The Witch (Dragon Eyes Book 1)

by Kristina Hlaváčková

  Breta walked as if in a dream. Trickles of sweat ran down her back. Her suffering was about to end, but settling in was the horror of what was awaiting her before she were allowed to die. Nitram’s words resonated in her head. If she withstands his test, she will be permitted to leave. There was not enough strength in her to believe his treacherous words, to give herself even a touch of hope. She thought of the little boy hidden within the dark palace walls, of the fate that awaited him. Once again, she looked over her shoulder and saw the huge, shiny building of her longtime prison.

  Uncompromisingly, Nitram walked on with her arm tightly locked in his. When she slowed down, he jolted her forward coarsely. She stumbled once, and then again. He let go of her when she at last fell to the ground. Without a word, two of the soldiers grabbed her, while her tormentor strode on, relying on his men. They would not let her escape. Escape? There was no escaping the deserted city. Breta concentrated on each step, on walking on without stumbling again, on keeping pace with her captors; trying to gather the last of her dignity. Breta did not believe Nitram would let her go. He couldn’t. She knew far too much. However, should there be the slightest chance of survival, she would take it. For the boy. To do that, her mind had to be clear.

  A moonscape surrounded the dead city. Its hills were bare, there was nothing green to break the omnipresent blackness and light. An occasional tree stump stuck out of the ground, a reminder of the once deep forests surrounding the city. Everything was darkened by fire. Some places the ground was scorched into a crackled, opaque crust. Huge boulders cracked by enormous heat menaced everyone with their sharp edges.

  Her escort led her to a plateau high above the Citadel dominated by a flat stone slab balanced on four smaller blocks. The area around it was engulfed in a suffocating, putrid, stench. Under dark stains of dried blood adhered in the lines of millions of runes, the stone shone dominated by four shackles on long strong chains. Something rattled under Breta’s feet. She dropped her gaze. Her foot was touching a fretted, sun bleached claw of a human hand. Eyes wide open, she looked around, taking in every detail. Crushed remains, bodies and bones, torn clothes and broken weapons littered the ground. Next to the slab stood four tall vessels. In them, was a dark, stinking liquid. Breta knew its stench. Her eyes drawn to the high pots, she swallowed.

  Nitram watched Breta with undisguised delight and interest, letting her scrutinize the place of her execution, his playground that brought him perverse delight simply through the horror it evoke in his victims. Breta’s knees buckled underneath her, but the two guards holding her between them didn’t let her fall.

  She struggled, when they dragged her to the slab, when they began to tie her hands and feet to the hot stone with shackles. Tying her so tight she could hardly move, the soldiers stepped aside, surrounding the place of sacrifice in a wide circle, like statues with no feelings and no expressions.

  Nitram stepped forward, suddenly holding a knife in his hand. It gleamed ominously when sunrays touched it. Slowly, with a hideous smile, he slit Breta’s dress from her waist up. He looked almost bemused, when he slid a hand under her dress to caress her bosom. Feeling the cold touch of his revolting leathery hand on her skin had once again brought shame, hatred and repulsion. Satisfied, he watched her struggle as she tried to pull away from him, but the chains wouldn’t let her. He tore the top of her dress off of her and threw it behind his back, revealing her white skin and still round and firm bosom for all to see. When he caressed her velvet skin, enjoying the blissful feeling of her warm body, she cursed him.

  “You are still very beautiful,” he said as gently as his hoarse voice allowed. The echo following his every each word was noticeable even in the open space. Again, she tried to shy away from him, and he in return dug his claw like nails into her skin. Breta could feel blood trickling down her side and knew, there were far worse things to come.

  Nitram dipped his knife into one of the vessels standing by the slab and held the blade above Breta’s arm, watching a drop form slowly on its tip, watching it detach and fall. It sizzled, when the droplet touched Breta’s skin. Stabbing pain grabbed her like fire, as acid slowly ate through her tissue. She gasped, but no scream escaped her lips.

