Ageless Fury

by S L Matthews

  Camille’s heart sank, sensing the loss that consumed her old friend.

  While the other eccentric merchants gathered ‘round, Camille wept for Amoran. The old man strolled farther from the safety of the Cambrian guards and Servan’s patience could take it no longer. “Eh, old friend. They’re dead, you know?” he said, though it was clear no words would distract the pensive man’s course.

  Camille fled the safety of the caravan, darting past the carriages and bounding up the broken cobblestones. “Cami!” shouted the Cambrian Lieutenant. The soldier leapt off his horse and sprinted after her, his hand gripping the hilt of his weapon.

  “Camille, stop!” he cried, desperation in his voice.

  She sprinted after Amoran. Camille climbed off the broken highway, ducking and weaving through a maze of towering highland grass. A breeze rustled through the tops, echoing off the rocky bluffs in a dull, prolonged murmur. The caravan disappeared from sight, replaced by thick yellow stalks and dried, feathery leaves.

  A muffled call came from the highway as Servan’s concerned voice penetrated the blanket of grass. “I say, Amoran. Don’t you think we should be going?”

  There was no response.

  Camille’s footsteps followed Amoran, bursting into a clearing. She found her old travel companion, standing fast, staring skyward at a pair of bodies suspended by brutal, wooden pikes. “Mr. Davilla!” she cried in a tiny, shallow voice. “Are you ok, Mr. Davilla?” Camille ran to him and wrapped her hand around his old, worn fingers. She frantically tugged on his hand, but could not pull his eyes away from the shriveled frames, highlighted in the early morning glow.

  The echo of boots crashed through the grass as the Cambrian Lieutenant arrived at the clearing. “Camille,” he demanded. His voice was stern, but a look of concern draped his face. Camille’s father dropped to a knee and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, you must listen to me,” he pleaded in a soft, genuine tone.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “Mr. Davilla was−“

  “Camille, you don’t understand,” he said, his hand still gripping his sword, his gaze set within the bluffs nearby.

  “My apologies, Anduin,” Amoran said. He remained calm as a dozen more blue-cloaked soldiers crashed through the grass, spilling into the clearing. Amoran continued to stare at the pair of bodies, scraps of cloth still clung to their bindings. He extended a hand toward the guards, implying their attention was not required.

  “This one here,” he began.

  He lifted a wrinkled finger toward the smaller body. “She was a little girl…just like you, Camille. Played hopscotch and skipped through the cobblestone streets…not a care in the world, I imagine.”

  Amoran circled around toward the front, still looking upward. “She always loved the smell of fresh cut flowers.” He took in a long, slow breath as though capturing a wonderful fragrance in the air. “She loved to pick them, and loved to give them to her mother.” Amoran’s finger transitioned to a larger body nearby.

  “Her…mother?” Camille questioned. Amoran’s words reached into her soul. Her hair bristled and she instinctively stepped toward her father.

  “Yes, my child. Every morning she would come to the town market…her little girl close behind.” Amoran stared for several moments before continuing.

  “They all have a story. They all died too soon, and for the wrong reasons.” Tears fell from his cheek, joining the myriad of tea stains.

  Another muffled call echoed from the highway. “Is there a reason we’re stopping to stare at crow-food, Davilla?” Servan’s voice bellowed. “The little one in the blue dress. Did ya know her when she had skin?”

  Camille gasped as her eyes darted back to the smaller body, perched high overhead. A small, blue strip of cloth flapped in the breeze, suspended by the bones of its former owner. She looked down at her own blue dress, then up once more. Horror gripped at her chest. Camille’s face grew long, and her eyes grew wide.

  It’s just like mine.

  Camille tugged at her dress, stumbling backward across loose gravel. She wanted to escape. She turned to flee and slammed against her father.

  “That’s enough for today,” said the Lieutenant, shooting a dark look at Amoran.

  Anduin wrapped his arms around Camille’s waist. “We need to get underway, Mr. Davilla.” His military command returned. He hoisted Camille to his shoulders and carried her back through the stalks of grass, beckoning the other soldiers to follow.

