• Welcome to the Fantasy Writing Forums. Register Now to join us!

Chapter Three of a work no longer in progress

Seeing it from a distance, Herru wondered how the old Northern Outpost could incarcerate anyone. The stone structures inside the crumbling walls were decrepit enough to give an impression of fragility. The entire area looked neglected, with bushes and weeds of various kinds growing unchecked on the otherwise sparse, open landscape.

Looking over at his assigned bodyguard, Herru watched as the burly man drove to their destination. Considering his demeanor, Herru guessed the Deputy was as tired of this charade as he was. It was awkward, dressing in dirty peasant rags and riding in an ox-cart to the prison, but the Marshalls had insisted on clandestine operations. One could disagree with the Marshalls, but it often did nothing but foster ill will. Besides that, it made sense to conceal one’s identity. Recognition on a trip to this part of the world could arouse suspicion.

The morning sun was rising, and it gave it’s warmth to the land. Herru took a little comfort in the small mercy of light. Reaching back, he took out a few hard biscuits from a sack in the cart. He passed one to the Deputy and while Herru nibbled on a stale breakfast.

He was hungry, but his appetite was tempered by his distress over the deed he was about to perform. His dread had been growing over the course of the trip. Despite the fact that this deed would benefit all of the inhabitants of this world he could not help but flinch at the deed itself.

But it had to be done. There really was no other way.

When they arrived at the Outpost they stopped at what had once been a large gate. Herru told his deputy to wait in the cart and then climbed down and looked around. He had been instructed to clear his entrance with the guards, but there didn’t seem to be any around. Stepping softly, he walked towards the opening where the gate would have been and called out a greeting. Two dirty looking guards in gray uniforms appeared from behind thick stone supports just inside the Outpost. Their axes were held at the ready and they called out “Hold!”

He called back, “I have post for the Outpost.”

The guards relaxed but stayed at attention. The provided passwords were correct, Herru thought.

A third guard, older, taller and cleaner for sure, walked out from one of the dilapidated buildings further inside the complex towards him.

“What news for the forsaken?” the old guard said in a calm voice.

“Dire tidings,” came the reply.

The old guard gave a polite smile then and when he reached the gate opening he extended a hand. “You’re Herru I suppose?” he asked.

Taking the guard‘s hand in his, Herru said, “Yes sir. I am here at the behest of the Chief Marshalls.”

The guard nodded. “We’ve had word of your visit. I’m in charge here so if you need anything other than what we’ve been instructed to prepare for you, just ask me.”

Turning back towards the building he emerged from the guard said “Come on” in a commanding tone. Herru obliged, and he and the guard started into the complex.

They walked past the two other guards. They were still at attention. Once the older guard was at the entrance to the structure he came out of he stopped and, without turning around, said “As you were.”

The other guards then slunk around the same pillars they had hidden behind and set their axes on the ground. Herru almost sniffed. This demonstration of power was obviously for his benefit, and it didn’t impress him. Herru had met men who held the fate of cities in their hands. This little show was nothing. They continued to the structure.

Walking in the doorway the guard looked over his shoulder at him and stated “I’m Othel.” The way he said his name, Herru mused to himself, indicated that it should mean something. It didn’t. While Herru had dealt with dignitaries before, he knew of no noble or diplomat called Othel. Still, the way this man carried himself reminded Herru of some past encounters with self-important decision makers. Perhaps the man’s lineage would reveal more about him. But until he could get back to Alono to research him, this guard was still just a guard.

Once inside the building that Othel had come from, which had once been a dining room, the two weaved about dusty remnants of what had once been tables and chairs.

“Pardon the mess,” Othel said, “we must keep up appearances for the sake of secrecy.”

They then reached an old wooden door with no lock. Othel opened it and stepped through. Herru followed him through and closed the door behind him. They had entered what seemed to be a working galley style kitchen. The heat inside was stifling, and smoke was in the air.

“We can have no working chimneys here,” Othel said. “The smoke would give us away. A little ventilation is all that is necessary for these two.”

