Ghosts of Korath

by Jake Stone

  “Wakey, wake!” the goblin says with sneer. “No sleep! No sleep!”

  “Go to hell,” I say.

  Tulgrit laughs as he hops toward the other side of the room, where the wall is covered with strange tools, and other instruments of torture that he uses to inflict pain on his prey.

  I watch, horrified, as he picks up what looks to be a cat of nine tails. Long thin strips of leather, the type that could rip through wool, dangle at his side, and I brave myself for the pain to come.

  “Trick, trick, trick!” Tulgrit fires off with every hop of advancement. He’s giddy with anticipation, excited to get in a couple of lashes before I’m gifted to the Witch of Korath as some type of offering. But his dance and words are meant for more. Like all torturers, he wants to frighten me. He wants me to cry out and beg for mercy, to plead for my life, thus giving him total control of my being. Well he can go fuck himself.

  “Hey Tulgrit,” I manage through heaving breaths. “Why don’t you stick that thing up your dirty little ass, you fuck.”

  He scowls at my defiance, and I’m quickly stung as my skin is kissed by the end of his whip. It slashes at my body, lash after lash, digging deep gashes into my chest and drawing the blood that seeps down to my stomach and over my legs. The pain is overwhelming, mind-numbing. But I bite down as hard as I can, throwing my thoughts to my friends who I can only hope are still alive.

  Atia…

  Did they catch her? Is she still alive? There’s no way she would’ve given up her spear. She’s too strong a warrior for that to have happened. The only way it would’ve been possible is if—

  I scream out as Tulgrit’s whip reaches my face, its rough leather straps scraping against the tender part of my cheek. The sting of it rips me from my thoughts, and I’m once again forced to live in the suffocating moment of my torture.

  “Cry!” the little bastard orders, whipping me again.

  “Fuck you!” I shoot back.

  After a while, Tulgrit finally tires. He orders two of the hellion guards to bring me down off my cross, and drag me to the cells, where I can rest for a moment. “We cannot soil Bantha’s gift,” he says, wiping a brow of sweat with his arm. “We must give it time to heel so that it can become plump and juicy again for more tricks.”

  They unstrap my wrists from the metal cross behind me and pull me off with a grunt, dragging me by the arms over the unforgiving stone floor that scrapes mercilessly at my knees and feet like a cheese grater. I can’t see where they’re taking me. I’m too tired and spent. My body aches from the bruises and my skin stings at the slightest touch. It’s a miracle that I’m even conscious. But I know that my body will heel soon and I’ll be in a much better position to think. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

  I groan as I’m tossed to the floor of some dank cell, my head bouncing off the stone bricks that welcome me with cold and pain. Behind me, I hear the sound of guards marching away, followed by the clank of metal bars, as they lock shut.

  Verging on passing out, I roll onto my back and stare up at the rocky ceiling. Blood spills from the deep gashes along my chest, spilling off the sides and dripping onto the floor. Every once in a while, my sweat trickles into the wounds, causing me to wince from the pain. But at least here I’m by myself, able to draw in the long relaxing breaths that I’ve so desperately needed. Mind easing, body loosening, I’m allowed a moment’s reprieve from this seemingly endless hell.

  I’m drifting off to sleep, when, from the shadow of the cell, I hear the sound of feet scurrying forward. Demons? Rats? Another one of Tulgrit’s “tricks?” I force myself to sit up, frightened by the possibilities, and scurry backwards until I hit the wall behind me, chest heaving as I stare into the darkness, waiting.

  The sound rises, growing as it echoes off the thick walls of the surrounding cells and cutting through the eery drips of water that come from some unseen corner. It isn’t until I see a frightened face, a sliver of soft skin with watchful eyes breaking into the light of the torch, that my heart begins to slow and I start to relax.

  It’s a girl, I realize. A young woman with dark hair and brown eyes, her svelte body barely covered under a thin rag tied across her breasts, her curvy waist wrapped under a fraying skirt that barely reaches past her crotch.

  Her form grows under the soft glare of the torches, and my pain is momentarily distracted by her beauty. She has a thin nose that sits between two high cheekbones, but the space around her eyes are bruised purple, revealing the type of exhaustion that can only come from worry-filled days and sleepless nights. With thin sandals that slap and scruff against the stone floor, she steps out like a hesitant zoo keeper approaching a lion.

  “Who are you?” she whispers.

  “Xander,” I reply in a voice just as quiet.

  “Xander?” she repeats the word, her brow pinched. “You’re hurt.”

  “You think?” I say, unable to control myself.

  “Let me see.” She leans over and examines my wounds. Her faces twists with disgust as she sees the deep lashes across my chest, pained and angered by how badly I’ve been hurt. But then, her features turn motherly, and a comforting smile spreads across her slim face. “You’re going to be okay,” she says, skirting her sandaled feet toward me.

  Between the delirium of my pain and my weighty exhaustion, I’m left with only my primal brain, and my gaze shifts to the strap of leather covering her crotch beneath her skirt.

  The young woman notices. But she’s not mad or insulted. Instead, I see pity in her eyes, a restrained look of sympathy that causes her to brush my hair back form my sweaty face.

