by K R Leikvoll
I could have shot him through the bars and attempted to break my way out, but I was much too parched and beaten. I spat blood onto the disgusting floor and glared at the old bastard with all my might.
“I am the Warden of Duskwraith. If you wish to see the light of Asinea, you will release me at once,” I demanded through the ringing bouncing around my skull. I took the thin piece of parchment from my bosom that acted as my documentation and shoved it through the bars. “See for yourself. The Master will burn this city to ash if you harm me.”
The man fumbled with my parchment and held it far from his face. After some time studying it with skeptical eyes, he cleared his throat and held out his hand for more.
“Duskwraith has never had a Warden; not since Lord James himself many, many eras ago. If you expect constable Hejall to believe this, you better cooperate,” he said bluntly in a raspy voice, likely damaged from smoking too much miyla.
Every fiber of my being wanted to resist handing over my precious bow and only blade, but I did as he commanded. I thrust Misery and my Luxian sword into his hands with a scowl. He inspected the clear bow with a raised eyebrow and limped off down the hallway. I banged on the bars and yelled for him to release me instead of leaving me in the cellar, but my cries went unheard.
After many hours of pacing, and many more sitting with my head against the wall, the constable finally graced me with his gloomy presence. He was like most of the Duskwraith natives, a Dryad mutt combined with other races indiscernible. His clothes were pristine and likely came from the wealthier city of Runera to the south. Time in a place just as destitute as the Everglade gave him streaks of gray in his swampy green hair. His horns had been filed to two small points that stuck out the sides of his skull, likely in an attempt to appear more polished.
As one can expect, I was far from happy when his accompanying guards threw open my cage and grabbed me roughly. If the elderly man had done his duty and shown the parchment that beared my Master’s sigil, how could they dare to act with such aggression? I yelled and cursed at them to release me, much like I had been doing the entire time, but it did not impede them from taking me into a dank, gross room at the end of the hallway.
On one side of the small, dimly lit room was a wooden torture chair covered in many different shades of dried blood. In truth, I was not fearful of the idea of physical agony. I was filled with only skepticism. With plenty of struggle, the guards managed to get my writhing body in the chair. Heavy, metallic clamps were placed on my ankles and wrists to prevent me from moving.
I rocked against the chair and did all I could to loosen the bolts while the guards exited and the constable lit a torch. When he finally looked at me with weary eyes, I spat in his direction.
“Have you ever tasted a blade? Because it will be your last meal, Dryad-mongrel,” I yelled furiously. I was not trying to instill fear with my words – I was merely speaking the truth I knew inside. He would pay for his transgressions against me, Warden or not.
“Your parchment is a bit blood stained. You may have fooled the guards with this stolen document, but you cannot fool me,” Hejall said, moving in my direction. I did not flinch from his presence. Instead, I glared up at him, unable to smother the pervasive memories of the trauma I had endured in the Everglade.
“I am the Warden of Duskwraith as I say. If you harm me, you will dig your own grave. I will see to it,” I hissed threateningly. He did not like my response.
“Clever alibi, but all know that there has not been a Warden in nearly two thousand years. You must believe me daft if you think I would trust something such as that,” Hejall replied, tightening the right cuff. It dug into my skin and pushed with such intense pressure, it felt as though my wrist might snap. I let out a whimper of distress, but otherwise remained as silent as I could with hatred still in my eyes. I had been through far worse.
“Now, tell me the truth. What Evyan mission have your whore leaders put you up to?” he asked, moving to my left wrist. I was speechless; wrathful beyond words.
“You defy Master Vince himself!” I yelled in disbelief. “If I am who I say I am, your fate will be far worse than if I am proven to be a liar!”
The left clamp was tightened as much as the right – if not more. I let out a few deep breaths of agony. My arms would be unusable when I finally made it out of there, and without a taste of my Master’s blood, it was not likely to heal until I returned. Hejall laughed and crouched near my ankle, peering at me through his green and gray hair.
