Lord Regent.