  Camille wanted desperately to remove herself from this clearing, to wipe away the visions of the child’s body—and her mother. Yet as her father reached the highland grass and pressed forward, Camille couldn’t help but turn for a final glance at her old friend.

  Amoran stood motionless, gazing upon the dried husks of a family long gone, the morning light glistening off his tears.

  Camille swallowed her sorrow and wrapped her arms around her father, disappearing through the thick yellow grass. Together, they began the slow trek back to the wagons. They passed the guards and other merchants without a word. As they approached Camille’s wagon, her father gently pulled her from his shoulders, setting her on the old, stone highway.

  He pushed her hair over her ear and smiled, adding a kiss to her forehead.

  “I won’t let that happen to you,” Anduin said, his words offering reassurance.

  Camille stepped onto the shiny, silver rail and stopped. Her head turned to her father, a curious look across her face.

  “Did you ever see it? Before it fell?”

  “Aye,” Anduin said. “It was a sight to see. Every morning, the sun would light up the bluffs, the jewel of the highlands reflecting a rainbow of color.” His eyes drifted back into the broken city. Camille’s eyes widened in amazement. For several moments, she stared beyond the crumbled walls, picturing her father’s words. She imagined jeweled towers scraping the heavens and gilded rooftops glistening in the sun. A subtle hint of perfumes and spices teased her senses, and then they were gone.

  It must have been amazing, she thought, longing to have seen it for herself.

  A familiar voice echoed from around the carriage as Amoran strolled toward the caravan. His cheeks were red and swollen, but his expression had turned stoic.

  “Right then,” Amoran said. “Let’s finish this.”

  Servan grabbed the door handle and attempted to hoist himself up, but the laws of physics would not allow it. He pulled a couple more times before he finally just leaned forward into the carriage and allowed gravity to take care of the rest. Camille’s joyous giggle returned to their wagon, humored at the sight of Servan’s plight.

  The wheels rocked back and forth. Once again, they were underway. Eerie shadows crept across the window as the caravan passed under the bodies, one at a time.

  The carriage grew silent.

  When the caravan finally reached the hulking city walls, the cabin grew dark. Amoran, Servan, and Camille sat in darkness as they navigated the broken city gates. By the time light struck the carriage again, their expressions had forever changed. Camille looked outside her window in silence as abandoned, crumbled structures lined the road.

  Camille’s nervous eyes shot back to Amoran, who broke the silence, saying simply, “We’re here.”

  | Chapter V

  Intimidation

  Ava passed the merchant in the large, silken robes without a word or a glance. There was no hint of personality or free will, as though some force willed her body forward. Her eyes remained fixed and unfocused while she rounded the corner, through a pair of ornate double doors, into her prison.

  The grand chamber smelled of sex, cigars, and money, the things Ava learned to hate most in her sixteen years, along with the men who wielded them. A wide, crystal chandelier swung from the ceiling, looming over a thick, round rug in the center of the room, a large “V” stitched into its fabric. Ava despised Viktor’s mark, for it prominently marred everything he owned…including her.

  A large, posted bed ad
orned the far wall, its sheets crumpled in a heap, its blankets tossed aside. Nightstands flanked the colossal frame, adorned with gaudy trinkets of silver and glass, meant to both impress and revolt. Positioned at the foot of the bed was a large, leather chair, its original brown cracked and crumbled, worn thin over years of use. It was oversized in every way, from the wide, bulging base to the puffed, cushioned arms.

  Ava’s eyes didn’t move as she traversed Viktor’s room. She knew where everything was like the back of her hand. She knew of the warped floorboard and the rotted planks hidden under the rug. She knew of the cracked table leg and the broken tabletop. She knew because it was her head that had gone through it, and her body that lay crippled beneath it.

  She glided toward an arched window along the northern end of Viktor’s chamber and peered through the tall opening, across the Outer Quarter. As far as her eyes could see stood a blend of Highland wilderness and man’s indifference; discarded buildings in various states of disrepair.