Though his eyes stung and watered he could see two cooks with white aprons covering full guard uniforms tending to at least eight stewpots set upon a wide grille that stretched half the length of the galley. The cooks held rags in their hands to avoid burns, and once they were finished handling a given pot they would hold the rags to their mouths in an effort to cleanse the foul air before it reached their lungs. Herru imagined that it did them little good.

“Getting near slop time boys,” Othel chided the cooks through the noxious haze, “don’t keep our honored guests waiting.” He then continued through the kitchen area, with Herru right on his heels.

Going out of the kitchen they walked through a doorless entryway into an enclosed brick walkway and turned towards a set of stairs that lead down into a corridor lit by oil lamps. At the bottom of the stairs Herru could see that these were guards quarters, as there were small rooms on both sides of the hallway.

About halfway through the corridor Othel turned into one of the rooms. The back wall of this room had been torn out, and a lit tunnel supported by timbers lat beyond. Othel took the lead, and they proceeded down the hewn pathway.

It didn’t take long before Othel was trying to wheedle information out of Herru. “So what is it that this witch knows that so concerns our beloved Marshalls?”

Herru blinked. These kinds of questions so soon? Bold of him, considering that this Othel knew what was to take place here today.

“I will not know for sure until I hear it myself,” Herru said. “And when I say ‘myself’ I mean I will be the only one hearing it. No one else will be present for questioning. Is that understood?”

“Of course,” Othel replied, “like I said before we’ve already been sent word. The witch has been prepared for your arrival. We’ve had her ready since last night. She’ll talk now for sure.” Othel then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Herru. With a knowing look on his face, he said “It’s about the Wolves isn’t it?”

Herru glared at Othel. He felt like abandoning all attempts at decorum just then. However, he needed to keep his temper. This guard may be too inquisitive, and he was far too cheeky to be sure, but for now his aid was worth too much to alienate him. He would, however, bring up Othel’s name at the inevitable hearing that would follow his arrival at Alono.

Othel chuckled at Herru’s silence and turned to continue on his way through the tunnel. Herru followed him, saying nothing. The pure nerve this man displayed angered him, but not as much as the things he had said about the Guardian. The words Othel used had made him wonder just what these guards did to ‘prepare’ her for questioning. He considered which was worse, the abuse the Guardian had suffered at the hands of her captives, or what he himself was about to do to her. There was no question in Herru’s mind who would be more guilty by the end of this day. The thought made him feel inhuman.

They came to another torn out brick wall like the one they had just passed. Walking through it they entered a large room of newer-looking wood supporting old masonry. In front of them was a heavy looking iron door with two barricade bars and a small screened opening in the middle. On either side of the door stood guards. In the far corner sat four more guards at a table, rolling dice and cursing one another. Next to the opening they just walked out of there was a low table with some lamps, some long tapers, a funnel and a jug of oil.

Othel set about lighting a lamp and started going through some particulars. “We’ll be going through the main housing. Stay in the middle of the walkway. The housing is unlit, so keep close to me. I’ll be holding the lamp. Don’t try to approach any prisoner unless they’re fully restrained. If they speak, don’t answer. If they try to reach out for you don’t flinch. It’s best not to acknowledge them at all. Don’t even look at them. When we get to the other side you can let your guard down but until then stay alert.”

With the lamp lit, Othel walked over to the door with Herru in tow and spoke with one of the guards at the post. “We may be awhile. Send some food when it’s time to slop.” The guard nodded and removed he barricades, and they walked to the open door. Before they had even entered Herru recoiled at the smell. Evacuation of all kinds permeated the air with an odor so foul he wondered how anyone could survive it.

He stopped behind Othel, who said “You may want to hold your breath when you can.”

And then they walked in. Herru knew he was not supposed to look around, but he could not help but to examine what the lamplight revealed.

The housing was more of a wide hallway than a room proper. On either side of the walkway there were sets of bars and gates that reached from floor to ceiling and spanned the length of the room, forming two long enclosures that could not be called cells. They were pens. Places to keep people like livestock.

