Tales From Arondell: Temptation

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

RECKLESS

RECKLESS

Cara O'Shea

Cara O'Shea

Cara, of all the stupid, dim-witted things you could do...

I smack my face against the bars and cling to the cold, exposed metal at the back of the armoured truck. Awaiting my uncertain fate. Silent angry tears stream down my hot cheeks again, mixing with my snot and dribble. My lips wobble, my chest heaves, and my throat burns: Red-raw from my sobbing and screaming.

What feels like an eternity ago, those horrid Collection Agents found me, and they hauled me, kicking and bellowing into my cage. In front of the entire town. I don't think I'veeversuffered a worse humiliation, even in myparents' home.

What the Hell were you fucking thinking, birdbrain?

I sag against the iron bars. Contact with the cool surface soothes my flushed cheeks, but does little to ease the throbbing in my head. Strangled little cries lodge in my throat.

At least I'm alone in the back of the truck, unlike the other captives. But I'm sure the only reason they separated me from the others is because I'm a Witch. A curse in these parts. Feared and despised by everyone because of those ugly Elkran bastards, their unfair treatment of us Humans, and their booming slave trade. And an untrained Witch is worth more on the slave-market, especially if she's young, fertile and a virgin.

No doubt all of them would gang up on me, and beat me into unconsciousness, or even kill me if they could.

I bite my lip, trying to muffle my sobs, but my tears continue spilling down my cheeks. If only I didn't try to run away from home today, I wouldn't be where I am now, in that pervert's slimy clutches. I might've had a fighting chance to escape this time.

My bag was already packed, and I stole enough money from mother's purse to survive for a week. I might've made it as far as the Burbs this time, instead of wandering the highway, trying to hitch a ride into the next town, as I've done before.

Of course, after that I would've been on my own, with little money, no decent food, no hope of finding a job or a roof over my head, and no future. In this part of the world, where women - especially Human women - have few options, little worth and fewer rights, the only realfutureI have is indentured service to a rich Mage, as his apprentice and concubine.

At least on my own I might've had a choice over which Mage I served, rather than fathersellingme against my will.

But running away from home isn't the only stupid choice I made today.

Because I couldn't get back to sleep last night, I had the brilliant idea to break into father's private study, looking for more repulsive imagery to get myself off with. And that's where the flabby bastard caught me, raiding his porn stash.

For someone who claims to despise Mages, he has an obscene amount of smut, depicting young women like me in the voracious, and libidinous clutches of dirty, older Olkran and Elkran Warlocks. Only the Gods know why.

Fucking pervert.

The flabby pig whipped me a dozen times with his belt before hauling me, kicking and screaming into the kitchen, where he hurled me into the 'sinner's closet' and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him.

I don't know how long I was trapped in there. Easily several hours. And that's where I remained, alone in a dark confined space, until recently. How was I supposed to know that today of all days is Collection Day? I knew it would happen sometime this week, even though father and mother never tell me anything. But, had I known...

I stuff my knuckles into my mouth, stifling another sob and slide to my knees. My hands and shoulder still ache, from pummelling and smashing down that door, and the fresh welts across my arms and breasts burn beneath my skivvy. But that's the least of my problems now.

"Thank you for your co-operation." Magister Blackhammer, the huge Olkran Mage presiding over the Quarterly Collection, snaps his ledger shut with powerful meaty fingers. The sharp sound cuts into my thoughts, making me flinch. My eyes fill with fresh tears.

Don't you fucking dare, Cara. You're better than this.

I swipe my hand across my eyes, and peer through the iron bars. Dozens of townsfolk, many still shocked into silence, mill about on Central Green, heedless of the cold ocean wind and the light morning drizzle.

They cling to each other, some of them weeping while others watch in stunned silence as the Black Razors Collection Agents herd the last of the twelve captives into one of the armoured trucks. I recognise her as Emma, a skinny girl of nineteen, only five years younger than me.

At least the bastards spared her the indignity of tossing her in, while the entire town watches.

I choke back another sob, and wipe away my tears again, to no avail.

"Pay your Tithes on time, and we won't need to trouble your families like this again." The imposing Warlock intones. He slips his ledger into a side-pocket of his black and grey military robes.

He's dark as basalt like many Black Mountain people. But, unlike most of the Orc men I've seen, who braid their long, thick hair, or wear other styles, like dreadlocks, topknots and undercuts, he's completely bald. Numerous arcane runes and exotic symbols stand out against his smooth scalp and broad forehead.

