Stolen Crown

by Shawn Wickersheim

  She snickered at the irony.

  As the wagon lurched past, Cecily got a closer look at Ian’s face and blanched despite herself. It was an unrecognizable swollen mask of grotesque bruises and deep gashes. Blood oozed from open wounds and splattered the front of his shredded shirt. A crude sign dangled from his neck. “Ian Weatherall, King Slayer.”

  “It would appear he’s been giving the guards some trouble in the dungeon,” Devin said.

  A stone soared overhead and clanked against one of the bars. A volley followed shortly after. Most missed or struck steel, but a few made it through and peppered the prisoners. When one glanced off Ian’s bowed head, he flinched, but no sound escaped his lips. A bawdy cheer rose from the crowd.

  The mass of people surged against the cordoned line, spitting, cursing, and flinging insults. Others hurled rotting apples or pitted olives, left over from the previous year’s harvest. Each time Ian was struck, another cheer would rise from the sanguineous crowd.

  Cecily wished she had brought something to throw. She glanced down at her hands and spied her wedding ring still choking her left middle finger. How could she have forgotten to take that damn thing off? Tugging the emerald-adorned band free, she flung it angrily toward the prison wagon. The heavy ring arched gracefully through the bright sky, thudded against Ian’s chest and dropped to his feet. He didn’t seem to notice. The corners of her mouth pulled down. She had hoped to hurt him with it at least one more time.

  The wagon slowed as it reached the platform and a handful of guards moved into position behind it. The wagon driver applied the brake, dropped down from his bench and hurried to the rear of the cage. Unlocking the enormous padlock, he grabbed the door and wrenched it open.

  A couple of the prisoners tried to make their escape, but the guards easily beat them back. Others cowered at the far end.

  “Bring out the King Slayer!”

  “Bring out the King Slayer!” another voice cried. And then another, and another.

  The chant rose from the throats of hundreds. Thousands. “Bring out the King Slayer!”

  The guards shoved the other prisoners aside and gathered around Ian. One unlocked the chains connecting him to the metal ring on the floor, while another dragged him to the door and unceremoniously tossed him out the back like a sack of potatoes. He landed hard at the base of the platform stairs. The crowd nearest him heaved forward, straining to reach him, screaming violently. The line of wardens held.

  A third guard reached down as if to help Ian up, but instead, he grabbed a handful of his black hair and dragged him violently up the stairs until the chunk of hair tore loose. Ian fell. The crowd cheered. Their wild cries grew even louder when the grinning guard tossed the strands of hair to the wind. Ian lay on the stairs, obviously in pain, but he grabbed at his mouth, not his head. A fourth guard kicked his hands away and yanked him up onto the platform by the back of his bloody shirt.

  Entranced and eager for the torture to begin, Cecily leaned forward, suddenly feeling warm and clammy. A bead of sweat trickled down between her heaving breasts, and that wasn’t the only place she was feeling damp. Gods! How wonderful would it be to have Devin inside her while Ian was being punished? Her mind lingered over that fantasy as a lazy smile spread across her heated face. She fanned herself again and took another deep breath. Devin slid closer. His arm went around her shoulders. His hand closed around her wrist. He leaned in and looked out the same window she was. His breath was warm against her ear. Her heart pounded. She had some business to attend to once this matter was done, but that was a fleeting thought compared to the growing realization that she could possibly make her fantasy real. All the other curtains were drawn. The people immediately outside the one open window had their backs to them. Their attention was solely on the stage . . .

  She slid her free hand down and grabbed the hem of her dress. By the time she had hiked it up to her knee, exposing her bare calf, Devin was helping her. She shifted her weight and knelt in front of him, freeing the other side of her dress, and then leaning forward, she rested her forearms on the open window and smiled when Devin gathered the fabric in his hands and pushed it slowly up her thighs and past her bare bottom. On stage, Stephano Di Rygazzo flung open his case, and after a moment’s consideration, he removed a short, curved blade. Ian writhed on his belly while a guard stood on his neck. Behind her, Devin opened his trousers. Di Rygazzo raised the weapon above his head and allowed the sunlight to play along the sharp edge. The crowd stilled. Cecily arched her back.

