by J. P. Ashman
Croal’s face lit up. ‘My men!’ he said, eyes on the door. He rushed for it, throwing the locking bolt across, Giles too slow to stop him. The priest’s prayers turned to whimpers.
The banging and growling stopped before Croal opened the door. It had been part of his reason for opening it.
The beast entered at speed, knocking Croal back and to the floor, its blood-red bulk a stark, horrifying contrast to the interior of the White Chapel and the attire of the three men it towered above. Like a blunt faced, over-muscled human without skin and with canines protruding from its fat mouth, the gore soaked beast stood on two legs and hammered its chest with a ferocity that stunned the onlookers.
‘We’re fucked…’ Giles stepped back against the wall, sword lowering, face paling.
‘No,’ came a throaty, accented voice from the doorway, ‘this one’s fucked, if any of you raise those swords.’
An Orismaran in maille and plate, who stood nearly as tall as the panting beast in the centre of the chapel, held Flavell by her throat, his other ham of a hand pulling at her hair so her eyes weren’t much more than slits across her tear-soaked face.
Silence. Sudden and heart stopping. The scene before Croal flooded him with dread, with a hopelessness that wracked his chest with a single sob like he’d not felt since he’d lost his father. Despair took its hold, its talons surrounding his heart and squeezing with an ice-cold grip that dropped him to the stone slabs. Distantly, through the previous silence, Croal heard the metallic clatter of steel on stone; his sword. Heavy breaths came and went through his nose, lips pressed together, eyes wide. He stared, locked on green eyes he’d come to know so well. Come to love.
‘My sweet…’ The words came as a breath, fuzzy to his inner ear. Flavell struggled within the hold of the tattooed brute. The Orismaran’s leering grin was lost on Croal, as was the red beast that closed on him. Giles roared something, to him, Croal thought, but it was as if a dream, hazy, unreal… slow. All so slow. Strong hands, huge hands, closed around Croal’s unarmoured arms and wrenched him to his feet. The beast lifted him free of the floor. Flavell screamed and thrashed in the Orismaran’s embrace. The man laughed, her struggles doing nothing to hinder him as he dragged her across the White Chapel. Her dress, her beautiful white gown only now became apparent to Croal. His eyes dropped for a moment and a smile pulled at his dry lips. She stunned him more than all else, her beauty and the love they shared.
‘Flavell.’ The word rolled off Croal’s tongue, bringing forth a smile broader than any he’d ever given. He heard her voice, clear, like crystal. It rang out; she shouted his name, pleading, crying out in fear and desperation.
‘My betrothed,’ he said softly, weakly. ‘My love.’ All was well with the world, because they’d found one another, discovered the truest love. If it all ended now, Croal knew they would both die knowing they’d found true love in one another. Like the tales sung by troubadours and the like. A love such as legends describe.
Giles’ shouts, full of anger and incredulity, were lost on Croal, dumbed down by the thumping of Croal’s heart in his chest, his ears; everywhere, throughout his body and beyond.
‘Croal!’
Her voice again, as the beast dragged Croal to the quivering, pissing priest behind his lectern. The priest’s knuckles matched the chapel, his grip on the lectern was that fierce. He’d been forced to stand, a knife at his back. Croal hadn’t even seen the other two tattooed warriors enter. Female, he noted, with dark skin and long white hair, grinning-skull-like tattoos to match, the contrast fitting in the White Chapel.
‘Croal, please!’
Croal’s eyes snapped back to Flavell’s. Those wide eyes, perfect as they were, were red rimmed, wet, her face screwed up with fear, panic and more.
‘Flavell.’ Croal whispered her name and it all struck home. The Orismarans, the red, glistening beast that set him down and stained his white velvet crimson; his throbbing arms where the creature had gripped and lifted him. A heat surged through him, flashing white hot in his veins, through his heart and head. ‘Flavell,’ he said, louder now. She was held before him, before the lectern.
‘Marry them,’ the Orismaran said. ‘Now!’ His Sirretan was terrible, but Croal understood it and knew the priest would too.
Sucking in a lungful of air, Croal’s eyes widened, the scene hitting home. He snarled.
