Chapter 1
It was a cold, damp place with endless coursing of bluish-grey, wet stone bricks stacked from the floor to the ceiling. Mushrooms and moss grew from the aged and decrepit stonework; it was the only sign of life in this dank, dark place. The place was silent; only the occasion water dripping echoed down its halls. However, the silence of this place was disturbed by purposeful marching. The sound of something heavy being dragged, as rushed footsteps splashed into small puddles of water that the damp from the walls had created.
Suddenly, a warm orange glow illuminated the slimy-looking walls. The light source shone from a man’s hand as he held a torch boldly in front of himself. As he passed the torches hung from the walls beside him, he lit them individually. This man looked out of place in this dark, dank dungeon; he wore fine clothes of dark blue silk embroidered with gold lace. His long features made his face look effeminate as he walked tall and elegantly extended his limbs as if every movement was purposeful and well-rehearsed. His dark brown hair, long and straight, flowed behind him, catching the wind as he walked at a fast pace to his destination. Although he appeared to walk fast, his walk was unhurried.
However, the heavy footsteps echoing down the narrow halls were not from his steps. Soon behind him followed two men; broad, muscle-bound, brutish-looking men dressed in cheap, broken leather patchwork armour. It was mercenary armour. Their faces were deeply cast in shadow hidden beneath their hoods; between them, they held a young woman, still just a teenager. They pulled this young woman by her thin yet muscular arms. As her feet dragged behind on the floor, leaving a small trail of blood as her skin was torn against the rough stones. She wore only a thin, heavily torn nightdress, displaying evidence of a struggle, of a fight. Her head hung heavy, her chin resting on her chest, bobbing from side to side with the mercenaries’ movements. Her face was covered by her long raven hair that fell almost to her thighs, but it was knotted and matted, giving her a crazed, wild look.
The effeminate-looking man who walked before them stopped at an ancient, heavy wooden cell door. He opened the lock, making a loud clang as he pushed the door open. The cell was dirtier, damper and foul-smelling than the rest of the dungeon. The dried blood on the walls indicated the room’s use. He stood by the door and nodded to the men. They seemed to understand his gesture as they walked into the room and dropped the woman with a thud on the floor. She let out a yelp as she landed with her total weight on her knees on the cold stone floor.
The two men took a step back as the effeminate man closed the door and walked in front of the tortured young woman. The silence seemed to have made the woman curious. Laboured, she slowly looked up at the man walking towards her. She shook from the pain and the cold as her hot breath pushed from her lips like a small cloud. Her hair stuck to her from the grazes, covering her face with her face covered with dark matted hair; only her piercing grey eyes peeped from the darkness.
The man knelt to her, shaking his head in disappointment. “Gwendolyn... Why have you forced my hand? I told you, you will never escape from here. You will never escape me. You thought you were clever, didn’t you? You may have predicted my actions using Conan to aid your escape, but I have always been one step ahead of you. Although, you did not help yourself keeping that journal of yours.” He tutted at her as he shook his head. She gritted her teeth, narrowing her eyes at him, but stayed still. She did not move to attack him, although she showed signs of violence. He smiled, watching her, watching how she struggled. “You understand I must punish you now?” He stood up, turning his back to her; he paced the room slowly, holding his chin in thought. “But how you ask? That is an excellent question, Gwen.” He responded for her, “I have taken everything you love, everything you cherish. Your clothes, your makeup, your jewellery, even your room. It is becoming increasingly difficult to punish you.” She gave a small and breathy, pained laugh. “Maybe you should just let me go; I’m obviously not learning my lesson.” The effeminate man turned to her and smiled sadistically. “Nice try, Gwen, but no. I must be firm. I have been too soft on you in the past.”
“Yes! The torture and the starvation beforehand were far too soft of a punishment. What could you possibly have planned for me that is any worse than what you have already done to me?”
Again, he knelt before her, closer than before and with the same sadistic smile. Gwendolyn tensed her arms, gritting her teeth as she smelt his sweetly perfumed breath. It made her uncomfortable how close he knelt to her. “Have you seen any of the torture equipment from your homeland? It is decorated in such a beautiful fashion.” Slowly, he pulled a whip from behind his back by magic, but it was no ordinary whip. This was finely decorated in silver with a dragon carved on the handle. Nine ropes knotted its length, and at the ends sat intricately carved gold-coloured eagle’s head with very sharp-looking beaks. The young woman’s eyes widened in fear as she analysed every inch of the torture device. She began to shake; she knew exactly what was coming.
