by Allen Werner
A slap to the face turned her head to the side. She was completely numb. The strike did her no harm but it served to raise her awareness of her body. She was alive. Her skin crawled and her stomach groaned. The muscles of the abdomen contorted and tightened, trying to disgorge that which it did not contain. ‘Purgatory. Punishment. A place for sinners.’ The muddled soup of bluish light and warping black figures continued to spin uncontrollably before her dizzy, disoriented sight.
“Come now, bitch! Wake up!”
Anthea heard that voice and recognized it. ‘Rugerius. Rugerius Fabbro. I am in hell.’
“The anesthesia is wearing off,” an unfamiliar voice informed Rugerius. “You don’t have to hit her anymore.”
‘Anymore? How many times has he struck me?’
“She’ll be mindful soon enough.”
The unfamiliar voice was correct. The anesthesia was wearing off and she did indeed feel more mindful. The strange concoction she ingested during the coach ride had been a paralyzing elixir of mandrake and hemlock, not common fare at respected apothecaries but sold openly at Sin Circus.
“Damn it!” Rugerius snapped at the other. “I’m tired of waiting. This is taking too long. Hell, it’s been nearly two days and I’ve not even had a wash up. I still reek of blood.” The Castellan laughed. “Semen too.”
The past rolled through Anthea’s mind like dark storm clouds across a troubled sky. She felt even more lightheaded as these dreadful winds of memory moved. ‘Capua is destroyed. The people massacred. Pero is gone. I’m going to Parthenope.’ Anthea scanned her surroundings. Her vision recovering. She could identify a few random items but all of them were glowing. ‘This doesn’t look like Parthenope. Why is everything blue?’
Anthea quickly understood that she was in a subterranean cave where much of the floor was apparently water. Everything in the room was disconcertingly blue. The only real light, white light, was a blinding burst of sunshine entering through an arched gap in a far-off wall. The whole cave appeared to be comprised almost entirely of water. There were a few thin ledges consisting of wet rock for men to stand on and walk. A host of skeletons, dead warriors, lay strewn about them, bones, skulls and torsos beyond the point of rotting. Anthea knew she should be terrified by her predicament but the vibrations emanating from the grotto’s ambiance were somewhat comforting. She couldn’t explain the sensation. The blue atmosphere was soothing and settling her nerves. Anthea smiled.
The two large shades were uncomfortably close to her now, sucking up nearly all the light. Rugerius Fabbro she already knew, ruddy beard and all. She wanted to snarl at him, kick and claw his frightful bearded face but was too weak to do even that.
The other man was foreign. One look at his powder blue eyes nearly sent her into panic. ‘He’s a monster. A goddamn monster.’ The blue aura being cast upon everything in the grotto was cast upon this man-creature’s bald head as well. It made him appear even more menacing. ‘His soul,’ Anthea thought. ‘It is skokádi, ominous and unwelcoming.’ Anthea was surprised she could read this, know this about him, think this. The knowledge just flowed. ‘This man is more than flesh and blood, and yet, he is not. He is an empty vessel. It’s as if he should have never existed.’
Anthea whispered weakly, the poison in her veins still debilitating her speech. “Where am I?”
Anxious for this moment to have finally arrived, Rugerius Fabbro brushed aside the robed giant so he alone could fill Anthea’s line of sight. He grabbed her roughly by the head and pulled until their lips nearly met. “You are in the devil’s world, beneath the isle of Capri.” He glanced sidewise at the giant. “And that, Anthea, is the devil himself.”
For the first time since waking, Anthea had the strength to struggle bodily against her captors. Now she could kick and claw. She was sure of it. However, the moment she flexed her arms and attempted to kick out her feet, nothing moved. Her situation was far more tenuous than she imagined. She was chained in a seated position to a stone chair hewn from pure granite. Rusty iron rings were notched in the walls and floor around the chair. Long lengths of thick, twisting rope lay across her chest, over her arms and legs. Her wrists and ankles were tightly secured to the iron rings. She rocked left and she rocked right but the stone chair would not budge, the ropes only burned when she opposed them. She was at the mercy of the ghoul and the devil.