  Her eyes fell upon an old, abandoned castle. Its walls had fallen to ruin and its banners had long faded from glory. Vines grew along the parapets and enveloped the courtyard. Ava glared at a dilapidated stone tower, leaning heavily under the weight of abandonment. She clenched her teeth as she took in a long, steady breath. With a final glance toward the tower, she snapped the curtains shut, engulfing herself in shadow.

  She stepped away from the window and around an enormous, oak table, to another, smaller window facing the sea. Her gestures were methodical and emotionless. She never took a sideways glance, never reacted to their words, yet she was fully aware of every word and every thought of the men standing in the doorway, watching her every movement.

  “Don’t make ‘em like that where you come from, eh Thibold?” echoed a coarse, devious voice. Ava gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, the extent of the emotions she ever allowed Viktor to witness.

  “Err…no, actually,” Thibold said. “I would certainly say they don’t.”

  Ava stepped into the light of the morning sun. She studied the familiar sight of the market, the ships docked in the pier, and her favorite place, the old windowsill that overlooked it all. She lifted her leg and slid onto her windowsill, sighing as families filed out of the inn and boarded the Promenade. She imagined their excitement as their hopes bloomed into reality, and longed for the troubles of Wyvern’s Rest to fall away. She yearned to shed a decade of waste and ruin, then watched as each family fulfilled her dream…

  To simply leave.

  A small tear threatened in the corner of her eye, but she forced it down. It was no different from the one she suppressed yesterday, or every day before that. Ava had learned to contain her emotions, the brittle seal of a fragile vase; yet her feelings of resentment grew stronger as the recognition increased, of people she knew, of friends she would lose

  “Isn’t that right, bitch?” came a gruff voice from the center of the room. Ava jumped at the words, but continued to gaze out the window. Her fingernails dug into the rotted wood, adding to the menagerie of grooves buried under her windowsill. Her face flushed and heat radiated with each gristly word.

  “Did you hear me, wench?” he bellowed again. Ava knew of Viktor’s lack of patience. She also knew of his lack of empathy, composure, and common decency. An overdressed, slobbering man with too much hair on his face and too little soul in his black, beady eyes. With a permanent stench about his body, Viktor Wray was the epitome of everything Ava condemned about Wyvern’s Rest, and men in general. The sight of him made her skin crawl, and his scent became the terror from which her nightmares were born.

  With reluctance, Ava let down her feet and stood before the window. She knew the expectation. She clasped her hands and shrugged her shoulders, perceived innocence skillfully etched across her feigned expression.

  “Yes,” she stated in a calm, ethereal voice. She had no idea what she was agreeing to, though history had proven this was always the safest word, when in doubt.

  She yearned to expand upon her simple statement. Yes, you worthless piece of shit. But she knew what happened when she spoke out of line…or out of turn…or just, spoke. She knew that her owner rarely needed a reason to raise a hand to her face, yet it happened frequently.

  “Yes…what,” Viktor said in a mocking tone, laughing in the direction of his new business partner. The last word dripped from his tongue and Ava sensed the venom that dripped with it. The man wriggled into his oversized chair, waving his hands to Thibold, urging him to remove his robes and take a seat on the bed.

  “This is my favorite part,” he whispered to Thibold, though Ava heard. She always heard.

  Ava stood before the window while Viktor conspired against her. He laughed and made rude gestures, playing to the newest audience of his well-rehearsed show. She studied his every movement. His hands extended a little farther, his voice lifted a little higher, and he sat slightly closer to the edge of his seat.

  He must really want something. It’s been months since he was this animated. Her thoughts grew darker while she maintained her emotionless exterior. Whatever it is, I’ll make sure he doesn’t get it.

  She glanced out of the second story window, at the cobblestone and broken bricks below. Ava recalled her previous failures. A broken arm, a shattered leg, nothing to end her torture permanently. She remembered the relief of falling into a dark abyss: no sights, no sounds, just an empty, blissful void. Her eyes sharpened; for from this void came familiar voices and large men to carry her body back inside the inn.