Her eyes quickly looked at his, pleading, “Searle... please? You don’t have to do this. You have scared me. I promise I won’t try to escape again. I have learnt my lesson.” He smiled, shaking his head at her. “It is but words, and I am afraid words from your vile, vicious little mouth mean nothing. You will not disobey me again after this. I am sure of it.” Tears began to fill her eyes, and her lips quivered as fear had her struck to the core. “Please, Searle, please, I beg you. Send me to the wolves! Send me to Súslstede! Starve me! Beat me! But please, not that! You will disfigure me.” He held her chin softly, looking down his nose at her. “I know you pride your beauty over all else, and this is the last thing I can take from you.” He moved away from her, her eyes wide and manic as she breathed heavier. “Searle... Searle... Please, Gods! No! Don’t do this!!” She tried
to reach out for him, to plead with him, but her arms were pulled up and
outstretched on either side of herself by an unseen force. It was his magic that moved her.
She continued to look at him with tears, but pleading and crying did not help. She was not going to be saved. The Mage handed the cat o’ nine tails to one of the mercenaries. Gwendolyn’s eyes were wide as she watched whoever held the instrument of torture. “Please don’t do this.” She whispered desperately, but neither of the men listened to her anguished cries. Both mercenaries stood behind her, and her tearful gaze was fixed on the Mage. She shook her head at him, pleading, but he only smiled back at her. It made her sick how much he enjoyed seeing her in so much pain. She felt her hair being pushed from her back surrounding her face, and then two hands gripped at her dress and, in one swift movement, tore at the clothing to reveal her back. Gwendolyn shot Searle a curious grin, still teary-eyed, but he was most stunned by her slight smile. “You don’t have to do this.” She said in a threatening manner.
He didn’t understand how or why she had quickly changed from despairing to intimidating. He knew it must be a trap to stop him from punishing her. He was used to her games and had seen so many of them in the past. He gave her a stern, cold look, then, still not moving his eyes from hers, he nodded to the mercenary that held the whip. “Proceed.” He said coldly. Gwendolyn waited for the pain; she tensed, but it was unlike any pain she had experienced before. The first strike to her back, she opened her mouth wide, but the pain was so intense she could not scream, she could not move; all she could do was stare into Searle’s dark eyes.
The eagle heads had latched into her. She felt as the man tugged, but they were hooked into her skin. He gave another tug, and she felt her skin stretch. She gritted her teeth with a growl; suddenly, on the third tug, she felt the hooks rip through her skin; she let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the passages of the old, abandoned dungeon. Her head fell to her chest as she panted.
“How many whips?” She heard the mercenary ask. She smiled to herself even as she shook from her pain. She knew then the sight of her back must have been horrific; she heard it in his voice, and he wanted to stop. Again, she slowly looked up to Searle with that small, curious smile. It angered him to see her smile, and she knew it. “Six more times,” he said, looking behind her to the mercenary that held the whip. Then, slowly and maliciously, he moved his eyes to Gwendolyn, “one for each year we have spent together.”
“You are such a romantic, Searle,” Gwendolyn whispered with an
exhausted laugh. His face twisted in anger; he looked to the mercenary and nodded for him to continue.
Quickly, she gritted her teeth as the lashings fell upon her skin in quick
succession again; her eyes widened, and her lips opened to a swift, panicked breath. It wasn’t just the pain that affected her, almost rendering her unconscious; it was the sound of the wet rope slapping against her skin; she knew it was wet with her blood. She felt her skin split and tear, then slowly felt the hot, sticky blood running down her back, bottom, and over her feet. The blood slowly pooled, surrounding her in a crimson puddle. She felt as though she were about to pass out. The pain was becoming unbearable as she could feel flaps of her skin rolling away from her back, her back burning with the pain. She shook uncontrollably, trying desperately to stay awake.