When the residents of this crude prison came into view, Herru gasped, mortified. Filthy, emaciated bodies were lying naked on moldy straw and bare mason stone. Excrement was everywhere. The men, having by far the greater number, were housed on the left. The few women jailed here were on the right, and most of them were of the tunhee.

Some bodies may have been lifeless. Others appeared to have little life left. A few were sitting hunched in the darkness, and they held up their hands to shadow their faces form the lamplight. When all you know is darkness, light is both your best friend and worst enemy.

A few made noises that could have been speech, or it could just as easily have been gibberish. Most of these pitiful convicts, tunhee, and political prisoners, however, were silent. Whether it was the darkness that broke them, or the diet, or the abuse, or the simple humiliation that all these creatures endured, the amazing part was the eerie quiet. Herru didn’t understand why they made so little sound. He didn’t want to.

Stepping through the housing as fast as they could without giving away fear, they reached the door on the other side without incident. Othel used a key fastened to his belt to unlock the door and they ducked into the next chamber. Herru exhaled in relief. He hadn’t really tried to hold his breath as Othel advised, but that was just what he did most of way down the walkway.

At least this room had the dim light of a lamp already present. It was a square space, not very large, with three heavy doors opposite the wall they had just emerged from. A small table and two chairs seemed to fill the middle of the room while leaving plenty of space to walk.

“She’s in the middle one,” Othel said as he used the key to lock the door once more. “Everything you should need is there. If you need anything I’ll be just outside.”

Herru had figured Othel would find a way to be close. He just hoped the doors were thick enough to prevent eavesdropping. He didn’t trust this guard at all.

Striding around the table to the middle door, Herru stood to the side and waited for Othel to unlock it.

Othel smiled and said “There’s no lock from this side. You may enter when you please.”

Herru blinked, nodded, and turned to the door. He gripped the handle, but he did not open the door. He just stood there. He knew in his heart that this was it. Entering this room would mean he would be crossing a line that, he felt, should not be crossed. And he knew that when he left this room he would never be the same man. At that moment he wished to run screaming from this living tomb and never return.

But there really was no other way.

Steeling himself, he pushed the door open without entering. There was the Guardian, just as malnourished and bare as the other prisoners, except her nudity revealed brutalization. She was chained upright, spread eagle between two posts to which her wrists, ankles, waist, and neck were bound with manacles. Despite her head being bowed, the swelling blue lumps on her face and body showed the beating for what it was. Needless and cruel.

Herru then noticed the trace dried blood between her thighs. His fists clenched. If she was menstruating she may well still be bleeding, but her flow had stopped.

And he knew all Guardians were virgins.

Wheeling in anger to Othel, Herru stepped to one side to clear the field of vision for him.

“Was this really necessary?” he shouted, gesturing towards the Guardian.

Othel shrugged. “She resisted,” he said, and then he smirked. “When prisoners resist, we find it necessary to make an example of them.”

“And the rape,” Herru countered, “was that part of the example?”

“When my men perform well they deserve to be rewarded.”

Herru‘s jaw dropped. Not only was there no remorse with this monster, he seemed proud of what this woman had been subjected to.

“If this is your idea of reward I would hate to see your punishments.”

Othel started laughing. “What? Do you take me for a soft-hearted southerner? Some tunhee sympathizer? I’m in command, which means order must be enforced. Why else do you think those two in the kitchen were there? Because they wanted to be? They disobeyed my orders, and now they will work in the kitchen until their lungs whither from the smoke.

“In order to maintain discipline everyone needs to be reminded that actions have consequences.”

“Everyone except you, of course.”

Othel’s face turned hard at that remark, but Herru didn’t care. He walked into the middle door and slammed it shut behind him. When it shut he heard a metallic rattle, and he saw that there was a pin lock on the inside jamb. He locked the door. No sense in taking the risk in not securing the room.