  “Bring the prisoner to me,” the deep, cultured voice boomed to all corners of the square.

  “Bring that cock to me . . .” she whispered.

  Two guards wrenched Ian to his feet and half-carried, half dragged him to the center of the platform. His thick chains trailed behind him. Behind her, Devin moved into place.

  “Chain him, there and there,” Di Rygazzo spoke, gesturing to hooks driven into the tops of the twin posts.

  “Put it in . . .” She wiggled her hips just a bit. “Right there . . .”

  The guards did as they were instructed, and when they were done, Ian sagged between the pilings, his toes barely touching the platform and the bulk of his weight was held up by the manacles biting into his wrists. Devin did as he was told too. He nudged between her gaping lips and inched inside.

  “This traitor hid behind his wealth and power!” Di Rygazzo spun around and held the curved blade close to Ian’s throat. “But he cannot hide from us any longer!”

  With a deft downward swipe, the blade sliced open Ian’s bloody tunic, leaving only a faint red line down the center of his already bruised chest. With a deft thrust, Devin pushed all the way inside her and Cecily gasped and clutched the windowsill. A couple of slashes and Ian’s tunic fell away, and a moment later, his trousers followed. He hung naked from the ends of his chains. A couple of hard thrusts and Cecily’s bouncing breasts burst free from her dress and swung loose beneath her. While the guards tossed the bloody scraps of cloth out to the greedy crowd, Cecily admired the bright array of bruises that covered his body and the pleasant feeling that was rapidly spreading through hers.

  “We have exposed the traitor to the world!” Di Rygazzo cried. He walked around Ian, dragging the flat of the blade against his body, occasionally nicking and gouging his chest and torso and genitalia. Each time he bled, Devin spanked her bottom. After four or five passes, Ian was bleeding freely from dozens of cuts and her round cheeks were stinging from Devin’s firm slaps. Ian’s chin drooped onto his chest. Sweat dripped from hers.

  Di Rygazzo stepped to the edge of the platform and pointed back at Ian. “Have you heard him ask for absolution, yet?”

  “No!” the crowd shouted. A few rotten apples bounced onto the platform. Cecily bit her lower lip.

  “Shall I make him scream?”

  “Yes!”

  “OH YES!” she echoed.

  Di Rygazzo went to his case and exchanged the curved blade for a wicked-looking scourge. Each of the eight leather tails had metal barbs attached along its length. Wielding the weapon gracefully in his right hand, he reached into a leather pouch and pull out a handful of salt.

  “Are you ready to hear him scream?”

  “Yes!”

  “OH YES!”

  The first blow raked down Ian’s back. His head jerked up. His eyes bulged. Not a single cry escaped his lips. He didn’t even open his mouth! Devin’s fingernails dragged across her tender bottom. Cecily winced. Devin was playing rough with her again.

  Di Rygazzo flung the salt. Ian jerked and danced as if he were standing on hot coals. Tears flooded his eyes. He thrashed against the manacles. The ragged metal tore into his bloody wrists.

  The torturer swung the scourge again and again. Still Ian refused to scream. Cecily couldn’t believe his stubbornness. Even from this distance, she could see his bloody chunks of flesh dripping from the hooked barbs. Just scream, she wanted to cry out to him. Gods knew she felt a good scream building up insi
de her.

  Di Rygazzo struck once more, and Ian’s eyes rolled up and he fainted. The crowd’s savage cheers turned to groans. Behind her, Devin grunted. His pace slowed. Was he done so soon? That was so unlike him. She wiggled her hips and ground back against him. He didn’t feel spent.

  The robed torturer stepped forward with a warm, comforting smile and raised his hands toward the sky.

  “Fear not, good citizens, the King Slayer will not so easily escape his punishment. Let me ask you, did he admit to his crimes?”

  “No!” the crowd answered.

  “Did he ask for absolution?”

  “NO!”

  “Then I am not finished with him yet!”

  The crowd cheered. Devin’s pace quickened again. His large hands gripped her buttocks and squeezed. Hard. Almost painfully hard. Cecily gritted her teeth. He was letting the animal out again!

