Author's Torment

by Thomas Atwood

  She brushed those thoughts aside, trying to focus on the task at hand. She was rescued by Henry to spite Elias and his people; she planned on being of more use that that – if Elias were to die, it would be by her hands. She’d strangle the man if she wanted to, but that scenario was not one to come to pass.

  As she reached Elias’ chamber doors, she noticed a familiar face standing by: that of the rebel who told her to ‘watch her tone.’ He posed as a guard, standing tall in dark green armour, a pouch wrapped around his waist, and his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He nodded towards Eileen, and she nodded back.

  Approaching the faux guard, Eileen masked her nervousness, keeping her expression neutral and her breathing slow. She stood inches opposite him and watched as he reached into his pouch, produced a small vial with transparent liquid – venom from the Tulean flower, a plant grown only in the winter - and motioned towards the door.

  Placing the vial in her pocket, Eileen knocked on the door. “Come in,” the voice called out, and Eileen did as he said. The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was spacious and occupied with the colour red: a large, silk, red bed stood at the very centre with red curtains waiting to cover the windows. To Eileen’s left stood a table with a wine bottle and two golden cups. To her right was a closet, and opposite her was Elias, standing tall, with a perverted toothy grin spreading across his features. Returning a smile of her own (albeit, a fake one), Eileen made her way towards the wine bottle.

  “Thirsty?” Elias said. “I thought we would savour the drinks for later,”

  Yeah, I don’t think so, Eileen thought, but she hid her intentions well. She turned back to the priest, never letting her smile waver, and tilted her head. “Well, I think a drink is in order,” she said, mentally cringing at her own words, “helps us to loosen up a bit. So, why don’t you,” she pointed at Elias, “relax a bit and close those curtains”

  Chuckling, Elias did just that. With his back turned to her as he brought down the drapes, Eileen quickly brought out the vial of poison and dripped its contents down one of the goblets, mixing it with the wine she later poured. She took hold of two goblets, turned around, and looked upon a smirking Elias. Her blood boiled at the sight of his smug smirk, but she managed to keep her calm; losing her temper would only cause the plan to backfire. She gave him the poisoned drink and was pleased to see him chug it all down. He smirked, seeing her do the same, only to waver a few minutes later. He stumbled about, falling face first down on the hard floor with the carpet hardly cushioning his fall. He took in wild gasps, attempting to breathe, but it seemed that air escaped him at every turn until his gasping came to a stop and light left his eyes.

  A day had passed, the sun shone brightly, and its rays played with the skin of the distraught, enraged, and panicked civilians of Kyros. Eileen walked amongst them, ignoring their hushed chatter. She strolled across the market, fresh from her assassination attempt – successful assassination attempt, given how Elias’ body was to be put to rest soon. The townsfolk mourned the loss of their priest, and paranoia began to take hold of the people.

  Hushed whispers filled the summer sky as cautious over-the-shoulder looks were thrown about, but not at Eileen’s expense. The one-and-done assassin was hardly the subject of much debate, given how no unwanted parties were aware of her involvement with Elias’ death.

  No celebrations were to be had by her, nor by the rebels; not that Eileen was in a celebratory mood. Beatrice was all that occupied her mind, and she suspected little else would cross her mind then. She ached to see the witch once again, and she hoped she would do so soon. She intended to search for the witch, be it by her lonesome or with a search party of sorts, it didn’t matter to her; locating Beatrice was all that mattered to her.

  She lifted an apple from one of the stands yet paid little heed to it; she focused on the chatter instead: frantic voices, worried about what was to come now that Elias was dead.

  “Rebel soldiers?” one said in disbelief

  “Aye, that’s what I heard,” another responded.

  “Well, surely they must be punished.”

  “And punished they shall be. Did you miss the announcement?”

  “What announcement?”

  “Bloody hell, man, the announcement: three rebels have been caught and will be hung.”

  Eileen tuned out the rest of their conversation. Finding their discussion amusing in a twisted sort of way, she placed down the apple and went for a simple stroll. She smirked at how simply Henry’s plan had been executed: phase one had been the death of Elias, and phase two was in full effect; the rebels that were being blamed were not rebels at all. Henry had managed to dupe the town and frame Elias’ personal guards as the rebels.

  It twisted her stomach into a knot, knowing the lengths the King went to hide his tracks, but she could not contemplate on it any further as a flash of purple lightning forked the clear, summer sky. She stopped dead in her tracks, wide-eyed, and with a racing heart. A second flash stroked, bringing her to her senses. Pushing aside a few civilians, Eileen rushed towards the stables. She burst in, mounted the nearest steed, and galloped away.

  She paid no heed to the curses thrown her way due to her recklessness nor to the bewildered guards that scratched their heads at her behaviour: all she cared about was Beatrice, and she finally managed to find a lead: purple was Eileen’s favourite colour; purple lightning was Beatrice’s specialty.

  Beatrice, she thought as she galloped away, please let it be Beatrice.

  Beatrice woke abruptly from what was supposed to be a peaceful night’s sleep. She vaguely heard something shuffle across the cave, with Dorien’s bowls and spoons being tossed about. She initially assumed it was Dorien, but the lack of clopping put that theory quickly to rest.