However, a sound distracted her, the sound of heavy breathing. She could barely believe how unfit the mercenary was! She looked up to Searle as she heard the mercenary behind her panting out of breath. “You need to hire fitter mercenaries next time.” She whispered, her voice shaken in her agony. The mercenary cursed at her. “How is she still conscious!?” One of the men exclaimed behind her. “I told you she is no normal girl. Again! Strike her!” Searle ordered. The man screamed as he hit her. Gwendolyn gritted her teeth, staring at Searle. “Again!” He cried, another lashing, but still, she stared at him. “Again! Again! AGAIN!” Three more lashings and the man panted as if he were about to keel over; Gwendolyn’s head had fallen to her chest; she heard Searle’s breath quicken in his rage.
She cried, shaking at her pain, at her torture. He smiled slowly as Gwendolyn’s cry turned into a laugh; his smile quickly faded. He looked at her with anger, snarling at her laugh. “What is so funny, Gwen?” She shook her head, laughing harder; slowly, she looked into his eyes. “I thought you said you were always one step ahead of me?” Her words were slow, and her voice shook in her pain. Searle looked down at her, confused, and he didn’t understand how she was still conscious, let alone able to talk. He saw from the blood surrounding her she had to be in immense pain.
He slowly saw how her eyes began glowing a bright, inhuman blue light. He watched as she smiled, licking the blood from her lips. He felt her power grow, but he didn’t understand! She wore a choker engraved with magic binding spells, specially made for Gwendolyn to bind her of all her magical gifts. The supernatural gifts he gave her. He watched, horrified, as she slowly sat up with her back straight. She broke the spell that held her arms outstretched with a flick of her wrists. She rolled her shoulders, relieving the pressure, and stared at Searle’s dumbfounded face. “How are you doing this?” He whispered, flabbergasted.
She took hold of the choker and threw it to the floor. Searle slowly stepped away from her, readying himself for a fight; he knew what she could do, hence why he had forced her to wear the choker. “You didn’t check to see if it was secured.” Gwendolyn rubbed her neck. The skin was blistered and raw from where it had sat on her neck for many years. He looked at her, panic-stricken. He felt her
energy increase like electric static in the air. He knew what was coming. He knew then precisely why she had endured the lashings even as she had access to her powers. He knew why she smiled, even as the agonising pain must have been the only sense she felt. Gwendolyn raised her arms, her palms facing the ceiling; as her arms raised, so did the blood from the floor, levitating, defying gravity. Searle surrounded himself in a circular misty force, preventing any magic from anyone else from penetrating it and causing him harm. He watched her wary, feeling as she called upon the dark.
They heard them before they saw them, their hot, laboured breath, the creaking of their movements, their long, sharp claws dragging across the stone floor. Both mercenaries screamed and shouted as they saw the red eyes glowing from the shadows. “What is that?!” One screamed. Searle watched on, amazed at her strength and how she conjured so quickly. He remembered when it would give her a nosebleed to call upon just one demon. Still, now he saw twenty standing behind her, crawling and licking their lipless mouths as they stared at the two mercenaries. Eerily slow, they moved from the shadows creeping towards the two men; both men stood still, terrified to run, the demon’s long and skinny limbs moving every inch closer.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn’s gaze did not move from Searle as she stared at him with insidious intent. “Kill them quick,” Gwendolyn said softly. “Yes, Mistress.” Her demons answered all at once in almost one voice. Their eyes widened in excitement, and both men screamed, running past her, but she saw from the corners of her eyes as they stopped in mid-flight. Two demons slid up from each of the men’s shadows. They towered over them, opening their mouths impossibly wide, both at the same time, bit down on both mercenary’s necks, swallowing their entire heads in one bite. Both bodies fell to the floor, spraying blood from their headless neck. Searle watched on, horrified at his creation. He had seen her do many terrible things, but he had never been so close to the violence before, to smell the blood, to feel the fear.