“A clever ploy to use my Lord’s name in vain as if it would convince me. Lord Vince would not trifle in such matters. Especially not with a puny, Evyan spy like yourself,” he replied. “Are you going to tell me the truth, or shall I break your foot?”
As he was about to do as he said and continue his torture, the dinky wooden door opened on the other end of the room. A man in polished, dragon scale armor clinked in with authority. His tabard was marked with the draconic sigil of Duskwraith, though he was clearly Femoran. A highborn Femoran at that. He was on the older side with steely silver hair and bright orange, Femoran eyes. His beard was neatly trimmed and his ashy skin was cleaned thoroughly, unlike most of the men I had encountered.
“Ah, Commander Typhlon. Forgive me for not attending your arrival; I’ve been dealing with the local rabble,” Hejall said, standing and moving to salute the Duskwraith Commander. Instead of returning his salute, the older man merely glanced over Hejall’s shoulder.
“This must be Lazarus. I’ve been searching for her nearly all evening,” the no-nonsense Commander Typhlon replied. At his words, Hejall’s eyes widened in their sockets and he grew rigid. I would have loved to smile at his internal agony at his clear mishap, but I was far too infuriated.
“I-I had no idea she was of importance, Commander. Her passport was nearly wrecked and she’s Evyan! How could I know our Lord would promote such filth to the status of the legendary Warden?” he stammered, trying to plead his case. Typhlon threw his hand up to silence the constable and pointed to the clamps that were cracking my bones.
“Release her at once,” he snapped sharply. Hejall tripped over his own clothing to let me out. First my ankles were released, and thankfully not maimed. My wrists were a different tale. I would not be able to hold a bow, nor swing a sword with how crushed they were. Both were swollen nearly twice their normal size, with heavy black bruises beginning to form under my tanned skin.
I stood calmly in the presence of the Commander and bowed my head only slightly to him. I was far past the point of wanting to collapse after a hot meal. Before I could cross the room, Typhlon sent his fist soaring at Hejall. The force was enough to crack the man’s jaw and knock him to the floor, despite how old he may have appeared.
“I would have liked to meet you under better circumstances, Warden,” Typhlon said, holding out his arm to me as an escort. “Do not fret for now about the constable. He will be dealt with in whatever manner you see fit after you have rested. The journey from our Lord’s palace is unforgiving after all.”
Commander Typhlon led me up multiple levels of the outpost I was being held in until we reached a cozy, private dining room. Many of the higher-ranking officials in Spinewood called the building their home, while the passing officers of my Master’s forces usually lodged at the inn. It was more expensive than the locals had coin for, so they went largely undisturbed.
Typhlon had given me permission to retreat to the constable’s quarters after all I had been subjected to when I grew drowsy. Before I could eagerly depart to sleep in a bed, he paid the cook to prepare us dinner, as he had not eaten since his long ride from Eidune. The servants brought up more food than I could ever devour myself: assorted meats, cheeses, fruits and as much wine as I cared to consume. It was one of the best meals I had ever had. The meat was salty and tender, dripping in its own broth. The cheese was clearly Evyan procured and traded, as it was sharp with a nutty flavor and a hint of rare emberila wood from Femora. Only the Evyans had per
fected a method of making cheeses using the volcanic wood of our northern neighbors. Even the fruit was from the far off, alien land of Kaza’mae and ripe despite the fact that it must have taken well over a month to reach Spinewood. The sweet and juicy orbs had grown so large, it hardly fit in my grasp. They were incredibly rare, unbeknownst to me at the time, with a rather intoxicating aftereffect.
I had never been treated to such delicacies before, but that was what the preferential treatment of Vince bought me. I was becoming increasingly aware that being the Warden meant far more than I understood. Not only was it staggeringly high on the chain of command in Duskwraith, but James had done quite well in his thousand years as the previous Warden to make it a title to be feared and honored. It was the Warden’s job to insure the security of the country, as it was to enforce the laws upon the local constables that oversaw the few cities. Beyond that, I had been able to draw the conclusion that I would be fighting for the rest of my life, but as long as I held Vincent’s sway, and his affections, I would happily bleed forever.
