by SL Figuhr
Just a quick look. I’ve gotta be sure my brother isn’t inside.
Colin ventured back into the room, turned the lamp up a notch more and held it up by its handle. The flickering glow showed a torture chamber. Each device appeared well-used, if not well taken care of. Blood and other fluids crusted on the wood surfaces. The iron maiden held a skeleton in rotting clothes.
Metal chains dangled from the walls, along with tackles, pulleys, and stone weights. There was no sign of Mica.
“Come on! Why put me in here and not lock the door? Or chain me up? What’s the point of it all?”
The man left the room and shone his light up and down the crude stone floors and walls. Two more doors interrupted, both shut. He picked one and tried the latch. It opened under his touch. The room did not have an occupant, only a hole in the floor smelling strongly of feces and urine, a set of chains upon the wall. The room behind the second door an exact duplicate to the first.
“O.K. private torture chamber and cells. But where am I? More importantly, where is my brother?”
Colin continued down the hall to a door which closed it off. It, too, opened easily to show another room, which contained many doors and a set of stairs. Freedom stared him in the face, only...
“I wonder what’s behind the other doors? I may never get a chance like this again.”
He ignored every instinct screaming at him to get out, and explored. Behind the doors lay pantries, a kitchen, workrooms for the care and upkeep of the building. One room held a jumble of detritus that accumulates in large dwellings. Colin wiggled his way through the piles and stacks of rotting wood, cloth, and wicker. Mica was not chained inside, and the cursory inspection the immortal gave to the junk didn’t reveal anything useful. He left the room, ignored the stairs, and opened a door underneath them.
Another hallway led into a second, longer wing with many doors. Each one opened easily to his touch. Each room, no, cell, held a bed, washstand, chamber pot, and pegs on the wall for clothes.
“Slave quarters.” He dismissed the barren rooms and turned back to the stairs. His curiosity still over-riding his common sense. “Why toss me down here and not restrict my movements? Where are the guards? None of it makes any sense.”
He started up the wood steps, which creaked under every footfall. At the top he encountered another closed door, it too unlocked. The cool basement air was replaced by warm, stale air.
“Bizarre.”
The door led out into an open curved space with stairs to a second floor and the main entrance hall. The floor was a mixture of stone, marble, and mosaic tiles in no discernible pattern. A massive brass chandelier overhead held remnants of candles, and pools of hardened wax dotted the floor beneath. Stone bases with nothing on or in them except a few holes stood against the orange painted walls. The front door a massively, intricately carved piece of wood. It, unlike the others, was locked tight.
Colin patted his clothes. He had no tools on him to force the lock. Its lock needed a key both inside and outside.
‘‘There has to be a back door, or windows even.” He scratched at his skin, pushed up his sleeves to look at his arms. It felt as if millions of tiny bugs crawled and bit. The skin was red from his nails, no bugs, still the feeling persisted. He set himself to ignore it and explore.
Colin felt jittery and uneasy, sweat broke out on his skin as he moved from room to room. Spaces heavily and richly furnished, despite the poverty of the times. More of the stone bases stood against the walls, and in the center of each room was a knee-height wood platform. Thick velvet or brocade drapes covered windows. Colin tried each one, but shutters covered them, locked like the front door. A few had what looked like scratch marks on them, perhaps from fingernails of people trying to claw or pry them open without success. Each room spoke of wealth, though the taste of the owner questionable at best. If it wasn’t for the empty bases, the house would just be a rich noble’s fancy hunting lodge.
He found himself back in the main hallway after exploring two short wings, one with servants’ rooms.
“The second floor it is. It would be nice if a hinge were loose, or even a key left lying about.”
Slowly he made his way up the stairs but hesitated at the top. The landing had doors opposite each other, no doubt leading into separate hallways. They seemed heavier than the ones downstairs, and he had a fleeting thought that, with them closed, any screams or sounds would be muffled, if not blocked completely. He didn’t relish investigating each hall. He swiped his arm across his forehead to blot at the sweat which soaked him.
