Thrown Into the Fire

The dull repetitive dripping of water echoed through the danky stone halls and cells of the dungeon under the royal navy fortress at Bayfell. The were seedy, gross, and wet, with a blanket of hot suffocating humid air that stunk of stale piss and wrench. Quiet moans and distant cries of agony accompanied the sound of dripping water and squawking seagulls outside. For a dungeon, the cells were well-lit by warm sunlight streaming in from the barred windows that opened up to the main courtyard above, a small promise of freedom in the darkness. Water, mud, and piss occasionally seeped in through the rusted bars, but at least there was some fresh air and the rare breeze. The cells were divided by thick iron bars, and a few of cells had silver-steel bars for the special prisoners. The dungeons were almost empty, only housing a few enemy spies or valuable political prisoners. King Maticor’s men rarely ever kept prisoners here for than a few days. All of the silver cells were left unoccupied save for one.

At the end of the hall slumped over resting her head against the wall was a sickly hollow shell of a woman. She was tall and lanky with a slight muscular frame. Her skin was usually a light shade of brown but her face now was sick and gangrenous. Bruises and scabbed over cuts covered her in a canvas of black, blue, purple, and brown. The edges of long curved lash marks peeked out from the neck of her tunic. One of her vibrant tawny eyes was swollen shut and surrounded by painful black flesh, feverish and throbbing. At one time before the numerous whipping and beating, she would have been striking with her small nose and full pliant lips. But now her nose was broken in two places, the bridge bent painfully to the left, and her nostrils were caked with dried blood. Additionally, her bottom lips was busted and raw. It had barely healed from the last punch. Lastly her battered face was framed by a mop of messy wavy raven locks that had been crudely shearn short. The hair was sweaty and tangled with gross patches matted with blood.

The woman herself had once been a breath-taking sight, but imprisonment had reduced to a withered husk of a person. Clamped around her neck was a heavy iron collar that was chained to the wall. A silver vice was fastened down on her right hand. It was bulky like a glove and was inscribed with several strange runes that occasionally pulsed with a faint crimson glow. When it puzzled, she would groan and wince as her power surged and energy burned in her veins. Through the metal, she could hear the mark hissing and crackling with violent magic. The veins in her right bulged up from her flesh and emitted a faint blue glow. Her magic was swelling. She hadn’t cast spells in over a month. It was becoming painful, as the osung of light footsteps coming down the hall hit her ears.

She looked up and stared at the door. She shuffled closer to the bars for a better look. Walking down the west corridor was a petite elderly woman with wiry long hair pulled back in a tight bun and a rough wrinkly face. She was dressed in a plain tan blouse, and a long brown skirt under a simple black apron. Tucked under her arm was a wooden bucket of water with some rags and wire brushes hanging over the side of the bucket. Hanging from her hip where the cell keys, which jingled as she walked. She walked stopping finally at her cell. The old woman reached for the keys and unlocked the door with quivering hands. Slowly, she pushed the cell door open. After walking inside, she paused taking a moment to examine the tattered woman in chains. The younger woman noticed a glimmer of fear flash across her eyes, as the old lady laid eyes on her glowing veins.

“The guards weren’t lying,” muttered the old woman in high shrill voice, as she set her bucket down the floor with a thud. She picked her wire brush and took a step closer. The prisoner looked her directly in eyes glaring at her with her one good eye.

“No, they weren’t,” she spat before slumping her head back against the wall. Her voice was dry, rough, and hoarse. There was a long pause, before she glared at the old woman again and spoke. “Did you come here just to stare?” she grumbled bitterly with her voice regaining a bit of its old strength.

“They want you cleaned up before-”

“My execution,” finished the younger woman cutting her off. “Get on with it. I want to get this over with.”

“All right,” replied the old woman bending down to dunk the rag in the water.