Flavell was yanked away, yelping in pain as rough hands swung her round. The Orismaran was flanked by two sickle wielding men.
Croal stopped his surge of anger, his rush forward, as those blades filled his vision, their wicked curves good for slicing and lopping men with no armour, Croal knew. Incredibly strong hands took his shoulders and forced him to his knees. The grunts and bass growl behind was lost on him. Tears filled his eyes and he cursed himself for it, blurred as his vision now was. He didn’t want it to end like this, apart, his vision of her watered down and unreal.
‘You’ll be wed apart then,’ the Orismaran officer said, eyes narrow. ‘And I’ll fuck the bitch whilst it’s done.’
‘No!’ Croal tried to surge forward once more, heard Giles attempting the same, but Croal was held firm by the beast. He winced at the pain it caused and saw Giles knocked back, the female Orismarans close to skewering him with long knives.
‘Play nice and I won’t be too rough,’ the officer said, pulling at Flavell’s dress as she failed to fight him off.
‘No!’ Croal screamed, willing the word to halt the man who was aggressively hoisting up Flavell’s beautiful dress from behind.
‘Croal…’ Flavell struggled, but it was for nought.
Giles made to move again, Croal saw in his periphery, but was pushed back once more, blades pressing against his chest until his back met the white wall. He glared at the women and they glared back.
‘Wed them,’ the officer growled, and it was a growl, guttural and animalistic as he tore shimmering white silk and forced Flavell over, her hands gripping the lectern, stopping herself from falling forward. She looked through red eyes at Croal, at her husband to be, as the Orismaran’s large hand reached round, under her dress. She gasped, no pleasure in it, bit her lip, face contorted as the brute looked over her shoulder at Croal, a wicked grin playing across his inked face.
Croal thrashed despite the pain. He thrashed as the priest reluctantly read aloud from the blank pages of the White Book. The priest couldn’t look up. His voice shook but he went on, reading aloud the vows hidden, white on white, pure on pure.
‘Louder!’
The priest’s breath shook as he spoke up, the marriage words, ancient, unsullied until now, flowing from him as they had a hundred times before, albeit not accompanied by pleading cries and cursed denials. The ceremony reached its conclusion as the big Orismaran forced his way into Flavell, taking her breath as the binding words were spoken. Giles roared an Altolnan curse. Croal struggled and thrashed and fought against the grip and the pain. He cried and yelled and hurled threats as his beloved was raped before him. She was forced forward yet more – connected to her captor – who brought a serrated knife around, forcing it into her hand.
‘Now slice your husband’s throat, bitch.’
Flavell’s attempted refusal was halted by a thrust.
Croal roared in the purest rage, face red, spittle flying.
‘Do it or you’ll have more of this from my men. Maybe even the beast that holds your husband. Do it, or the town folk of Easson will have the same, the women and the children, no matter how young. Do it and you’ll rule here. You’ll pay your tithes to my master, but you’ll live, and so will your people.’
‘Do it,’ Croal whispered to her, wincing each time the officer squeezed her flesh or jerked her forward with one of his thrusts. Croal fell back against the bloody wetness of the creature holding him. He even lifted his head with a stoicism he didn’t know he had. ‘Do it, my love. Free me. Free yourself!’ He couldn’t go on. No matter the times he’d told himself he’d do this, that or the other come t
he end; come the fighting, glory-filled end. He never thought sitting back and accepting it would have factored. But it did. It was all he could do now. Accept it.
‘Listen to him,’ the officer breathed.
Giles’ protests and curses were lost to them all, the man forgotten in the corner, as was the whimpering priest.
Flavell shook her head, her sobs hindering her breathing, along with the grunting thrusts coming from behind her; violating her.
‘Croal…’ she wept, taking hold of his hand despite what she endured. ‘My love…’
Croal came forward as much as he could, took her slender fingers in his own, gripped them tight. ‘Do it,’ he whispered to her. ‘Set us free. Remember me from before this… before my failure.’
She was shaking her head before he finished his words. Their heads closed, met, before she was yanked back. She screamed.
‘I’ll kill the bitch instead.’