  Ava held up her wrists. She studied the pattern of thin red lines, a delicate weave of defeat, fruitless attempts to end a worthless life. She then traced the old, chipped holes, remnants from years gone by, when Viktor would nail the windows shut.

  Now, it’s become a game. He dares her to jump. Or, if the mood suits him, he just gives her a good push. The sound of his laughter never failed to usher her into a listless nightmare.

  “Yes…my king,” she said, her tone cold and indifferent.

  The words were a wretched poison. Viktor Wray was no more a king than the lepers outside the city; however, in this inn−in this city−in this god-forsaken world, she was forced to obey. She refused to face him, but she did not have to. She was young, but she knew what it meant when men stared at her, or when they suddenly fell silent. She understood their thoughts, just as she understood Viktor’s.

  Ava’s memories drifted to the years spent locked in this room, where she had lost so much. Her desire to care and the will to dream had all but vanished, lost to the most reprehensible being she knew, and the “customers” he brought her every night. She lost herself to the perversion that would sit and watch from his over-sized chair.

  Ava turned her attention back to her window and the joyous line of passengers. Her eyes scanned the crowd of faces and the people that would leave her behind. They came across a tall young man with long hair, pulled tight behind his head. While the rest of the crowd looked forward, he looked back, his eyes locked on the old inn, and the prominent second story window.

  She reached forward, placing a slender hand against the window frame. “Oh, Taryn,” she whispered. Her heart melted. The one man she thought would never leave stared back through her window. His apologetic eyes remained fixed, even while the crowd pressed forward. As he was pushed up the pier, he mouthed a simple statement that only Ava could see…I’m sorry.

  “What would you like Miss Ava to do for you, Mr. Aerent?” Viktor said in the same condescending tone. Ava closed her eyes in shame, wishing upon a star she could not see, hoping for a miracle that would not come. She held her breath, then looked back toward the bed. She focused her eyes and let the morning sun reveal what the candle light could not.

  Thibold was a short, big-nosed, hairy man. His chest and back were hairy, his ears and nose were hairy, his arms and knuckles were hairy, yet his head was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, save for a few random threads that mercilessly stretched from one side to the other. She
succumbed to a brief gag reflex, imagining moments shared with the businessman from Crossroads.

  As he studied Ava’s frame, however, she did not see the same vulgar expression she had come to expect. Concern crept into his eyes, as though he looked upon her for the first time. His curious gaze darted to Viktor. Ava watched as Thibold’s face contorted to one of…fear?

  “I’m sorry. Did you say−Ava?” he said, drawing his gaze away from the window. He quickly reached for his robes, tugging at the deep, hidden pockets. Concern turned to panic as he inverted his pockets, yielding nothing more than lint and crumpled old notes.

  “Why yes, Thibold,” Viktor injected, broadening his chest and lifting his chin. “Only the best for our most esteemed guests.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry miss. Err, my lady,” Thibold quivered, but he was not able to continue. He grabbed his chest and coughed as his belly convulsed.

  Thibold tightened his collar, wiped the saliva from his mouth, and resumed his previous statement. “Uh…Mr. Wray. I wonder, my friend. She’s why…I mean, I’m here to warn you...” He stuffed the random notes back into his pockets, though Ava saw him watch her from the corner of his eye.

  Ava cocked her head and sharpened her gaze. The warning?

  Viktor gave an overt bow and clapped his hands, followed by a crude motion toward Ava. “Nonsense. You heard him, whore...Begin!” Ava’s stomach turned as she fought to keep her composure. She took a long, steady breath, turned to Thibold, and offered a shy, courteous smile. She then turned to Viktor and produced another, similar smile.

  Only a trained observer would notice the difference between the two; for the smile she offered the stranger was one of disgust, pity, and indifference. The one she gave her master was one of contempt, loathing, and the kindled hope of watching him die. Fortunately for Ava, neither of them was well-versed in anything subtle, let alone the nuances of a skilled actress.