For about the next half-hour, the old woman cleaned the other woman’s wounds, wiping and scrubbing away the dried blood, dirt, and puss. She did her best to clean off the filth and grime. It helped some but at some point it was impossible to wash away it all. The blood and mud blended in with a cascade of bruises, scars, and cuts. The young woman sat in silence, as the old woman scrubbed her skin and washed her hair brushing it out a little with her fingers. The old woman was tender and gentle with soft touches and light pressure. The cool water felt good on her skin. She purred happily, as the woman cleaned her back. It helped distract her from the throbbing pain in her hand and arm. But like all things, the wash came to an end. When she finished, the old woman put her brushes and rags into the now empty bucket. As she moved to leave, the young woman looked up.

“Thank you,” she declared. The old woman looked back for a brief moment with pity in her eyes, before leaving and locking the cell door behind her. She stared up looking out her window as she listened to the old lady’s soft footsteps echoing of the cold stone walls. She shifted slightly hugging her knees to her chest, as the reality of her situation finally set in. Before she slipped to deeply into her thoughts, the sound of five men marching down the corridor hit her ears. She swallowed.

A few seconds later, the men walked into view of her cell. It was a squad of four prison guards and a royal executor that she recognized from her trail. The executor was short willowy man with a pudgy pop belly. He had dark short brown hair and a pair of soft dull green eyes, like a baby. While the guards were dressed in armour and carried spears and shields, the executor carried a ledger on his arm and a quill in his hand. Narrowing her gaze she locked eyes, with the frail man. Then, one of the guards unlocked the door with his keys.

“Pick her up,” commanded the executor in a high shrill voice. The guards nodded and walked into the room. Grabbing her by the shoulders they hauled up onto her feet. Their grip was tight and violent digging their gloved fingers deep into her shoulders. She yelped suddenly as one guard forced her arms behind her back and snapped a set of shackles on her wrists and elbows. Meanwhile, another guard unlock her collar and it dropped to the floor with a loud boom.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked directing her voice to the executor but a guard answered.

“Where do you think you’re going? Bitch!” growled a guard aggressively spitting in her face. She watched as the executor’s brow furrowed and stared down the offending guard.

“Lefroy!” he snapped in his best stern voice. “Don’t do that again! She’s dangerous! Remember that!” After that his voice wavered. “Bring her….let’s get this over with.” The guard, Lefroy, nodded silently. They lugged her out into the corridor. One guard pushed her from behind while two other pulled her by the arms. The fourth guard stood close by with his hands resting on his sword’s hilt ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. The group journeyed down the hall with the executor leading the way. She walked in silence with eyes forward, head held high, and a stern frown etched across her lips. Outwardly she seemed stern and unconcerned, but inside her heart pounded in her ears like a great pounding war drum. Her heart beat faster with each step she took down the hall; each step she took closer to her death. She was brought up a short flight of stairs and through a door that led out into the main courtyard.

The yard was huge and surrounded by high stone ramparts on all sides. Across the yard were a set of newly constructed gallows, made from light pine wood with one high pole strung up for a noose. Momentarily, her eyes widened as she saw the gallows. A giant crowd had amassed in the yard packed tightly into the square, eager, loud, and rowdy. They wanted a show. She saw all kinds of people come to watch, men, women, and children. The sound of their chatter and laughter filled the air, but all of it vanished as the guards guided her through the sea of bodies. They parted around the group. Their beady eyes watched her with a mix of fear and excitement. After taking her across the courtyard, the guards forced her up the stairs of the gallows platform. Her steps were hard and heavy. Once on the platform, the guards brought her to the edge of the platform and forced her down on her knees.

From her vantage point, she could see the whole crowd. As she stared out at the myriad of people, the crowd once again broke out into a roar of shouting and excited cheering. She wept her eyes of the sea of human bodies. In the crowd, she glimpsed a young mother with a fierce furiously eager look in her eyes and a small blonde boy clutching her skirt. An older gentleman who looked on with a tight-lipped smile and a proud glimmer in his eye. A ebony-haired maiden who stared up at her in horror. A small blue-eyed boy hoised up on his father’s broad shoulders who looked at the gallows in confusion at the gallows and uproar around him. A willowy frail old woman on the far side of the yard, who looked at her beaten bloodied form in only pity and sadness. It was as she’d been defeated. The last thing she noticed, as another set of boots marched up the stairs, was a tall shadowy figure on the edge of the crowd with their shoulder leaned against a stack of crates. They were wrapped in a long heavy black fur cloak that went almost to the ground with the hood pulled over their head and a quiver slung across his back. She couldn’t see their face through the shroud of shadow.