  Slowly, methodically, drop after drop, Nitram burned Breta’s arm, proceeding from the wrist up all the way to her shoulder to continue to her neck, chest and face. Doing so, he whispered to her how the acid would burn her beyond recognition, how her predecessors lay on this table, screaming with pain, welcoming death with relief when it finally came. He was curious for how long she would last, bringing him pleasure. Those not dead immediately, were left alone for the Black Saurians to feed on them, their torn bodies lying here unburied forever. He breathed into her ear what he would do with her son, how he would raise him to his liking, how he would punish him to subdue him. He whispered to her ear as lovers do, his words cutting deep scars into her heart.

  The pain was unbearable, spreading from her wounds throughout her entire body, gnawing and paralyzing. A repulsive, sweetish smell of burned flesh entered her nostrils. The burning flesh was hers. Someone shrieked. The cry pierced her ears and resonated inside her skull till she realized it was her screaming in pain. The screaming stopped only when her vocal cords failed her, when the last of her strength was gone. When Nitram burned her face, only a quiet wheeze and whimpering escaped her lips, all curses and threats long exhausted. Finally, merciful darkness of unconsciousness relieved her from her suffering. Her quiet wheezing edged away into the hissing of acid remorselessly eating through her flesh.

  When she stopped reacting, lying silent and motionless on the hot stone, Nitram lost interest in her. Still, her chest heaved slowly, but with a breath that was getting more and more shallow. Half of her once beautiful face was now burned beyond recognition. It was covered with a map of live, red-black scars - as were her left arm, shoulder and part of her torso. Satisfied, Nitram contemplated his handiwork, for the last time touching her velvety skin where it wasn’t burned, then turned his back to leave.

  “Unlock the chains,” he ordered and slowly walked towards the Citadel. Two soldiers obeyed, taking the chains off Breta’s motionless wrists and ankles, leaving her to die alone, leaving her for the Black Saurians to feed on. Her motionless body was left to be torn apart, chewed upon and its remains scattered, just like all the other carrion lying around desolately, emitting a foul odor.

  ◆◆◆

  Pain gripped her. It was a sharp, paralyzing pain. Sun glowed upon her, blinding even through closed eyelids. For a moment, Breta lay there, consumed by pain, wishing she would die soon, praying to all the gods she had stopped believing in over the past eight years, to let her leave this world quickly. And then a thought seeped through the horrible agony. Breta remembered the child left alone within the black shiny walls with no windows; in a cage full of traps and deception, bound by evil. She opened her eyes. One of them. Her left eyelid was burned shut and swollen. It took forever for her right eye to get at least slightly accustomed to the sharp daylight. Breta focused on the blue sky above her head, and after a long moment, rolled to her side. Though the pain was indescribable, she knew she had no time to waste. There was no time for weakness, she had to get away. Should she die, there was no hope for her boy. She must live to help him. And to live, she had to get away. Everything would be lost, should the Black Saurians get hold of her. The boy would be lost. Unable to sit up, with a dull thud, Breta fell off the monstrous altar. The pain it caused was such, she was suddenly sick to her stomach and vomited.

  Slow moving clouds began to veil the Sun above her head. Breta didn’t even notice them, concentrating on the task ahead of her. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to stand up. Driven by a truculent desire to get out of there, she crawled, her eye fixed on the ground in front of her. She had to get into the mountains. She had to get out of here! The stench surrounding her was almost unbearable. Several times she had touched bone or other rotting remains, crawling between decaying
parts of bodies that used to be alive, that used to be human. It drove her on. She was not going to stay here to rot among them, refusing to be easy prey for those horrid, leathery creatures who dine here so often. Something tinkled under her hand, her gaze dropping to the source of the strange sound. Dully, Breta stared at the object glinting in the disappearing sunrays. Her brain was whispering to her that she had found something important, but for quite a while she was unable to comprehend. She fought the urge to take a rest, to put her head down, close her eye and fall asleep never to awake again. Her fingers closed around a knife handle. A weapon. At last, she realized what it was she was holding. Crawling further between the remains of torn bodies and white bones, she had also found a sword in the debris. Though her aching fingers made it difficult, she managed to strap the sword to her belt.