Rugerius was slow and methodical as he let his hands drop down on the sides of her face, gradually drifting down to rub her bare arms.
Anthea wanted to scream but she had not the breath.
The pupils in Rugerius’ eyes were dilated. The bastard was getting aroused by this unwelcomed touching, this coerced control. She could sense it. He started tugging at the tattered blue dress which smelled old and besotted.
‘Oh God, he’s going to strip and rape me.’
Brazenly, violently, Rugerius tore away the shoulder strap over her left arm, exposing one breast. Rugerius grabbed it and jiggled it as though it were a toy. “You are not so untouchable now, are you?” He released the breast, his lisp infuriatingly annoying. “I know women, Anthea. You think you are so different, so virtuous. You are not any different.”
Anthea was near enough now to his hirsute face to truly appreciate how damaged Rugerius’ jaw was. She could only imagine how dreadful he was without a beard.
“Deep down,” Rugerius continued to preach, “you are an animal, Anthea, wild and sensual.” He nodded in the direction of the giant. “Sinibaldus is going to get up inside of you, crawl right into that pretty little head of yours and murder your modesty. Without that virtue impeding your resolve, you will sin like a common whore and not even think about it.” He groped her again. “You will act on instinct, an animal full of vice and lust.” He stared at her lips which were dry and flaking, cracked and bleeding. “You will shed your clothing and eat my cock like a rabid wolf chewing raw meat.” He paused as he got to thinking about the only other time they had met, the time in Suadela. “Make that a bear.” Rugerius laughed. “We will fuck like bears.”
Although she wished she could forget that incident, Anthea remembered everything about their notorious first encounter in the hall of Suadela. It slapped her as surely as his hand had done previously. And that blow and more like it were just beginning to emerge. Her face was tingling now and she was getting feeling back in her skin. She wondered how many blows he had landed on her, how many bruises there would be. She tasted blood. It was her blood, from her broken lip.
Anthea swallowed some of the blood and embraced the iron. “I am nothing like you or your playthings. I will never give myself to you. I am not an animal.” The iron taste dissolved quickly, as did her spirit. Her head drooped and she shook miserably, praying there still be a degree or measure of compassion in his jet-black heart. “What is to be gained by all of this, Rugerius? Have you no mercy?”
As if he suddenly happened upon some compassion, Rugerius knelt on one knee and affectionately touched her cheek. He pulled at the hem of her dress, moving the fabric back down over her thighs, covering her knees, helping her regain a little bit of modesty. He leaned in slightly and whispered. “Sadly, no. I have no mercy. When I was a boy in Germany, the other kids used to call me ‘Teufel.’ And I was. I killed a man when I was twelve. I stabbed him in the chest and tore out his innards. I chewed on bloody chunks of his heart as he watched.” The Castellan’s actions continued to be contrary to his words. He touched Anthea softy, gently, his fingers moving up and down her arms. He displayed a humane kindness wholly unexpected, nearly unnatural. His hand felt soft. He rested the back of it on her cheek. She wanted to believe what he was doing was real, that Rugerius had a softer side to him, a kinder side. And then the hand kept drifting down until it was inappropriately resting on her left breast again. This time he did not jiggle it coarsely. He gently patted the nipple with his hard index finger, forcing it to become aroused.
Despite her wish to resist the bastard, her mind and body yearned to be comforted, touche
d like this. Only Pero had ever dared to touch her in such an intimate manner. She couldn’t for the life of her comprehend the confusion rupturing her brain. She closed her eyes and decided to make the best of it, recalling her Spanish lover, his long black hair, the fine-looking countenance that caused her to swoon whenever she gazed into his dreamy blue eyes. She invited Pero’s absent spirit to surround her and touch her yet again, let it be his hand that massaged the nipple. ‘Yes. Yes.’
Until now, Anthea had only known one man. Now she was going to know another. To preserve her sanity, she had to perceive Rugerius Fabbro in a whole different light. Her neck rolled as her breath slowed. She whispered her sin. “Untie me, Pero, and I will love you.”