“I made my way from Eidune to relay Lord James’ message, as he thought you may run into trouble. He will meet you in the Ruins of Lyra. You must leave at daybreak to insure you will not miss him as he passes through. There was a minor scuffle on the border between the Zaarian Empire and Eidune that he needed to attend to,” Typhlon told me as we devoured our meal.
I was very quiet. Instead of maintaining a stable conversation, I was stuck in a state of blankness. Torture has always managed to dull my mind, though I will never understand why. The pain that wracked my body was not what caused it… rather something inside me. I knew I deserved a life free of suffering, and it was doubtful I would ever have that.
“Are Zaarian relations really that bad?” I asked. Typhlon gnawed at an avian bone for several minutes before tossing it onto a silver platter, stacked to capacity with various meat remains and fruit pits. He drank his entire goblet of wine before he felt content to answer me, though I did not mind.
“Our Lord has declared the time has finally come for our treaty to end with our neighbors. Their power-hungry domination of the Femoran and Evyan borders in recent years has dictated that they will not sit idle if we attempted a takeover of Evya. They must be dealt with before all others,” Typhlon explained to me, entirely unknowing of my ignorance.
The idea of my Master conquering Evya was something that stirred horrid emotions in my being. No matter how far my soul had been pulled from the light in the Everglade, I always yearned for my homeland. The idea that my endless, green forests could be turned into the desecrated state of Duskwraith instantly caused thoughts of treason. Of course, these opinions were buried far beyond my own reach. I would never betray Master Vince. Even if it meant that I would have to kill the nationalism I still felt.
I was done eating long before Typhlon finished. Despite his older, but fit body, he was obviously a hardened warrior with an insatiable appetite. We spoke of a few things more: how we would go about punishing those that had harmed me and the fastest route to Lyra. I decided on the sentence of execution for both the constable and the guard that had participated in my torment.
Before I became the prophet, I liked to believe I was civil. I justified my violent behavior without realizing the foreshadowing nor correlation of what I held in my soul. As a priestess of the light, I would have preached forgiveness. As the Warden, I had to send a message. The citizens of Spinewood and Duskwraith alike may have been ill informed of my promotion, but after I provided public, capital punishment, they would never forget me.
After I finally managed to escape the Commander’s company, I was shown to the constable’s quarters by a maid. His room was luxurious by Duskwraith’s standards, though nothing in comparison to my own bedroom – or Vince’s for that matter. The bed was tidy; the gray, wooden floor had been polished, though it was old enough to need replacement. I would have liked to have fallen asleep immediately with how tired I was, but the room was occupied by another individual.
It was a Zaarian woman, an obvious courtesan, with long black hair, curled horns and dressed in a hard-earned, lace crimson gown. Her soft yellow eyes were startled to see someone other than the constable entering the room. I looked back at her steadily, debating on what I would do with her presence. At first, I wanted nothing but privacy, but nearly a week without the touch of my Master had made me lonesome and homesick.
“Forgive me, is this not Hejall’s room?” she asked in a quiet voice, being cautious of her nativity to my stature.
“It is, but he has been indisposed. This is my room now,” I told her evenly, my voice giving away my slight irritation at the mention of Hejall. The woman must have seen the graveness of my expression because she gathered her belongings at once and turned to leave. Much to her confusion, I blocked the exit. “Have you already been paid?” I inquired, studying her face for any hint of dishonesty. She nodded rapidly, still unsure of her own safety. I do not blame her uneasiness; I was beaten and in a foul mood.
I turned to lock the door before pulling off my belongings and worn cloak. She was only puzzled for a moment before she realized I was not going to give her an early night and a chance to retreat to whatever run-down residence she resided in. I found no issue with making the constable foot the bill for my own enjoyment after his unforgivable behavior. He was a walking dead man after all.