  Di Rygazzo turned to face Ian. He bowed his head. A deep, eerie chant erupted from the platform. Goosebumps rose along Cecily’s arms. Devin’s frantic pace was forcing his hands apart, spreading her cheeks and shaking the entire carriage. Flesh slapped against flesh. Harder and harder. With a wild flourish, Di Rygazzo placed his hands on Ian’s sagging shoulders and . . .

  A low thumping sound, like a heavy weight being dropped from a great height, rippled out from Ian. One of Devin’s thumbs pushed against her anus.

  Ian’s eyes popped open.

  Cecily’s eyes popped open.

  The crowd roared.

  Devin roared as he invaded both her openings simultaneously.

  Di Rygazzo spun around and acknowledged the crowd with a graceful bow.

  Cecily winced and held her breath.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Devin panted.

  Cecily didn’t know what to say. The combination of opposing sensations overwhelmed her ability to speak. “Uh . . . uh . . .” She tried to squirm free from the pain, but Devin’s thumb remained lodged inside her.

  “He will keep Ian alive until the bitter end!” Devin’s thumb pushed in deeper and Cecily grimaced. “He’ll make sure he feels . . . EVERYTHING!”

  “Devin . . .” She gasped, deciding this was not what she wanted. “No . . .!” She reached back to push him away. He grabbed her wrist and stopped her. She writhed and twisted and tried to pull herself free, but a pair of rough hands grabbed her hips and drew her back. And somehow the probing thumb remained inside her. Four hands? Had Amarias joined them without her hearing? She tried to look over her shoulder, but the hand holding her wrist caught her chin and forced her to face forward again.

  “Look at that!” Devin whispered in her ear. “I’ve heard he does this!”

  On stage Di Rygazzo had put down his bloody scourge and was wielding a gruesome-looking knife. He twirled the blade casually in his hand as he walked around the stage. Behind her, somehow, the assault on both of her orifices continued, but his thumb no longer felt like a thumb. It felt like . . . a second cock?

  “Devin . . .?”

  Cecily jerked her chin free and glanced over her shoulder. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to see, but it wasn’t what she saw. There was only one man behind her and he looked like a rough carved stone figure with only vague definition. And multiple arms. And two thrusting cocks. And he glowed a faint shade of gold. The only thing that truly looked like the Devin Ragget she knew was his violet eyes. His perfect violet eyes set firmly now in a rugged flat face with a gash where his mouth used to be. A thick ridge of bone above his eyes crunched together in an unmistakable look of anger.

  “Don’t look at me!” Devin growled. “Watch the entertainment I provided for you.”

  Cecily wanted to scream. She sucked in air. She opened her mouth.

  Devin waggled a finger in front of her face. “It’s not a good idea to disobey me, Princess.” The finger grew longer and wider until it looked like a mighty club. “Especially when other parts of me are still buried inside you.”

  Cecily chewed on her bottom lip. “What are . . .?” No, she wasn’t sure if she could handle the truth about that just now. “Why . . .?”

  “Why am I fucking your ass?”

  She winced and nodded.

  “Haven’t you heard? The king declared you the virgin princess. I wanted to see if any of that was true.”

  “You took my virginity long ago, remember?” she gasped. “Before . . .”

  “Before you let that beast have you,” he growled.

  “I barely let Ian touch me . . .”

  “No. Not THAT beast!” Devin cut her off. Both his cocks swelled. “Amarias. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

  Cecily gasped for air.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  Another pair of hands formed and reached around and pawed at her swaying breasts.

  “Did you think I would easily forgive your betrayal?”

  Hard fingers tweaked her nipples.

  “Was the rush worth the pain?”

  With each harsh question, he seemed to push more of himself inside her and she didn’t think she could take much more of his punishment. Devin pointed toward the window with his club finger. “Keep your eyes on the stage, Princess! I don’t want you to miss another moment of Ian’s pain, because when his is done, yours will be done!”

  On stage, Di Rygazzo stalked behind Ian and grabbed a handful of hair. Behind her, Devin did the same.