  Glancing back into the darkness, her lips roll between her teeth, as if checking to see if anyone’s watching.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Before I can speak, I feel her hand warp around my cock, tugging it gently, until I’m as hard as a rock.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Don’t speak,” she says, resting a finger to my lips. “I’m just trying to help you. Nothing more.” Lifting up her skirt and pulling the leather cloth to the side, she guides my cock between her legs, and I’m overcome by the amazing sensation of her tight pussy.

  Slowly, she begins to ride me, moving back and forth in a steady motion. I wince when she moves a little too hard, and she quickly stops, eyes wide in apology. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You really don’t have to—”

  Again, she starts moving up and down, drawing the skin of my shaft in long and drawn out strokes. My hands, desperate to feel her body, rest on her hips, fingers curling against the weight of her ass.

  “Go ahead,” she coaxes, grasping my hands and lifting them up to her breasts that are surprisingly supple and smooth. “Lose yourself in me.”

  I do what she says, gripping her breasts harder, my finger finding its way into her mouth. She sucks it gently, accommodating its length as I press it in deeper. It’s barely reaching the back of her throat when I finally shoot my load. Hot cum shoots out of my cock, and I fill her pussy with everything I have.

  Slowing her movements, she leans over to brush the hair away from my face. “Is that better?”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding with shut eyes. “That was great.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I open my eyes, suddenly realizing what has just happened. “You want to tell me who you are?” I ask.

  The girl pauses as she glances back into the darkness, as if waiting for permission to speak. And then, blinking, she replies. “My name is Galail.”

  My mouth falls agape as I’m hit with a pleasant surge of incredulity. “Galail?” I repeat. “Tora’s sister?”

  The woman’s eyes explode with a shock of hope. “You know her?”

  “She helped us find this place. She told us about you. About the other women.”

  “So she’s still alive?”

  I give her a weak nod. “I think so, yes.”

&nb
sp; Her hand covers her mouth, as she takes in a sharp breath, her eyes filling with tears as she realizes that her sister is still alive. Muttering a few words of prayer, her emotion is restrained by a deep calming breath that slowly begins to settle her. “We must clean you.”

  “We?” I ask.

  From the other side of the cell, a litter of faces appear from the darkness. The women from the village, the ones who were abducted for sacrifice and will be used to resurrect the witch. They creep out slowly, like frightened monkeys who have just been assaulted, and surround me with horror-filled eyes as they glimpse my wounds.

  “Kata,” Galail says to one of the younger women, “Bring me the water.”

  I watch as the rangy girl disappears into the darkness, only to return a second later with a wooden saucer filled with clear water. She hands it to Galail, who swiftly sets it by my side.

  “Is it clean?” I ask.

  “Clean enough.” She pours the water over my chest before I can object. The pain is excruciating and I nearly scream out like a little girl. But I clench my teeth and wait for it to subside, heart racing as it eventually does.

  “Thanks,” I say, beaming her with a heated stare.

  “Don’t mention it.” She holds the bowl in her lap. “It’s the water the demons have been giving us since we got here. So far it hasn’t gotten us sick.”

  “Good enough for me,” I say.

  “So where is she?” Galail asks.

  “Who?” I reply, my brain still wiped blank from the pain.

  “My sister.”

  “Oh, her.” I clear my throat as I ready to speak. “She’s outside, I think. We were separated when the demons found us hiding in the basement. I think she got away, though. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.”

  “Tora can find her way through a maze blindfolded.” She pours another round of water across my wounds, but this time it’s not as bad. “If she’s out there, she’s still alive.”

  Her confidence is comforting, and I’m once again filled with hope that the rest of my friends are still alive.

  “What about my father?” she asks.

  “He’s fine,” I say, “After we killed Azafalia and his guards—”

  “Wait,” Galail says, lowering the bowl of water onto the floor and casting me with a look of confusion. “You were able to defeat Azafalia and his guards?”

  I nod.

  She sits back on her heels, frozen in the revelation. “Amazing,” she whispers. “You must truly be an amazing warrior.”

  “I’m okay,” I say with a shrug.

  “And the rest of the villagers?” asks one of the women, a little mouse of a girl with stringy gold hair. She staggers forward as the women behind her pull in closer, anxious for my answer.

  “Uh, they’re fine,” I say, unwilling to go into specifics.

  A collective sigh passes amongst them as they’re relieved. But I’m pretty sure that most of their relatives are already dead. Azafalia was a cruel bastard, a monster who used their people like cattle. In fact, I’m surprised that we’d found any survivors. But I don’t dare say a word. Such heartache would only make things worse. And I need to figure out a way to free the women without having to console them.

  “Are you with the republic?” asks one of the women, a wafer of girl with eyes too large for her head. She looms over me like a leaning plant, her small breasts wrapped under a thin rag, her ribs pressing through her skin like reaching fingers.

  “I’m a Battle Saint,” I reply.

  “A Battle Saint?” she says with wide eyes, her gaze turning to the rest to the women, who quickly share in her excitement. They clutch hands and embrace tightly, certain in their belief that salvation is only moments away.

  “It’s a miracle,” another woman replies.