He then faced his task, this Guardian that was so prone before him. He looked around the room. Othel had been right, all the tools were here in the room, ready for use. No sense in delaying the inevitable. Before he got started he carefully raised the woman’s chin with his hand and looked into her swollen, teary brown eyes. The pain he felt at that moment was intense, but not as bad as what the last part of her life would be. Before he broke his gaze and reached for a small razor mounted to one of the posts he said two words that meant little.

“I’m sorry.”



Othel sat at the table in the middle of the room with the now empty bowl of stew in front of him, and a full bowl at the opposite end. The stew was cool now. Noontime had come and gone, and that diplomatic errand boy had still not come out of the torture room. Strange, considering the screams had stopped some time ago.

The way the screams came were almost always consistent. They always had much pain in them, but Othel’s experience had taught him that there was a distinct pattern to how these things progressed.

First, there was shock in the screams of the subject, which was swiftly followed by a pleading, ‘don’t do this to me’ quality to their cries. Then there was anger. This stage could last anywhere from a few moments to a few days, depending on the subject’s stamina, determination and, of course, level of rage. Next came the sorrow, the deep emotional agony of the realization that a person could be so heartless as to perform this act on fellow living being. And then at last came despair. That was the crucial time when the truth would either be told or be buried in both the literal and figurative sense.

The fact that the screams had stopped didn’t trouble Othel. Though his ears were a bit dull with age, he could tell the witch was still in the ‘anger’ stage when she quieted. He figured the Marshall’s pet was taking a break. If, however, he was taking a break, then why not come out to eat his luncheon? Perhaps the whelp was having a little fun with the witch. Oh what a hypocrite that would make him! To be so outraged at the men for their impulse and then to give in to the temptation himself? Othel chuckled at the thought. He would have to investigate the possibility.

When the door opened awhile later Othel was surprised to note the blood on the diplomat’s clothes. If he wasn’t afraid to get dirty, maybe this Herru could be of use after all.

Shutting the door behind him the whelp walked over to his set place on the other side of the table. But he didn’t sit down. He just stood there with his hands on the chair opposite Othel, as if he were keeping himself from falling.

Othel couldn’t help himself. “Goin’ that good eh?”

The whelp just looked down at the bowl of stew. “We are done here,” he said after a moment, “please show me out of this place.”

Othel frowned. The little coward had killed her, and Othel had no use for men who gave way to mercy killings.

“You mean you have what you were sent for?”

Herru nodded.

“Well, alright then, lets get going.”

Othel grabbed the lamp and went to the door. As he unlocked the door he thought he heard the whelp mumble something. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be, so he motioned his hand to his ear to get the little brat to repeat himself.

“I said burn the body,” he said, “leave no trace.”

Nodding acknowledgement, Othel wondered to himself why the whelp had taken so long exiting the room. A fondness for corpses perhaps? He had long ago seen a soldier in his old unit have his way with a headless whore, but this boy behind him didn’t seem the type. Reminding himself to investigate, Othel led them back the way they came. They said nothing along the way. He knew he wouldn’t get anything good out of the brat. Not without a little persuasion. That would have to come later.

Escorting Herru through the upper ruins, Othel glanced around. This place had once been important in times long past. Those days had gone, as had the structure itself. But with another war, it could be important again. And so could he. He could get noticed. Even in this forsaken hellish wilderness he could get noticed. If the Wolves were going to cause the trouble they were capable of, then a good excuse for a war could be found. It had been many seasons since the last struggle with those tunhee-loving bastards to the south. Too many seasons, in fact. The time was right for a conflict. His comrades had confirmed the numbers via courier; they now had enough enlisted men. All they needed was a formal charge to level against the southern monarchies. The Wolves would be just the thing.

The whelp looked disheveled when he climbed into the ox-cart. His skin was even paler than when he first arrived, if such a thing were possible, and his slanted shoulders were slumped. He made no effort to move his blonde bangs from his face. Defeat was in his posture. Othel grinned all the while. These young officials had no idea how to insure a nation‘s survival. They were all too soft, too eager to surrender a whole culture to the perverse notions of southerners. But they would learn. They would learn soon.