He has wide wolf-like ears, adorned with bone scaffolds and other traditional jewellery, and a thick lower lip decorated with ivory rings. His large tusks, prominent brow ridge, wide mouth, broad square jaw, and huge muscular frame all mark him as a physically superior Orc.

As a man no one would dare cross.

"You may leave now." His cold, sonorous voice echoes across the silent town square. "And return to your homes and businesses—"

"NO. This isn't right!" Hamish Gable, Emma's middle-aged father pulls away from his stricken wife, and sprints to the truck holding his only child. "You can't take—!"

"HAMISH, STOP." Anna wails, snapping out of her daze and dashes after her husband. She grasps at his arms and the back of his green plaid shirt, trying to stop him.

Oh Solarus, this can't be good.

I throw a fearful glance at Magister Blackhammer. My heart sinks and my breath hitches, catching in my chest and throat. I haven't seen it personally, but I've heard these Black Razor Warlocks are dangerous when their patience and authority is tested. And this Olkran creep has always made my skin crawl.

He glares at the couple, his stony expression like black ice as he raises a massive palm and chants in his native tongue. His focus-stone, a thick shard of black obsidian, larger than a rail-spike, flares with a ghastly green light against his chest.

Putrid green ghost-fire and ink-black smoke wreathes his hand and flies from his thick fingers, enveloping the couple and hurls them into the air. Hamish and Anna scream in terror.

The huge Orc chants again. His powerful, sonorous voice rolls like thunder across the Green, slowing the passage of time as he waves his hand through the air, and hooks his big fingers into claws.

The suspended couple wail like the gathered crowd as the unholy smoke and ghastly green light whirls around them: Faster and faster like the Warlock's rotating hand, until their bodies twist and contort.

One by one their bones snap with a loud, sickening crunch, punctuated by their shrieks of horror and agony. Their skin shrivels and dissolves before my widening eyes, peeling away in seconds, exposing deep necrotic ulcers and raw, weeping red flesh.

OH MY FUCKING GODS. HE ' S A NECROMANCER?

I scream and bite down on my knuckles.

The townspeople shriek and huddle together, while others start to flee. Until the Elkran Collection Agents round them up with rifles and pistols pointed at their backs. Shouts and panicked screaming echo from within the other trucks. But mother and father look on, pale, silent and motionless like the yellow-bellied snakes they are.

Please, please, please, just STOP. Let them GO.

I sob, and struggle to suck in shuddering breaths. My heart pounds and my stomach churns, and my shaking hands clench the cold iron bars. How I haven't soiled myself, vomited or fainted yet is beyond me. Maybe living my whole life with fear and abuse has hardened me to the harsh realities of life? Or maybe I have a stronger stomach than others?

PLEASE. They haven't done anything wrong. This is all a fucking mistake.

Still sobbing, I clutch the palm-sized shard of quartz I keep close to my heart.

It isn't a proper focus-stone. I found it washed up on the beach, in a shallow rock-pool, and it doesn't always work the way I want it to. But it's all I have, and without the formal training I've needed for so long, it's all I'll ever have for the foreseeable future. Unless by some miracle or twist of Fate my circumstances change.

Please, please, please, Solarus, stop that horrible man. PLEASE. Burn him, blind him, something, ANYTHING.PLEASE.

In that brief space between ragged breaths and racing heartbeats, I focus my will upon the quartz and tap into my soul-fire connection.

It surges within my blood, sweeping through my body with startling swiftness, stealing my breath and explodes in my mind. A string of words form there amidst the roiling chaos, driven by instinct, and flows from my lips.

"Gift of Solarus, burning bright light, envelop my hand and steal his sight." Heat sweeps over me, rippling up and down my arms and surrounds my outstretched hand. Dazzling magenta and violet light flies from my fingertips and streaks across Central Green, slamming into the Warlock's face.

Oh GODS —

But it's already too late. Heat and colour drain from my face, and my mouth drops open. The small crowd gasps and stares in my direction, and shrink away from the Orc Warlock.

What have I done?

My heart pounds again as Magister Blackhammer shakes his head, absorbing my light into his body, and clenches his hooked, outstretched fingers into an iron fist.

There's a hideous, wet, repetitive cracking noise, bloodcurdling shrieks of unbearable anguish, and the ripping of flesh, and shattering bones.

The crowd screams again, father shakes and mother faints as Mister and Missus Gable fold backwards, almost torn in half and implode, spraying blood and shredded viscera from their sundered bodies. Ghostly, dismembered echoes of the tortured couple burst forth from their ruptured chests, and zip toward the Necromancer's basalt fist, prompting another round of terrified cries and shouting from within the trucks.