  She lay down on Dorien’s bed with the Satyr choosing to sleep on the floor on the other side. Whatever it was, it had begun to get under Beatrice’s skin. The shuffling moved over to a snoring Dorien. Beatrice noted the Satyr was a deep sleeper, which was unfortunate given the circumstance.

  The witch assumed a thief had broken in, or perhaps one of Elias’ goons had discovered her location. Her assumptions were put to rest when a munching sound was made. She got off her bed, attempting to make out whatever it had been that snuck in. It was quite a challenge, seeing in the dark. There was very little to no light being offered, and all Beatrice could make out was the silhouette of a man lying on top of Dorien, chewing on something.

  Dorien’s snoring had come to a halt.

  Beatrice stood dead in her tracks as it became clear to her what had happened. No, she thought, please, no. She looked over Dorien’s limp body, unmoving, unresponsive, and splurging sounds were made from the man, the thing, that chewed on him.

  Beatrice immediately turned to the entrance only to come across a face staring back at her: a mutilated figure with its flesh hanging down his face, giving all who would see a good look at their cracked skull. Its teeth were yellow and crooked. Its nose was missing, and its left eye socket was hollow and empty with the right one unresponsive.

  Two of the walking dead had stumbled upon the cave.

  She backed away, stumbling upon the pot and unintentionally kicking it away, causing the other undead to look up at the racket it caused. It got to its feet, joining its companion at ganging up on the witch.

  Beatrice’s eyes dampened, knowing that the one friend she had gotten was dead, suspecting that Eileen was as well, or would soon be. Her pulse raced, and a tear trickled down her cheek as she was coming to terms with her fate.

  She reached the back end of the cave, pressing against the wall. The corpses moaned and growled as they approached her. Their steps were slow, their jaws snapping every other second, and Beatrice saw no means of escape. Her only desire was to see Eileen one last time.

  But you can, her inner voice said. Remember how you encountered Dorien?

  The idea sparked in her as she collected her energy. She spread her hands by her sides
once more, allowing purple sparks to fly. They swirled around her as they had done so before, circling her and her purple dress. With a yell, she launched her bolts towards the dead, causing them to disintegrate on the spot.

  She heard thunder roar outside as rain began to fall. She felt down to her needs, the spell exhausted her, and she felt the desire to succumb to unconsciousness if she could. Thunder roared once again as flashes of purple lightning streaked across the sky. She smiled at her handy work and simply lay down on the ground, allowing her tears to flow.

  The sudden change in climate had taken Eileen by surprise. Her trusty steed continued on to gallop with Eileen reassuring him of his safety and wellbeing every now and then. The skies were clear with stars sparkling across the sky.

  She turned her horse and galloped towards the direction of the first streak. She knew perfectly well what purple lightning indicated: it was Beatrice’s traditional spell, one she always relied on when on the offence.

  “Faster, boy.” The horse ran full speed ahead. Rain assaulted them both as cold wind began to blow and trees threatened to collapse. The soil of the earth turned to mud and splashed at every gallop. Thunder let out a mighty yell, but Eileen rode on.

  She reached a small cave where she was certain the flash originated on top of. There was no way for her to be fully certain, not without conducting a small investigation. She got off her horse, removed her blade, and slowly crept in. The stairs took her by surprise, but it suggested that someone lived there. She remained silent, pushed her soaking hair back, and examined her surroundings. She noticed a dead body of what seemed to be a chewed up satyr lying to her right. Poor bastard, she thought as she accidently kicked a wooden bowl over a pile of ash.

  To her left, she came upon a woman breathing rapidly, lying down on the floor... wearing a ripped purple dress. “Beatrice!” she yelled, dropping her weapon and rushing towards her, startling the witch up. Eileen knelt down before her, taking hold of her tearful face. She planted her lips against Beatrice’s features, covering her forehead, nose, cheeks, and finally her lips.

  “Eileen? What... how did you... you’re alive?” Beatrice said.

  “What? You think I would go out without saying goodbye to my lit- whoa!” Eileen was cut short as Beatrice tackle-hugged her and squished her in a warm and tight embrace.

  Eileen simply succumbed to her lover’s touch while Beatrice sobbed into her shoulders.

  A day had passed since the two were reunited. The sun shone brightly once again, warming all with its illuminating rays, with Eileen and Beatrice out and about, enjoying the heat it provided. They walked together in silence along the beach with their fingers tangled together and enjoying the company of one another.

  They were in need of new clothes and supplies, which Eileen planned on heading back to Kyros to fetch. Neither were certain as to what they ought to do, not anymore, but Eileen cared little. She stood dead in her tracks, looking over Beatrice.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Beatrice asked, her smile fading.

  “Beatrice,” Eileen said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  About the Authors

  Christopher Brummett – www.studioshinnyo.com

  Angel Blackwood – https://www.facebook.com/angelblackwood13/

  Kim Fry – www.authorkimfry.com

  J.E. Feldman – http://www.facebook.com/dragonqueen3

  Thomas G. Atwood – https://www.facebook.com/tatwoodauthor/

  Dana Villa-Smith – onlybyyourblood.wordpress.com

  Emily R. Saunders – https://www.facebook.com/saunders.emilyr