  Before she managed to crawl off the plateau, the sky had turned dark, but not with coming night, but heavy clouds. A drop fell onto the dry earth at Breta’s fingers, leaving a small, wet crater. Breta didn’t even notice it. Another drop fell. It was beginning to rain. She realized it only when raindrops started to hit her acid burned body. Every single droplet was like a knife once again stabbing pain through her flesh. Breta tried to scream, but only a quiet wheeze escaped her lips. She curled up to protect herself, but the soft rain was gradually turning into a heavy one. It sizzled as it came into contact with her charred skin. After the first shock of pain, falling water brought relief, cooling down inflamed wounds. When she realized it, she rolled onto her back, letting rain wash over her entire body. The relief it brought was slight, but still a relief. Breta began to crawl again.

  Rain. Nitram bared his sharp, pointy teeth in a cold smile. The Black Saurians would never venture into the rain, not even to feast. He doubted Breta was still alive, but the thought that she might be, and that her suffering would be longer still, brought pleasure to him. She was his masterpiece. None before her had lasted so long in the Citadel, nor on the stone slab.

  ◆◆◆

  Verend stared towards the mountains. Night was settling in. Was it just his imagination, or did he really notice movement far off. Could it be possible that someone was watching the village from the cliffs? Wind was picking up, chasing dust through an empty street. Verend pulled his vest closer to his body. A storm was coming. Surely no one of a sound mind would stay outside in such weather. Though he convinced himself it must’ve been his imagination, he looked over his shoulder a few more times. Walking inside, he bolted the door.

  Outside, a storm raged. Water was pouring out of the sky, wind bending trees, trashing everything not properly secured. Someone knocked on the door. Sitting at the kitchen table, Verend stared at the crossbar jumping up and down under the harsh pounding, wondering, who would be crazy enough to be out in such dreadful weather. Standing up quietly, he reached for his crossbow. Cautious, he silently tiptoed to the door so he could try peak outside through a crack in the shutter. However, he could see nothing. After a short moment of hesitation, he pushed the cross bar off and opened the door just a fraction. A thin line of light fell onto a dark figure standing calmly in the raging storm. Wind almost tore the door out of Verend’s hand. It seemed as if the visitor has not even noticed the heavy crossbow aimed at his, or her chest, the arrow almost touching its target. From under the cloak, cold eyes contemplated the butcher.

  “What do you want here?” Verend barked angrily.

  “You should let me in before someone sees you in my company,” answered him a hoarse voice. It had a familiar tone to it.

  “Who are you?” the butcher asked, suspicious. That voice! Where had he heard it before? He was so taken aback, he failed to react when the stranger pushed the crossbow aside and slipped past him inside. Verend slammed the door against the wind, and almost automatically locked it with a latch. Turning sharply, he aimed his crossbow again.

  As if hypnotized, he watched the figure’s bony hands with long, thin fingers rise to the cape, throwing it off. It was a woman with long, wet hair sticking to her forehead and a disfigured cheek full of fresh, angry looking scars. Terrified, he took a step back. Her face twisted in a weird grimace that was intended to be a smile. He stared at her with eyes full of panic and horror, with the crossbow still aimed at her chest.

  “What a pleasant welcome,” she spoke quietly.

  He recognized her at last, rage replacing the shock he felt when seeing her face. “You!” he croaked with his throat suddenly dry. “Why are you here?”

  “I need your help,” Breta replied in a calm, quiet tone of voice. Verend produced a short, evil snort. Slowly, he inched along the wall so as not to have his back to the door. She was scary.

  “How dare you?! My son is dead because of you! I will never help you!” And then she took a step forward. Verend tried to back away, but he had his back to the wall. Drenched to the bone, in ragged clothes and looking dreadful with her face and neck covered in a web of angry, raw, black and red scars, Breta moved towards him. She was gaunt to the bone and, in comparison to him, appeared extremely frail, but he had never seen anyone so frightening. She crossed the distance between them and tore the crossbow out of his hand.

  “How dare you?” she hissed at him.

  “My son!” Verend croaked.

  “All I want is a bit of food, some clothes and information. Then, I will leave.”

  “No,” he protested meekly.