The immortal turned to the left and entered the closed-off hall. Each door heavily carved, with scenes of couples or groups engaged in various positions of copulation. Behind, the rooms still richly if perhaps sparingly furnished. The accoutrements suggested whoever used them was into bondage games. Colin continued checking behind all the drapes, testing the locks on the shutters, hoping one had been overlooked, but no such luck.
He exited the hall, crossed the landing, and entered the right-hand side. There was only a few doors in the wing, the rooms much larger. He could only surmise it was Nicky’s private area, as the decor was lush and rich. The feeling of wrongness intensified, and Colin realized that for several minutes now his breathing had become labored and fast, as if in fear, heart pounding. Back on the landing, he almost didn’t see the concealed door, painted to look like part of the wall. He spent many minutes searching for the catch. When it swung inward, a steep set of stairs led up.
Colin mounted them, and found himself under the eaves of the roof. He could only stand upright if he stayed in the middle, due to the sharp slope. Metal grilles had been placed in the floor at regular intervals. He peered through, noting he could see into the rooms below. The wooden floor had dust thickly over it, except in places where someone had knelt to spy. The air up here was fetid and humid. His clothes soaked in sweat. He swallowed, throat feeling tight and raspy. Now his curiosity had been satisfied, he needed to get out.
The man stumbled down the stairs to the first floor, dots appeared before his eyes, a high pitched whine buzzing in his ears. The hall spun before him. Colin didn’t realize when the lantern fell from his numb fingers and hand. It smashed against the floor, what little oil remained catching fire and burning briefly as he slowly tilted forward. The treads met him with a bone-jarring rattle. He stared, dazed, at the painted ceiling of flames, smoke, writhing bodies, before passing out.
* * *
Voices greeted his ears. Languages which to him sounded as if they had once been Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, German. The man inhaled: the scents of wood smoke, wet livestock, horse and human manure, unwashed bodies, and food tickled his nostrils. He lay on wood, curled into an uncomfortable ball. Colin let his lids open a bit at a time. He didn’t know what poison made him die back at the hunting lodge. He saw metal bars before him, and when he rolled over, saw he was in a small cage roped to the back of a wagon. Nighttime greeted his senses. He shivered in the cold air, noting a thin film of ice on the bars.
The immortal couldn’t even stand in his cage, only kneel or sit cross-legged, no space for his stretched-out legs. He idly listened to the different dialects, trying to make sense of the words. The languages had changed so much, that he only understood one in twenty words. Dogs yipped, howled, men shouted, argued, laughed. Occasionally female screams arose, sometimes as if in pain, others in ecstasy. He heard the shuffle of hooves, the sleepy snort of a horse. The man strained with all his senses, but learned no more. He explored the confines of his cage, hoping there would be a flaw permitting escape. It seemed there was none.
How many days have I been a captive? Where is my brother? Who has him? Colin struggled to keep calm.
He could only wait, for food, water, a chance to relieve himself. None came. Only the relentless cold, the night unending. The man curled into a ball, shivered uncontrollably, drifting in and out of sleep. He was not aware when dawn broke, only the slow lightening of sky, illumin
ating the camp.
It was a rag-tag, makeshift place. Fires burned low, or not at all. Very few possessed tents or beds; most slept outside on the ground, buried under mounds of fur, heavy cloaks, or with females next to them. There was a few more cages like his, but they contained women, on the edge of childhood into young adulthood. All dressed in rags, sporting bruises, cuts, welts and other signs of ill-treatment. A young male barely into adolescence made his rounds. He had a scraggly mustache and beard, all gangly limbs and pimples, his clothes too big for him. He banged on the bars, shoved bowls and mugs inside. If the occupants still slept, he tried to thrust a hand in to stroke unkempt, greasy, dirty hair or skin. A few of the females cringed away from him, some never stirred.