  “Let us expose even more of this traitor!” the torturer cried.

  “Yes . . . let’s . . .” Devin grumbled.

  Di Rygazzo placed the edge of the blade against Ian’s forehead. Devin split her dress open all the way down the back and cast it aside.

  “What’s he going to do?” Cecily blubbered.

  “Just watch, Princess!” Devin laughed. “Just watch!”

  chapter 23

  “I’m sorry, Jo . . .” Edgar whispered. “Bolodenko and his men got me and . . . and then some man with a dark beard was muttering strange words over me and . . . and . . . then all I remember is pain . . . lots and lots of pain . . . and . . . words. He was making me . . . he was making me . . . Oh, Jo! I think I killed the king.”

  “You didn’t kill the king,” she said.

  “Are you sure? I remember . . .” Edgar’s lips quivered. “I remember holding a dagger . . .”

  “The night the king died was the same night I found you in the back of the collection wagon,” Josephine said. “You were nowhere near the king.”

  Edgar stared up at her. “You mean I didn’t kill him? Then why do I . . .?”

  “Where’s Ian?” Kylpin demanded. “Where’s Lord Ian Weatherall?”

  Edgar’s gaze drifted over to the sea captain. “I don’t know. I ain’t seen him.”

  Kylpin stalked out of the room. Josephine grabbed Edgar’s hand. “You stay here and rest. I’ll be back.”

  Edgar squeezed her fingers. “Tell me the truth, Jo. No fooling around. You’re saying I ain’t killed the king?”

  “No.”

  “But . . .” Edgar shook his head. “The bearded man . . . he was . . . he said I had to confess.”

  “Edgar, relax. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. Just stay here.”

  “Why don’tcha stay here with me, Jo. Please?”

  “I can’t right now. I have to find Lord Ian.”

  “You don’t owe that lord nothing.”

  “I . . .” Josephine hesitated. A speech she gave near the end of last year’s show, The Lady of Shadows, seemed oddly appropriate now. In the scene, her character, the young Fallerian Sentinel has a choice. She can run away from the tyrannical and oppressive evil she’s been fighting all along or she can fight back against the totalitarian regime. Her companions beg her to flee, to save herself.

  “At what cost?” The Lady of Shadows asks.

  “Stay and you will die,” they answer.

  “Only if I flee do I die,” she replies. “If I stay, I live as I will. As a free woman. Free to choose how I die. Free to oppose a
regime willing to abuse others. To prey on their fears. To exploit their weaknesses. If I do not stand up to this evil, then I might as well condone it and that is something I will not do. I may not be able to stop this wickedness, this malevolence, but I will not run from it either. I will not surrender myself to it. I will stand firm until the end, mine or theirs, because that is what we should do. That is what I will do. Now and always.”

  “Jo?” Edgar intruded on her thoughts.

  Josephine bent and kissed Edgar on the lips. “Please understand this is something I must do.”

  She walked to the door.

  “Jo?”

  She froze. Her hand was on the knob. She hoped he wouldn’t try to change her mind.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just wanted to tell you thanks.”

  “For what? Having a beautiful bum?”

  “For rescuing me and saving my life.”

  “Oh.” She glanced back at him and gave him a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  She opened the door.

  “And Jo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your eyes look real pretty when you smile.”

  chapter 24

  From the rooftop of the tallest building on the south side of the city, a busy fest hall just a few blocks south of Little Ryerton, Gylfalen slouched against the chimney and waited. From this vantage point, he could watch not only the rioters comprising of Ragget Loyalist and royal wardens push deeper into the Gyunwarian district, but he could also keep an eye on the Annachie River. Lord Ragget wanted to know when the dead Gyunwarian sewer scum began washing out to sea.

  Throughout the night, the fighting down below had been fierce, but as the sun rose, the opposition within the Little Ryerton district had waned. The rioting force was now steadily moving toward the center of the district and setting fires behind them as went. He would have preferred using twisters to destroy the neat little buildings, but Lord Ragget had overruled his desires. “I want this cancer burnt out of the city!” he had declared. “I want it reduced to ash!”