“Stay,” I said imperatively, commanding someone with my authority for what felt like the first time. She did as she was told, understanding the situation with more ease than I would have predicted. Her hands worked on my corset and hooded cowl to free me from their grasp. Truthfully, I suspect that despite being trapped with me, she preferred my company to the night she would have had with the constable.
The woman helped bathe me with oils and obeyed my every whim. When I felt the desire for Vince, she laid on top of me and bit into my neck. When I felt the overwhelming need for control, I took over and ravaged her for as long as I pleased. Being in power gave me the vindication that I was beyond reproach of those beneath the demonic lords in Duskwraith. Even if she was merely a prostitute, it was simple for me to find gratification in being in control. I will not pretend that my actions and desires had anything to do with her at all. Rather, I merely wished I could be pleasing my Master in her place.
What a fool I was.
The Commander woke me from unpleasant dreams before the light of Asinea had reached the dingy town. Though I could have slept a few hours more, the idea of revenge was enough to pull me to my feet. Typhlon returned my bow and quiver; he even severed the limb of a man that attempted to steal an arrow. I knew very early on that we would become fantastic companions on the battlefield and in politics.
Typhlon escorted me to the town square. The early morning dampness made the air frigid despite it being summer. Each exhale was a cloud of light fog, from not only myself, but also Spinewood’s populace that seemed very intrigued by the idea of capital punishment. Most looked at us curiously, others were worried. I even spied stares of malice among the crowd. It was no matter; they would learn not to toy with me again.
Hejall and the guard from the previous day were bound near an administrative building in the square, awaiting their fate. Typhlon had seen that they were tortured while I slept; it was apparent by how crippled they were. I would have liked to laugh with satisfaction, but my injured limbs and tired body only wanted it to be over.
“It has come to my attention that you maggots are unaware of what proper passports look like. In your leader’s lapse of judgment, he maimed Warden Lyon. This contravention will not go unpunished,” Typhlon told the occupants of the square. “Memorize her face. Memorize her name. Or perish.”
All eyes were upon me. Not the Commander. Not the constable. I could not falter in dispensing justice for a moment without risking treason. I was only doing what my Master would have wanted, I told myself before I felt the ability to address the crowd.
“For the crime of treason, I sen
tence them to death by Kusaya.”
Kusaya was the ancient practice of binding one to a stake until they died of either asphyxiation or starvation. The Gorge feeding into the Plaguewoods in southern Duskwraith was once a path of enemies of the state, all sentenced to Kusaya as a message. It was a punishment not often used in recent years, but it would assert my dominance to Spinewood.
The constable did not fail in his honor nor did he fear death. When a thick pike was brought forward in the square—where he would hang until perishing—he bowed his head to the Commander and refused to struggle. Truly, it was not satisfactory to see his bravery, though it would only take a day or more for his spirit to break.
“I live and die for Lord Vince,” Hejall stated before spitting at my feet.
I merely cocked my face sideways and watched as the executioner started the pinning process. His limbs were pulled over his head in an unnatural position. The stakes were dulled and would only pierce with extreme force. He was held still with a metal clamp, making it impossible to move as the executioner brought down a heavy mace over his head. They were driven through his arms – one through his elbow, the other through his forearm. Cracks as loud as splintering wood echoed in the alleyways surrounding us. The screams from his bones breaking were enough to shatter the guard’s mental state in an instant.
He cried and tried to fight off Typhlon’s men, but it hardly mattered. The square’s reaction in its entirety was not one of relish in their torment, nor was it distaste for myself. Spinewood had likely not seen capital punishment in most of the occupants’ lifetimes. Perhaps the majority were frightened as they should have been. Those loyal had no reason to view me as an enemy.
“This is the repercussion for treachery against myself and Lord Vince’s regime. Remember it well,” I stated with more cruelty than I ever thought myself capable of.
It could have been Commander Typhlon’s powerful presence, or it could have been the start of my damnation. It is impossible to discern.