Wanton and lusty, Rugerius had been intently watching Anthea succumb to his charms, his touch. He too was imaging many things, all of them beastly and voracious, lustful and passionate. He was ready to undo her bonds, tear off her clothes and fuck her right here on the stone chair. And then she spoke that abominable name.
“Pero?”
Anthea would not be denied the fantasy. She kept smiling, licking her bloodied lips, her eyes tightly shut, fully ignoring Rugerius’ intrusion. She stayed hopefully loyal to the dream, calm, controlled and ready for anything. “Have your way with me, Pero.”
Rugerius pulled back from Anthea slightly as he stopped playing nice. He gripped the nipple between two fingers, squeezing it until she snapped back to reality. She yelled. She had to. It hurt.
“Let me be clear, Anthea. The lack of empathy I typify, is precisely the reason I’m here and Pero is not. I promise, I will make you understand that and fear it.” He twisted the nipple and Anthea screamed all the more. “Your lover is dead, body mauled and devoured.”
Sinibaldus had been patiently waiting in the shadows behind them. To blend in and disappear, merge with whatever landscape presented itself like a chameleon, was natural and instinctive now.
The giant magician found nothing amusing about this theater. He knew why he was here. The Castellan was correct. He was going to assassinate this young woman’s virtue, destroy all her moral fences and unleash the libido. This wasn’t the first time he had done such a thing to a woman, to a girl. There were a few victims he could still recall, young spirited women who literally jumped out of their skin upon leaving the trance, rapine and lusty, assaulting him on the spot, not that he minded. He enjoyed being taken in those day. Fucking seemed as necessary as air. But now he was seventy-three and his massive frame was wracked by countless maladies. He found it nearly impossible to be aroused, nevertheless come inside a woman. After all this time, he had given up hope of ever finding a woman to replace Claire. That was until he met Viridian. He found the young lady spellbinding. Whenever they were in the same room together, his vit came to attention.
Sinibaldus was not one for embracing distraction but Viridian had come to mind and he chose to entertain the thought. The lustful vixen’s outright refusal to lay with him under any circumstances had been tormenting him religiously. He swore he would have her one day – but not like this, not the way Rugerius intended to take Anthea, employing the Bellerophon Crystal to corrupt her mind. Viridian’s mind was already corrupt. She was a fucking beast with no inhibitions whatsoever, none but the giant, the creature.
Sinibaldus had managed to discount everything Rugerius Fabbro had been saying and doing until those last few words rolled off his tongue. They wormed their way into his soul, the fine edge of a lie cutting him where he could not heal.
“Your lover is dead, body mauled and devoured.”
Despite the blue hue of the trapped waters clinging to everyone’s face, a redness materialized on his. The magician’s blood curdled with rage. ‘Fucking Pero is still alive. The bastard should be dead. No one knows this but me.’ Sinibaldus suddenly wished he had a leopard to wink at. He wanted to see something strong and powerful cause something innocent to suffer and die.
Anthea screamed again. Rugerius had forgotten himself and turned savage. He was abusing Anthea, painfully twisting the nipple in a manner the young lady objected to. The Castellan’s countenance was demonic, filled with fury and cravings.
Sinibaldus lost all patience with this misdirected bravado. He had a job to do here and then he would be free to pursue the exploit he had left unfulfilled, the death of Pero de Alava. He only required a few hours of privacy to rectify the situation, turn the lie into a truth. He would burrow his mind inside the Bellerophon Crystal and ride the spirit trails back to Eagles Pass. He would employ a bear, a wolf, a fucking squirrel or sparrow if he had too, anything and everything to rip that Spaniard apart. He needed, however, to be out there seeking an opportunity. Not in here, in the blue grotto with Rugerius Fabbro and his cheap little side project. This was eating into the magician’s time, wasting it. In fact, this venture was another clandestine action being withheld from Gherardus Fabbro’s elderly ears. The old Lord of Parthenope had no idea the countless machinations operating around him and his kingdom. No one informed him that Anthea Manikos had survived the siege of Capua. He was told that everyone had been killed. He was clearly being kept in the dark on a great many fronts, a rash of conspiracies. ‘Poor old Gherardus.’