Gwendolyn’s demons quickly turned their sights onto Searle. “No!” She said firmly. “You won’t kill him.” Gwendolyn held out her hands as the blood floated in a long string to her hand and coiled around her forearm. She used the blood like magic whips, hitting at his magical shield. The spell was holding, but it was weakening; he was frightened she was more powerful than him for the first time since giving her this gift. He threw a magic force at her, but to his horror, a nearby demon jumped in front of her and ate the spell, just opening its mouth and suddenly rendering the magic powerless. He watched it completely perplexed; he had no idea how that was possible. To his surprise, he didn’t realise Gwendolyn surrounded his protective sphere in her blood, creeping from the floor. He watched on helplessly as the blood crawled up the sphere, wrapping him in complete darkness. Searle then heard the breathing of her demons inside the sphere. Searle dropped his spell in a panic and saw Gwendolyn standing face-to-face with him. Her blood was in the shape of a
dagger in her hand. Searle looked at her wide-eyed. She grabbed his robe and pushed him against the wall, holding the bloody blade to his throat.
He couldn’t move, and he could not believe her strength. It was as if a block of iron pressed him into the wall. He regretted giving her that mutation. He honestly didn’t understand how imitating she was until he stood on the wrong side of her, as Searle was no longer controlling her, as he stood a mere hair width from death. “You have no idea how much I want to kill you.” She whispered, her voice still shaking from the pain. “You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this.” She threw the dagger to the floor and grabbed his throat, pulling her face closer to his. “All the times you sent me to Súslstede, all the times you tortured me, starved me, mutated me, cut me open for your experiments, every time I was thinking of how I would murder you.”
She tightened her grip on his throat, then slowly stepped back, letting him go in a final act of mercy. “Remember this, Searle. Remember that I spared your life. In return, I ask you to leave me be.” Searle held his throat, looking at her fiercely, his eyes dark and his lips curled. “You will regret this, girl.” Gwendolyn looked at him with saddened eyes; he saw her conflict, which surprised him. “Goodbye, Searle.” She saw the spell he was about to conjure, but Gwendolyn quickly put her hand into a fist and punched him across the face; he collapsed to the ground, instantly unconscious. The demons laughed, looking at him. “We can eat him, Mistress or your paths will cross again.” Gwendolyn closed her eyes and looked away. “No, no, we must leave. We must leave now.” Gwendolyn took one last look at the man, the Mage, who had given her so much yet had also taken so much. She tightened her jaw and threw open the door, running down the cold, dark corridors. Gwendolyn knew where she was going and what she wanted, as Searle wasn’t wholly right; there was one thing he did not take from her. She ran so fast that she skidded as Gwendolyn stopped at a cell door; she looked into it and instantly smiled. “Shadow? Shadow, come on. We are leaving now!”
As she opened the cell door, a Friesian horse with raven-coloured hair like hers greeted her as if joyful, throwing its head to and fro. The horse was so large it barely fit in the cell towering over her. The horse nuzzled Gwendolyn’s face with affection. She smiled as she patted the mare’s jaw “Good girl, follow me.” Gwendolyn quickly picked up a small wooden box before moving out of the cell with the horse.
The demons moved through the shadows obediently. Shadow followed Gwendolyn into a vast laboratory room at the end of seemingly endless corridors. Panicked, Gwendolyn hadn’t thought her plan through; she knew she would incapacitate Searle; Gwendolyn knew she would make it to his laboratory and escape through a portal. She had seen Searle open many portals in seven years, but she had never done it herself.
She looked about the lab; her breathing was laboured, her head span, she was losing blood, and she was losing it fast. Gwendolyn held on to her horse, feeling her strength fade. Her demons moved closer to her. Even in their fearsome state, they showed concern for her, for she was their Mistress. “We can show you how to open the portal, Mistress. You must hurry. You must not die.” Gwendolyn’s eyes were heavy, and their voices seemed to become more and more distant. “Come, show me.” She breathed, her eyes barely open. “Help me open a portal to the outside, anywhere... As long as it is far from here, I don’t care.” They all gathered around her. The two taller Demons stood on either side of her. “Hold on to us, Gwendolyn. The animal will scare. We will support you.” Sluggishly, she moved one arm around her demon’s pointed and bony shoulder. She was not surprised how its skin felt; it was almost too hot, thick, leathery skin over nothing but bone. She let her other hand slide from Shadow, and heavily, she threw her arm over the shoulder of a demon to her left. They both looked at her and smiled their lipless smile. “Are you ready?” They all asked as one. Gwendolyn found it hard to talk. Her breath became so laboured that she could not summon enough air to make a sound; she nodded instead. “You must concentrate, Mistress. Use your energy. Repeat the words after us.”
Gwendolyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath; slowly, as she opened her eyes, they blazed a brilliant, bright, inhuman blue. The demons looked at her and continued to smile. They began to speak a language she did not understand, but she felt herself flow into a trance as she repeated their words. She felt her energy building, growing and hovering before herself until she heard that all-so-familiar sound. With the low hum, the deep rumbling and swirling of air, she smiled as she saw the colours of orange and black spark like the beginnings of a fire until the air was electrified. In a small implosion, a circular portal opened in front of her. Gwendolyn heard Shadow as she snorted at the energy in the room and reared away from the portal. Gwendolyn gave a small, breathy, triumphant laugh looking into the portal; she looked to her demons, feeling a sudden surge of energy. “GWENDOLYN!” She heard Searle scream down the hall. “Ride!” Gwendolyn cried; with her rise of adrenaline, she ran to Shadow. With all her might, she jumped up and mounted the fifteen-hand high horse with an exasperated grunt. She looked down at her demons, “Please, stay here. Keep Searle distracted until the portal has closed, then return to your realm.” They bowed to her. “As you wish, Mistress.”
“GWENDOLYN!” Searle roared, his voice closer this time. Gwendolyn held on to Shadow’s neck and pushed her heels into the mare’s side. “Now, Shadow, ride!” The horse did as she commanded and ran straight into the portal.
Gwendolyn’s heart raced; they were thrown out of the portal in a blink of an eye. She had no idea where they were but did not look back. It was a dark, moonless night, but Gwendolyn did not care. It was the first time she had seen the outside world without Searle to control her in seven years. She smelt the clean, fresh air of the forest, even as she felt faint from her blood loss, and Gwendolyn was barely conscious; still, she smiled. She smiled because she was free for the first
time in her life. But now was no time to rest; Gwendolyn needed help and healing fast. The once-quiet forest rattled with unrest as she raced through the undergrowth on her raging mare. The mare looked like a fiend as she snarled and foamed at the mouth, spooked by the events that led them to this place. Gwendolyn savagely clung to the mares’ mane with no saddle and clutched her wooden box.
It was a cold winter’s night, and their breaths could be seen in the freezing night air. Just beyond the trees, she saw hope and lights acting as a beacon from the torment she was attempting to escape. She dug her bare heels into the mare, trying desperately to run faster towards the lights, but the mare needed no encouragement.
As they broke through the tree line, Gwendolyn saw a small village. The lights were shining, and the candles were still burning, so hopefully, there would be someone, just anyone, to help her. Breathing heavily, almost wheezing, she attempted to look back; she saw nothing. She prayed Searle had not followed her through the portal and that it had closed in time! Her heartbeat rhythmically in her chest with the same thudding beat as the horse’s hoofs on the woodland undergrowth.
She tried to scream her horse’s name to relieve herself of some adrenaline, in some vain attempt to get her mare to rider faster, to be closer to help, and to safety. Still, she couldn’t make any sounds. She was cold, exhausted and hurt. All she could manage was a throaty moan. All she could focus on was the wet
cobbled path leading the way to the unprepared peasant village. The village was getting closer, so close now she could make out the thatched roof details of the housing in the dark.
A streetlamp fired by the village entrance, flickering in the winter wind. A wooden sign embossed with the village’s name, ‘Blostmamarket’, swung back and forth on its hinges, squeaking as it did so, but Gwendolyn had no concern about the village’s name; all she needed was help.
The mare finally reached the mortared road. It was almost as exhausted as its rider and stumbled with the change in terrain. Gwendolyn clamped down with her bare hands on the poor mare’s mane; she tried so hard to maintain her balance on the back of the horse, with her muscles bulging in every inch of her arms. She winced as she felt the skin around her wounds stretch and bled more as she tensed her back. But it was all in vain; upon entering the village, Shadow’s hoof landed on a patch of ice, making one of the horse’s front legs collapse beneath her. As the mare’s head fell forward, so did the entirety of Gwendolyn. Her back slammed flat, bare and bloody, straight on the iced floor. The pain was almost unbearable; with the wind knocked from her lungs, Gwendolyn felt her vision begin to fade, but still, she clung to her wooden box.