Croal lashed out, took the serrated blade held between them and drew it hard and sure across his own throat, jagged iron snagging as it went, his life’s blood hot on his hands and chest as it turned his wedding coat red.
Flavell and Giles screamed their denial.
The tears wetting Croal’s cheeks seemed more real than the throbbing agony of his neck as blood pumped free, the pressure of it released from his body as his hands fell by his sides; his life released into the White Chapel. He felt his energy, what little remained, failing completely.
We’ll always have our love, he thought, for he couldn’t force the words out past wet gurgles and rasps. He looked into her green eyes and released himself to her. He gave her his soul in that one true connection.
Croal’s heart stuttered as he watched his love being raped. He watched on as his vision blurred, darkened; he watched on as he felt himself letting go of the light, of the White of the world. Croal watched as the woman he’d given himself to smiled. Smiled!
Flavell smiled wickedly as she began to pant and gasp, not in pain and horror, but in pleasure. He watched as she dragged her captor’s free hand up and onto her covered breasts, laughing with ecstasy as the man ripped her wedding gown down to reveal a breast, pale skin and pink, erect nipple pawed at by the tattooed hand.
Croal died in an agony far greater than that of the knife tearing across his throat.
As Giles Bratby’s horrified roar of anger found Croal’s ears, the young man’s life left him, his final sight that of his beloved’s eyes gazing up at the grunting man with a hand around her throat, licking the side of her face as her tongue reached to meet his.
Croal died a married man. A married man who’d left the world amidst the purest of horrors. The purest of betrayals; his soul destroyed.
Giles stood, back to wall, chest heaving as he sucked in one great lungful of air after another, incredulous to the sight he’d witnessed. The White Chapel was flooded with offending odours and colours, mostly red; the red of the beast at its centre and the red of Croal’s blood as it worked its way across stone slabs, travelling further along the grooves between stones, spreading out, pointing accusingly towards Giles and Flavell.
‘I should have done something,’ Giles whispered, eyes returning to Flavell at the sound of a low grunt.
‘Get off me, you filthy cur,’ Flavell hissed, planting an elbow into the Orismaran’s padded and maille clad gut. The big man felt the impact, that much was clear as he backed away and doubled over, trews up and belted, cock stowed away as it had been throughout the feigned rape.
Giles frowned, snarled.
Flavell looked to Giles and grinned, her top lip bulging as fangs slid into view. ‘It seems,’ she said, walking around the lectern and the sobbing priest, ‘that I am now the Marquise d’Easson, especially since I had that bitch, Croal’s aunt, butchered, along with her three brats.’ The red beast stepped away from her, cowering as much as the white priest.
‘Succubus.’ The word tasted bitter to Giles, although he had to admit, it made more sense than what had been the truth a moment before. ‘You played us all—’
‘For fools, yes.’ Flavell glided up to Giles in her torn and blooded white gown, biting her bottom lip as she neared.
The Orismaran officer straightened, muttering a foreign curse. His two female warriors watched Flavell with a mix of awe and terror, their eyes as white as their tattoos; pupil-less. The two sickle-wielding male warriors stepped from the chapel and closed the door behind them, to guard the corridor or flee the succubus, Giles couldn’t know.
‘Oh, how I was moved by your anger at what the savage was doing to me, Giles.’ Flavell practically purred as she spoke, lifting up onto her toes to make herself level, eye to eye, with the large Altolnan Earl. She hissed as Giles spat at her.
The strike he felt across his face might as well have come from the red beast for the strength of it. Spitting and adding more offending red to the chapel, Giles made up for the imbalance and added two white teeth to the floor, his mouth numb, the loss of the teeth and the knowledge they would never grow back angering him further. He prodded at the bloody holes they’d left, the feeling alien to his tongue. As alien as the creatures in the chapel with him, Flavell included. He steeled himself and grinned red at the bitch.
There were shouts and the briefest clash of weapons that silenced the room. Everyone, everything, held their breaths, surprised. Then came the sound of iron on wood, three times the knock.
‘Mademoiselle de Steedon? Messire Seneschal?’