Abruptly, Sinibaldus sidled up on the Castellan, placing his enormous left hand on Rugerius’ broad right shoulder, the one the beast was currently employing to injure Anthea’s breast. The contact between the two men was extremely brazen and wholly surprising, and sufficient to draw the assaulter’s attention away from the girl.
Rugerius began a measured, methodical huff as his reddening eyes glared at the giant’s worn white knuckles. Slowly he followed the long sweep of his sleeve upwards, eventually locking horns with his challenger.
Sinibaldus was not easily undone by anyone. Rugerius’ threatening mien did not influence him in the least. Defiant, resolved, the giant glared right back.
“My Lord,” Sinibaldus coolly remarked. “I will remove my hand when you remove yours.”
Rugerius Fabbro didn’t take kindly to being touched and ordered about by anyone, least of all a shifty sycophant who worked for him and his father’s court.
Sinibaldus leaned down and whispered sensibly. “My Lord, try to remember the bigger picture. This is not the time nor is it the place to commit this act.” He stopped whispering, his voice rumbling. “And I swear by the Bellerophon Crystal; I will not stand here and watch you do this to her any longer. I have an obligation, an oath to fulfill. Please remove your hand from her breast and let me complete my task. When I am done terrorizing her mind, scrambling her brain, you will have Anthea, all of her, all the time.”
Scowling, Rugerius Fabbro labored to process the bigger picture. Patience was not a virtue he possessed. As usual, there were several passions battling in his head. His labored breath flared his nostrils outward. The strong fingers already clutching unkindly to Anthea’s left breast were balling up to form a fist. Rugerius wanted desperately to take a poke at the giant and put him in his place but he was conscience of his surroundings. He scanned the dreary grotto and acknowledged the blue tint covering everything in it. There were a host of dead bodies, putrid skeletons lying everywhere. Some great battle pitting brave men against a magician or demon had taken place in this cave long ago. The evidence was all around them, a great splatter from a supernatural explosion impressed upon one of the walls.
‘No,’ Rugerius Fabbro conceded. ‘This is not the place where real men fight. This is a place of discriminating magic and the wizard surely has the advantage.’
Bearing that inconsolable truth in mind, Rugerius Fabbro relented from his lust. He gave miserable Anthea’s poor little nipple a final turn before yanking his soiled hand away.
She screamed yet again, tears turned to sobs.
Sinibaldus, seeing Rugerius retreat, graciously acquiesced and withdrew his hand from the Castellan’s shoulder.
The tension permeating the room was heightened now. There was nothing that could be done about that. Rugerius’
pride had been injured and he was not quick to let any transgression pass. He stood to face Sinibaldus. Raised up tall, the Castellan found that his aquiline eyes could only reach the giant’s barrel-vaulted chest. The magician’s height and girth still did not frighten him. His countenance was on fire. Both of his hands were bunched and prepared to strike.
“Ever cross me again,” he growled through the beard, head and neck turned upward, “and it will take more than crystals and charms to save you.”
Relaxed, composed, prepared to get on with the task and be done, Sinibaldus took a humbling step back and bowed respectfully. “Then we have an understanding.” He truly was an amiable creature.
Their eyes, however, never separated. Despite the esteem and the calm exchange of words, there was a deep-seated enmity trolling behind both of their expressions. Neither let go. How they wanted at it. After a long deliberate pause both men heeded the deadlock and withdrew simultaneously.
The blue grotto was nearly all water. The ceiling was low, only twenty feet at the highest point, moisture dripping like raindrops off the ceiling. A thin mantel of stone just wide enough for a single man to navigate clung to the stone walls lining the tiny inlet. Time worn niches, as well as a few more carved out by pirates and other former denizens of the cave, held flickering candles and lewd statues, goddesses of the old way.
The flat level place where Anthea’s stone chair had been hewn from solid rock was wider than the other walkways and even had a minor pier built into it. Two small craft were currently docked there. In each little boat sat an equally concerned oarsman. These men kept their heads bowed low, pretending not to see or hear anything that was transpiring, fearful to be accounted as witnesses.