‘Maybe someone will find me here.’ She thought, ‘Maybe someone will pull me into the warm and help me.’ She sorely let her head fall to one side, and she watched her blood flow away from her, steaming in the cold air as the fluid coursed into the crevices of the mortared street. She was losing blood fast and didn’t have much longer to live. If she didn’t move now, it was all for nothing, and Searle would have won! Although she was sure he would not have seen it that way. After all, she was an object, and influential men did not like to lose expensive and rare treasures.
Making herself angry, she dug deep and lethargically, she rolled to one side. Grunting and groaning, she pulled her hands up to either side of her chest. She painted as she used every last ounce of her strength to lift herself to her feet. She exhaled violently, pushing herself up. Then, unexpectedly, she felt a tug at her dress. She looked up and saw the horse, her mare, with her dress in her mouth, as if Shadow was trying to lift her rider. Gwendolyn had no strength to smile, but her eyes turned glassy with grateful tears. She padded the mare’s jaw as she slowly reached her feet. “Thank you, Shadow.” Gwendolyn’s voice sounded laboured and almost silent on the winter night.
Limping and with a slightly hunched back, Gwendolyn lurched to every nearby house, bashing on every front door she could find. “Help me, please!” She screamed at the top of her voice, “Please, someone help me!” As she slowly moved through the village’s high street, one by one, the lights in the houses were snuffed out, as if no one was home and as if she wouldn’t notice. With each unanswered door and each snuffed candle, her hopes diminished. ‘There must be a tavern or an Inn’, she thought ‘, someone to take me in’. Shadow followed closely behind her as if feeling the panic.
Then, like a light in the dark, Gwendolyn heard hinges squeaking. As she looked up, she saw a sign, the ‘Hound and Hare’, and the lights had not been snuffed out. She limped as fast as she could towards the sign; she pulled herself up the three steps of the stairs, holding almost all her weight on the handlebars. Panting, she tried to scream for help, but she soon noticed how heavy her hair felt; with her hands slipping on the handlebars, she looked down to see her arms and hands were completely covered in blood. Her head spun, and she fell into the Inn’s front door. Her vision was fuzzy; all she heard were noises and voices as if she were submerged in water. She did not see shapes but different blobs of light. She felt herself being moved, but her body was fighting to stay awake.
The landlord of the Inn came rushing from behind the bar of the closed tavern. Silent and empty, the sound of the body falling down panicked everyone residing in the establishment. The landlord was a tall, skinny man with a kind face. His clothes and appearance showed he worked hard and had little time for cosmetics. He rushed to the body lying on his tavern floor. He gasped as he saw the woman’s back torn to ribbons. Her back just looked like a mass of raw meat. He quickly took off his waistcoat and laid it next to her; he rolled her over onto
her back, hoping the waistcoat would absorb some of the blood or, at the very least, slow her bleeding. He pulled at the mass of matted, bloody hair from her face. He gasped at her youth and was surprised by her beauty. “How could anyone do this to such a girl?” He whispered to himself. He soon heard a soft footstep behind him.
A petite young girl around eight stood cold and unconfident, with her knees knocking together. She curled a strand of her long blonde hair nervously around a finger. “Father?” She asked softly. He turned to her in a hurry, but his voice remained calm. “Lottie, this lady is hurt and needs our help. Can you bring me towels, boil water, and everything we own in the medicine box?”
“But Father, who is she?” The girl asked, shaking.
“I do not know, Lottie, but please hurry. She is badly hurt!” As he raised his voice slightly, the girl ran off to do as her Father asked.
The landlord focused on the mysterious woman, with no idea who she was and where she had come from, but he had an overwhelming urge to look after her and keep her safe. He held her face softly, concerned by how cold her skin felt. He was surprised she wasn’t already dead. “Can you hear me?” He asked, “We are going to help you.” Gwendolyn slowly opened her bloodshot eyes: she was not wholly lucid, still clutching her small wooden box, but she felt safe for the first time in her life. Gwendolyn thought she would be looked after with kindness she had never felt before. She smiled gradually as she looked into the Innkeeper’s kind brown eyes. “Thank you.” She whispered before closing her eyes and allowing herself, her body, to pass out from the trauma, the pain and the blood loss.