The Orismaran officer moved for the door with intent, but Flavell lifted her clawed hand to stop him. ‘Amis?’ she said, voice weak, soft, like it had been before her change. She clamped her other hand across Giles’ mouth.
‘They’re in here!’ came a muffled reply. ‘Open up,’ Amis shouted. ‘There’s not much time.’
Flavell frowned before motioning for the officer to open the door. Giles didn’t miss the frown. As the tattooed brute reached the door and opened it, Giles drove his knee forward and up, enough to stagger the succubus, dislodging the blocking of his mouth.
‘Trap!’ Giles felt relief as he heard himself shout the word; he flinched as the door burst open.
A length of steel was the first thing through the portal. The sword twisted and came in at the officer, followed by Amis and a black-clad woman.
‘Correia!’ Giles’ mouth was uncovered as Flavell leapt towards the door, claws outstretched, fangs bared and wings tearing free from the back of her dress.
The red beast roared and charged, flicking pews like driftwood.
Amis’ eyes widened. He rocked back as if struck by the multiple horrors before him. ‘Flavell,’ he said, more a gasp, whilst fending off a counter-attack by the large Orismaran.
Giles winced, but when he recovered, his eyes were drawn to two white-hot swords. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the glowing blades.
Correia raced past Amis, taking a thrusting arm from the officer, who fell back, howling and holding his partially cauterised stump.
Flavell struggled in the face of the assault. The revelation of her wings had caused strips of silk from her gown to hang, tangle and hinder her. She tried to step back as Correia attacked with both swords. Flavell managed to bat the blades away, screaming in anger and searing pain as she did so.
More pews crashed and tumbled as the hulking red beast powered through them, towards Correia and Amis both. It made it halfway before Giles’ blade arced out, opening up a line in the creature’s shoulder. He hadn’t even planned the attack, had hardly thought it; years of training and hunting and fighting had launched him into action as soon as the Orismaran bitches made for Amis.
With a roar, the beast turned on Giles, swinging mighty fists. Giles stepped out of the way in time, experienced as he was. There was no skill to the creature’s attack, just raw aggression and strength. Despite its sheer horror and bulk, Giles took two more attempts to put good steel through the monster’s face, pushing crushed bone and more from the back of its thick skull. The red beas
t left a bloody smear across the floor as it fell and slid, momentum carrying it a heartbeat after Giles jerked his sword free of the falling beast’s head. He wasted no time and charged into the continuing fray, aiming for the back of the nearest Orismaran. She turned and avoided the unseen attack, but backed away, her knife a poor match against Giles and his sword.
Amis, confusion plain to see, regained enough of himself, if not all, to hold off the tattooed women. Seeing Giles come to his aid bolstered him and he thrust anew.
Giles used Amis’ renewed efforts to step in close to the nearest Orismaran, avoiding a hasty thrust from Amis himself. With a growl, Giles shoved the woman back onto her arse, grabbed Amis and dragged the smaller man out into the corridor, confident enough in his King’s Spymaster to know she’d be close behind. He’d seen the nod from her, despite their predicament.
The two men manoeuvred around the dead Orismaran guards and ran down the corridor, Amis looking back over his shoulder more than ahead. Correia followed them at full tilt, a screeching succubus and two screeching Orismarans on her heels. The black armoured officer stood in the doorway of the White Chapel, clutching his stumped wrist and glaring at the escapees with unbound hatred.
‘A succubus?’ Amis’ words were breathy, heavy as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder again, eyes meeting the green of Flavell’s. The look that passed between them brought tears to his eyes, and Giles didn’t miss it.
Flavell halted in her tracks. ‘Run, little people!’ She tore the rest of her wedding dress off with an otherworldly shriek of hatred and malice and amusement rolled into one.
A horn sounded somewhere in the near distance, replacing the bells that had long since stopped clanging their warnings.
The three companions ran on, Giles dragging a stunned Amis by his side, Correia bringing up the rear, swords cooling.
‘My lord Bratby,’ Correia said, loud enough for Giles to hear, ‘take Amis to the stables…’ she sucked in a breath as she ran, ‘…and meet us at the postern gate with mounts. As many as you can find.’