  “The one we’ve been praying for,” another chimes in.

  “We’re going to be saved, sisters!”

  I’m suddenly bombarded with a list of questions whose answers I don’t have. Is the Republic army outside? When will they attack? Do they know we’re here?

  But amidst this wild elation, Galail watches me in silence, her eyes narrowing into slits as she gauges my reaction. It’s then, as her gaze lowers to the wood bowl in defeat, that I see the realization on her face, the bitter disappointment she feels as she realizes that I’m the only one who knows about them.

  To her credit, though, she suppresses it like a woman past her years, holding it down and locking it away in her heart.

  “Quiet, sisters,” she commands. “We don’t want to attract the attention of our captors.”

  “Who cares?” a young woman with long blond hair says. “The Republic is here! We’re going to be saved.”

  And that’s when Galail loses her patience.

  She jumps to her feet and whirls on the women, casting them with a heated stare that quickly brings them to silence. “Enough,” she says. “It doesn’t matter if the entire Republic Army is outside this door. We need to remain calm and do what we must to stay alive.

  “Now, I know you’re all anxious to live. As am I. But we won’t make it out of here if we stop being careful. Now please, go back to your places and sit. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”

  The women capitulate to her orders and they wander back to their spots with guarded moods, doing what they can to hold back the grins of hope that spring along their faces. Some even clasp hands, their fingers tightening as they feel a rush of excitement.

  “Don’t be too hard on them,” I whisper. “They’re just anxious to leave this place.”

  “I know,” she says, turning around to kneel at my side again. “But I have to do what I must to keep them safe for as long as I can.”

  “Responsibility sucks, huh?” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s always placed onto those who hate it most.” Her brow creases as she sees my wounds, amazed to see that they’ve already begun to close. “You heel fast,” she remarks. “Perhaps what we’ve heard of you Saints is true.”

  “It’s just science,” I say. “I can’t take the credit.”

  “Was it science that helped you find us?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then you should be proud of yourself,” she says. “Bantha and his army of demons are treacherous monsters with great power. You’d have to be a great warrior to take on a feat like this.”

  “More like stupid,” I reply.

  “That too,” she says with a weak smile.

  “I was given a mission,” I say, doing my best to sit up. “To discover the secret of Korath, the reason why we’ve never been able to take back this forsaken planet.”

  “The witch,” she says.

  “You know, you guys could’ve saved us a lot of time and people if you’d just told us.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, head bowed. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s alright. I don’t blame you. I would’ve done the same thing in your place.”

  She nods her thanks. “Tell me,” she says. “How’s my older sister?”

  “Good,” I say. “Very…fiery.”

  She laughs softly. “That’s Tora. Always the wild one with courage in her heart. I thought she was dead after they took us. Azafalia is a cruel master who takes pity on no one, much less a slave. I saw him sacrifice twenty people on the first day. All for his weapons of destruction.”

  “The ritual of steel,” I say.

  “You saw it?”

  “A tall man with long hair,” I say. “He had a daughter.”

  “Kartoff,” she says, her eyes glazing with reflection.

  “You knew him?”

  “A friend.”

  I say nothing as I let the heartache run its course. The bleeding has stopped, but Galail continues cleaning the wound, lifting what’s left of the water and pouring it over my chest. When she’s done, she holds the bowl to my lips and I take a drink.

  “Thank you,” I say. “That little bastard hasn’t given me a sip since I got here.�
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  “Tulgrit has a disgusting sense of humor.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  She snorts. “You know, he tried to rape one of the women when we arrived.”

  “He did?”

  “Don’t worry, though, we fought him off with punches and kicks.”

  I snort. “Should’ve thrown water on him. He smells like he hasn’t showered in years.”

  “More like centuries.”

  We laugh.

  “And the hellions didn’t do anything to intercede?” I ask.

  “Bantha wants us untouched for the ritual.”

  I give a sullen nod.

  “Do you know what it is that they’re summoning?” she asks, foregoing any pretext of her fate.

  “What else?” I answer. “The witch. They’re going to use her power to destroy the Republic Army outside.”

  She lets out a bitter snort. “Seems fitting, don’t you think? To be punished with the secret that we’ve kept for so long.”

  “We’ll stop them,” I assure her with a determined look. But my words are betrayed by the weak state of my body and Galail is already angling the edge of the bowl against my lips.

  “Our fate is decided by the corfew,” she says sagely. “No outside force—be it evil or good—can interfere with that. All we can do now is take faith in the light that will lead us to sanctuary. But for now, rest.” She wipes the sweat from my forehead, and I feel the tender caress of a loving soul, my body unwinding, my thoughts fleeing as I’m gifted with sleep.

  When I wake, I hear the sound of metal clanking as the door to my cell is opened, and I see the malevolent grin of a malicious goblin standing before me.

  “Wakey, wake!” he tells me.

  “Leave him be!” Galail demands as she rises to her feet, casting the little monster a spiteful stare.

  But Tulgrit dismisses her plea, countering with a toothy smirk. “Pretty girl should keep mouth shut, unless she wants Tulgrit to shut it for her.” He brandishes a crooked dagger whose handle is made of human bone and holds it out at her threateningly.