  “You owe me that!” she barked into his face.

  “You killed my son,” Verend tried to stand his ground, but Breta laughed. That laughter was even grimmer than anything else about her.

  “You’ve had plenty of time to convince yourself about that, haven’t you?”

  “You are dead! You should be dead! You’re just an illusion!” he screamed at her. “You killed my son!”

  Breta hit him across the face so hard he tumbled to the ground, despite being almost two heads taller and a lot more muscular than she.

  “I did not kill him. That was you! You sold me. You sold me for your own safety. Nelson died because of you, because of your betrayal.” Her voice was full of pain now. A pain long hidden underneath the surface, pain that suddenly burst into the open accompanied by anger.

  “He would have lived hadn’t it been for you!” Verend shrieked at her into the sounds of a storm raging outside.

  “Had it not been for your betrayal, he would have been alive!” Breta snarled in return.

  “Why did you come back?”

  “You need not worry, I will leave once you have given me what I want. And you will never see me again. Then you can sit here alone, deceiving yourself that I am the reason for all your misfortune.”

  “Get out!”

  Breta moved so fast, he didn’t even have a chance to react. Her bony fingers grabbing his fat neck, she pressed a knife under his chin. He could feel its blade on his Adam’s apple.

  “Either you help me, and maybe you will live, or I’ll kill you and take what I need. Your pick.”

  They sat opposite each other at a table, eating. Breta asked questions, the butcher answered unwillingly. She was now dressed in men’s clothes, a waxed cloak was draped around the back of her chair. Saddlebags packed with clothes and food were ready to grab at the foot of her chair. Suddenly, silence fell. Breta finished her meal and stood up, handing the butcher a parchment and quill.

  “Write down that you are selling me that black legged dun,” she commanded and Verend shook his head stubbornly. Breta stood there, watching him, almost absentmindedly playing with a knife. She stood there for so long, his forehead drizzled with sweat. Unwillingly, Verend took the quill and began to write, what she told him to.

  He finished and furiously tossed the quill aside. Breta patted his shoulder. “See, now, that didn’t even hurt.”

  “Get out!” he spat at her.

  “Won’t you see your daughter-in-law out the door?” Breta asked him sweetly. Actually, he did followed her all the way to the stables. He even saddled the high-spirited sta
llion, willing to do almost anything to be rid of her. Breta fastened the saddlebags to the saddle and turned to face her father-in-law.

  “I will never forget what you’ve done!” said she in a hollow tone of voice and hugged him.

  Swinging into the saddle, she disappeared into the raging storm. Verend stood, leaning against one of the stable beams, watching her leave with eyes full of infinite surprise. Breta was leaving, aware that Nelson’s father could not, under any circumstances, be trusted. She turned her back on him with the knowledge that given a chance, he would betray her again. It was Verend, who had exchanged his own freedom for her suffering and for the life of his own son, for the life of her beloved husband. And for the life of her unborn child.

  Huddled against the wind and rain, she sped away from the village she was born in, away from the only home she’d ever known, remembering the night her father-in-law brought Nitram’s soldiers into their lives.

  A storm, so vicious that no one ventured outside if they could help it, rampaged through the streets of the village. For a couple of days, life had virtually stopped here. Only absolutely necessary tasks were performed outside such as milking cows or fetching water from the well. Thus, the butcher was discovered a couple days later, once the storm had died down. People found him standing against one of the beams in his stables. His face with wide opened eyes bore a very surprised look. A partially opened vest revealed an ugly hilt of an orc sword. Its blade had sunk so deep it literally pinned Verend to the beam behind him. All stalls were empty, all horses gone.

  News of Verend’s death spread like wildfire. Everyone came to see the spectacle. When all had entertained themselves with the unusual scene, the butcher was stuffed into a wooden box and buried at the cemetery edge. To be honest, it could have hardly been called a funeral. No one came to bid him goodbye, nor even to say a few words. Gravediggers simply covered him with earth and marked his grave with a stone, thinking the butcher didn’t deserve neither a tombstone nor sign. They were simply making sure no one would try digging another grave at the same spot.