Suddenly, her attention was stolen when an official sounded an annoying high-pitched horn. A wave of silence wafted over the crowd, and quiet consumed the courtyard. It was so quiet that she could hear the guard’s soft inhaling and exhaling. Turning her head ot the side, she caught a glimpse of the fortress’s inquisitor. The inquisitor of Bayfield was a tall stunningly built man with wide broad shoulders and firm strong muscles, a complete departure from the tiny executor. He had short crisply-groomed dark brown hair that was matched by a fine beard. If he wasn’t a stern military dog, who was about to have her hanged, she would have called him attractive. He was dressed in an official long gray coat over a fine maroon tunic, black vest, and black trousers. As the musician lowered his horn, the inquisitor stepped forward to face the people several feet below with pride and happiness beaming off his fair face.

“Citizens of Bayfell!” he began. His voice loud and arrogant. His face practically glowed. “We have brought you all here today on behalf of honorable King Manticor to bring justice to this,” He pointed at the shaking broken woman in front of him. Her heart started to pound and blood roared in her ears. Her breathing was shallow and hurried. She struggled to keep herself under control, but her body betrayed her. She stared up at the gray overcast sky. “Rebel scum. Today justice will be served. Her blood for those who lost their lives in this bloody ceaseless civil war. Vengeance will be ours,” he declared. The crowd roared and cheered in belent approval. Her eyes started to water. Clenching her eyes shut, she fought the urge to cry. She knew what was coming. The executor handed the inquisitor a rough parchment scroll. “Today, we bring you the infamous Laryn Foley, otherwise known as the “Blue Reaver.” She is a well-known for her association with the rebel Storm Knights and the treacherous rebel leader Clovis Einar. But now her days of reaving and raping are over!” he pauses as he unrolled the scroll to read off her charges as per procedure. A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek at the mention of Einar’s name. Foley barely managed to bite back a pained whimper. The inquisitor coughed to gain some quiet and started to speak again in a deeper more official tone. “Laryn Foley, the realm has found you guilty on the charges of: treason, knavery, theft, assault, battery, disturbing the peace, conspiring to overthrow the monarchy, enticing rebellion, murder, and espionage….” As he continued to read off her offenses, it took all of her strength not to shake. She stared up at the sky closing her eyes and trying to drown out all the noise. She focused on the smell of salt in the air and the thrashing of waves off in the distance, doing her best to stay calm. “You have been declared an enemy of the crown and threat to the realm. By royal decree, you have been sentenced to death by hanging.” As the damning words left his lips, the crowd erupted into to a grand roar of approval. Then, the guards hauled her up onto her feet. She could barely stand. Her face was blank and absent, as they slipped the noose around her neck. Once the rope was around her throat, they stepped back leaving her alone in the middle of the platform.

“I’m really going to die,” was the only thought that went through her head. The inquisitor smirked viciously. “Laryn Foley, as per procedure. Do you have any last words?” he asked proudly. “How did I get here?” she moaned.

“Just get on with it already, you bastards! I’ve suffered enough,” she hissed; her voice was almost a snarl. The inquisitor’s gaze darkened, and his lips twisted into a frown. He shot a glance as the executor beside him.

“Who am I to deny a lady her last request?” he taunted. “Drop her!” Then, the executor nodded and grabbed the lever. Foley squeezed her eyes shut, as his sickly pale fingers coiled around the wooden stick. He pulled and the floor fell out from underneath her, and the whole world went in slow motion. Her stomach dropped out as she dangled helplessly in the air kicking her feet and clawing at the rope. The rough rope dug into her flesh rubbing her skin raw leaving ugly red marks. She coughed and sputtered gasping for air. The crowd laughed and cheered as she fought for dear life. The last thing that she saw was the cloaked figure drawing a bow and a flash of black hair and stormy gray eyes. Someone in the crowd screamed, high-pitched and shrill. The guards shouted with the executor barking orders. Time seemed to move in slow motion. Then, an arrow flies and a body falls…..