The boy made his way to Colin’s cage, shoved in the bowls, and continued on, deaf to all requests, all questions. Colin looked at the food, a watery, thin gruel and sour wine. He forced himself to eat, knowing he had to keep his strength up. He was not even given a pot to piss in. That function had to be performed by aiming through the bars, for both needs. It made for a messy, smelly cage.
Slowly the camp woke, women booted out from underneath warm furs or cloaks to stir the fires, cook the food, or satisfy carnal needs. The horses received better care than the prisoners.
When the meal was ready, the majority of men took care of personal business before sitting down and grabbing at food and drink, breaking their fast. Once the males’ appetites had been satisfied, the women were allowed to eat while cleaning up. No one would talk to him, or even acted as if they understood a word he said, though he tried different languages. He continued to observe the camp, hoping he could discern a pattern which would help him escape and get back to town to find his brother and warn of the threat which remained nearby.
Another day and night passed, then a second, a third, a fourth...The immortal found it harder and harder to remain calm. Why wasn’t his brother looking for him? Why wasn’t Eron? Surely they couldn’t all be prisoners? He tried to make conversation with the women, the kid who fed him, the men who cared for the horses. They spit at him, cursed him, or poked him with various implements until he gave up.
He had long ago lost track of how much time his brother had left to grab the kid and complete the ritual. Time had no meaning when you were treated as a non-entity. On the uncounted last of an uncountable string of days, he ate another sorry bowl of gruel, drank another mug of sour wine, curled into a ball trying to keep warm. Colin thought he had drifted off to sleep when he was awoken by shouting and screams of terror.
The clang of steel upon steel greeted his ears, fires blazed bright. He could see shapes rushing about, men calling and shouting. The horses whinnied in fear, rearing and trying to break free. A bright light illuminated the entire camp. Colin thought he saw Duchess Illyria and a robed person fighting before all became enveloped in a stygian darkness.
He felt his cage/wagon rock violently, then it lifted up and tumbled backward. He could do nothing but attempt to brace himself as it crashed back to earth. The bars slammed painfully into him, wood splintered, screams echoing and distorting. The Immortal blacked out.
* * *
When Colin woke, it was to find himself buried under a pile of splintered wood and scattered iron. Slowly he made his way out, blood caked his clothes. He surveyed the camp. Bodies lay, as if they had been tossed like so much garbage. A few horses grazed near the entrance to the valley, most having run off.
He picked his way through the mounds of wood, dead men and women. Animals had already come to feast—he had to avoid carnivores who tore chunks out of the bodies and growled at him, showing bloody teeth and muzzles. A heap of dirty canvas spoke of a deflated tent. Colin picked up a sword, and set about to catch a horse. Briefly he wondered if his pack was still wedged in the tree he and his brother had hidden in.
Chapter Eight
“You dirty little whore!” Caroline slammed into her sister’s bedroom.
Sally looked up in shock, her eyes red from crying, nose running with snot. Before the youngest could do anything, her sister’s hand flashed out and cracked across her face.
“He is mine! Mine! How dare you seduce him away from me!” she shrieked. “It’s me he plans to marry! Not you!”
Sally let out a howl of rage and raked her nails down her sister’s face as she screamed, “He loves me, you nasty old bitch!”
Caroline shrieked and yanked her sister’s hair out of its updo. “You stupid, stupid child! Why would he want an idiot like you! You keep away from him or I’ll kill you!”
The youngest cried at the pain and grabbed a handful of her eldest sister’s hair with one hand as the other clawed for her face. They struggled, pulling hair, kicking, slapping each other as they screamed insults.
“We laughed at you! He said you kept pushing yourself on him like one of the dockyard women of easy virtue! So he took his pleasure of you like the whore you are!”
“You bitch! You have no idea how to please a man! He thought you a stupid, silly little girl. He told me he fucked you to teach you a lesson.”
“He said your cunt is stretched out like an old sausage casing! He said mine is tight and perfect and he loved the feel of me!”