The driver snapped the reigns, and the cart rolled onward towards the city.

“Give my greetings to our beloved Marshalls,” Othel called out as they left, “and take care. One never knows what the road may have in store for it’s traveler.”

In this case, of course, Othel knew exactly what the road held for the brat. They would never reach Alono. His comrades would see to that. Herru’s presence on the road would be the signal that he was untrustworthy. They would take him at dusk, find out what the whelp knew and make sure he was never found.

Striding back to the kitchen, Othel had one thing he had to do immediately. He had to see the body. His curiosity was too strong. As he walked through the old dining area the kitchen door opened and Arn, his lieutenant, emerged.

“Sir! You must come with me now, sir!”



“What do you mean ‘just gone?’ Bodies do not disappear into thin air!”

Othel could feel his face reddening. When Arn told him the body wasn’t in the torture room he hadn’t believed him. And now here he was, standing outside the very chamber the pale bastard had done his work, and the witch was nowhere to be found. Only a pool of congealing blood left any indication she was ever there.

She had to be alive. That was the only explanation.

“We are already searching sir,” Arn said, “but there is nowhere for her to go from here. I cannot explain it sir. She is not here, that is all I know.”

“Useless fools,” Othel spat. “She’s here, or that cursed brat pulled something on me.”

“Shall we retrieve him sir?”

“That will not be necessary,” Othel said. “Just find her. If you do not find her, then bring me something, Arn. Bring me something soon or do not report back. That is all.”

Arn saluted and marched to the housing, leaving Othel to fester in his own anger. Staring at the blood on the floor, he tried to understand how the little whelp had gotten the better of him.



When the evening sun was setting the deputy had asked if he felt alright, but Herru had not answered. He was lost in thought still, and this deputy would not understand the reasons for his despondency. Not only had he crossed a line he never thought he would today, but the news he received was worse than he could have imagined.

When the Guardian told him he didn’t want to believe it. It made sense, to be sure. But Herru could not understand how a man could do such a thing, to unleash such a terror on the world, regardless of why. There was treason afoot, and he had to inform his superiors.

She had spoken to him with quiet conviction. Her brown hair stained red with blood, her body quivering in pain, and even still her voice had been steady and calm. She said what she had to say and then simply died. She had bowed her head and stopped breathing. At first he thought she was faking. When he stabbed her limp body for the fourth time he knew she wasn’t, but he stood and watched her for a long while just to be sure. It was as if she had offered up her life to the Spirits these Guardians claimed to revere, and they had taken her out of mercy. It was enough to make him wonder.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when he heard the thump and the gurgle. Looking over at the Deputy, he saw the arrow protruding halfway out of his throat, and Herru knew his fate was sealed. He just sighed as the Deputy choked and died.

He understood now. He had wondered why a diplomat had been chosen for a task such as this, but now it was clear to him. It was all a test. The task was a test and he had failed. The traitors had rendered their judgment, and Herru knew he would die.

The oxen continued down the road on their own with no driver as Herru waited for the arrow to strike him. After a few moments it was clear that he would not die right away. That could only mean they had something worse in store for him.

Herru smiled. They would never know what he knew. He would make sure of that.

Reaching for the arrow that killed his companion he broke off the outer half and jammed it in his own jugular. This would be his private vengeance. There was still hope for the northern peoples, and it lay, in all places, south of the Wrone River. His death would insure the traitors would not learn what the Guardians already knew somehow. As Herru started to drown in his own blood, he felt his body being lifted by shouting men, and he thought of the terrible justice that was being done. He had killed, and now he was dying by his own hand. And while his conscience was not clear, at least he still had a conscience.

Unlike the traitors. Anyone who would do what they were…

Portfolio entry information

Author
Sparkie
Read time
17 min read
Views
1,010
Last update

More entries in Book Chapters

More entries from Sparkie

Top