Caroline shrieked loudly and ricocheted her sister off the wall. “Sausage casing? He said you felt like a brood mare!”
“He said you just lay on your back like a turtle, a beached fish!” They crashed to the ground, Caroline on top, and they continued to slap and scratch at each other.
Caroline’s words were cut off as she was pulled off her sister by her hair.
“What is the meaning of this?” their minder demanded. “You are sisters! Not slaves to be rolling around the floor fighting! What would your mother say if she could see you two? This is not how gentle-bred, noble-born ladies behave!”
“Yes, let’s tell Mother that Sally is proud of her disgrace! You’ll never be allowed out again!”
“You tell her and I’ll tell her what you did! She’ll banish you!”
Caroline shrieked and tried to charge her sister but the grip her minder had on her hair brought her up short. “Let go of me, old woman, or I’ll tell Mother you’re abusing us and she’ll see you sold to the meanest slaver she can find.”
“I’ll take my chances,” the woman spat back. “It’s a disgrace the way you two behave, like a pair of cats in heat! Lady Caroline, you are a grown woman with children. A true lady does not brawl on the ground and shout filthy things like a common trull. As for you, Lady Sally, a girl who wishes to retain the appearance of virginity does not lie with a man to whom she is not married. You have jeopardized your chances of finding a decent husband.”
“Have not! I’m marrying Lord Nicky! He told me so himself!”
“March. Now. We shall end this nonsense once and for all. Your parents will sort this out.”
* * *
“Elizabeth, please, now is not the time; not with the advisor missing,” Sydney wearily pleaded.
“Our daughter has been ruined! No one of import will marry her! Not when it is found she is no longer a virgin! How could you allow this to happen? It’s your fault for even needing to visit those whores! It’s revolting, a man of your age!”
The earl stared at his desk and his hands lying flat on top. I would not have to visit them if you weren’t such a frigid bitch. I am a man, I need more than just procreation, especially now you are too old to bear children. But he remained silent as she raged.
“I will speak with His Majesty on the subject. I don’t know why Lord Nicky thought he could use her and discard her. She isn’t some whore, or a slutty duchess, to pleasure himself with.”
“Elizabeth,” he tried again but she ignored him.
“I have had enough of being humiliated, Chadrick! Do you understand me? I wish your father was still alive; he would have nipped in the bud your tendencies to stray.”
“Elizabeth.”
“As if that wasn’t bad enough, the whole of this town is
a morass of sin! And you know why? That damn foreign duchess and her free, sluttish ways! I shudder to contemplate how her family was made nobility! I will not have her around my family! Do you hear me! I will not!”
Sydney felt detached from himself, the rage in him seemed to belong to someone else, as was his hands clenching into fists.
“Then the whore goes and acts as if she cares what happens to Lady Anne! How dare she pretend! I was and still am the only woman Anne trusts! I told her how to be a proper wife! But did she listen?! No! And now she cries and whines there is no one to help or protect her! All she had to do was be a good, chaste wife! Is it the marquis’ fault he has to keep correcting her behavior? And the damn whore acts as if it’s not natural at all!”
She took a breath in, trembling in rage as she paced, her monologue continuing. “No doubt the whore seduced the marquis, the two-faced bitch! Disgusting how they act like they hate each other, when she is no doubt as depraved as he is! I tried my best to educate her, to instruct her in a proper lady’s ways, and look how she repays us! By ignoring my advice, ruining our family!”
“Elizabeth,” he tried again in desperation but she would not heed him.
“You, you coward of a man! Our family had pride, and power, and, and respect once! Once! When your father was alive! You’ve done nothing but drag the name of Sydney down! Do you know what they say of our family? That you’re a fence-sitter! You have no balls. They all think you’re a joke!! How is Martin supposed to marry a girl of consequence now, I ask you!
“And Caroline! How is she supposed to find a man to be a father to her children? Are you even listening to me? Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done! Don’t you dare think you’re going to some whore?”