His dark eyes flash, like the hideous green light in his focus-stone and the halo around his massive fingers. He shakes and flexes his fingers, dispelling the light and his hold on the ruined corpses. They fall to the ground, into an expanding puddle of blood, torn limbs and shredded entrails with a wet, sickening crunch.

Shocked silence prevails over Central Green, broken only by muffled sobbing and dry retching.

"Now, if no one else here feels like being a hero and trying my patience," Magister Blackhammer intones, stretching his meaty hands and cracks his knuckles. He stretches his neck, shrugs his broad shoulders and straightens his black and grey military robes. "All of you may leave and return to your daily affairs."

Silence still hangs like a suffocating cloud over the gathered townsfolk. But one by one, after a cold warning glare from the bald Orc they finally disperse, because there's nothing they can do. Not against the Black Razors Trading Corporation. Not against the Oligarchs' Council, undisputed rulers of the Elkran Empire, who own the Hammerhead Coast. And not against an Olkran Graveworm.

Soon only father and mother remain.

The fat and balding Mayor of Kaltore's Beach shakes where he kneels on the wet grass beside my unconscious mother. His flabby face sweats, blanching again as he gapes at the twisted, and gutted remains of Mister and Missus Gable.

I glower at my parents, ignoring my tears and release my rudimentary focus-stone, clinging to the iron bars instead. I've probably burned it out now, but at least it served some purpose, doing more for me than father and mother ever could.

Worthless fucking pigs. You deserve nothing but pain for everything you've done to me.

"Please." Father calls out in his oily, obsequious voice, making me shudder. "There must be some mistake." He waddles after the hulking Warlock, struggling to keep up with the Orc's longer strides, and wheezes with the effort.

Disgusting wretch. I hope he tears you apart.

"Please, you can't take my daughter away." The flabby wretch holds out a pale beseeching hand, trying to stop the huge Olkran man from returning to the armoured truck. The one I'm locked in, well away from the corpulent pig, his 'sinners' closet and evil belt.

"Please. I know we're up to date. Ahead even. My accountant—"

The tattooed Necromancer finally stops, within my line of sight, and retrieves his ledger from a side-pocket: One of many stitched into his functional, heavy garments, and buckled onto his utility belt.

He opens the small book, dwarfed by his massive hands and flicks to a random page. His deep-set eyes glitter like frozen green marbles at he glares down his broad nose at my squat father.

The height and overall size difference between them would be comical if not for the Orc's malignant eyes, and the long tusks that jut upwards from his fleshy lower lip. That piercing glare alone would freeze the blood of any other man, and maybe even make them soil themselves. But not the quivering, sweating, flabby Mayor of Kaltore's Beach.

"There's no mistake, Mister O'Shea. You knew this day would eventually come." Magister Blackhammer says, his voice icy and emotionless, and snaps his ledger shut again, making my father flinch. "Now, for this foolish little stunt of yours, attempting tohideyour daughter from me, despite our written agreement—"

Wait. What agreement? He's not suggesting —?

I gape at both men in silent horror, my face blanching as the sickening reality of father's ultimate betrayal sinks in.

I can't believe it. I can't fucking believe... the spineless, corpulent pig sold me. To Magister fucking Blackhammer.

I clutch my churning stomach, and squeeze my eyes shut against another wave of tears.

Although it's not much better, I'd prefer a depraved Elkran Oligarch to claim me, if it will spare me from the horror of a Graveworm raping and breeding me. Even him slitting my throat in my sleep would be merciful, compared to thealternatives. But my gut tells me Magister Blackhammer won't grant me any such mercy.

"Consider any remaining dues rescinded," the imposing Black Mountain Orc intones, dragging me from my whirling thoughts. "Good day—"

"RE-RESCINDED?" Father splutters. His flabby face jiggles, turning red and his muddy eyes bulge almost comically from his skull. "We made an agreement! You still owe—"

"And it's now fulfilled, Mister O'Shea." Magister Blackhammer growls, looming over my father. Until he finally shrinks away and quivers in terror.

Cowardly fucking swine. How could you do this... to your own fucking daughter?

I spit at father despite my predicament, but he ignores me, like I don't exist. I never existed in his or mother's eyes, not that it matters anymore. Soon I'll be gone. Whisked away to an uncertain and horrifying fate, worse than the one I tried to flee from again.

Solarus help me. What have I done?

I whimper and press my hot face against the cold iron bars, swallowing another panicked cry building in my chest.

What am I going to do now? I'm so fucking SCREWED.

"...Good dayto you, Mister O'Shea." Magister Blackhammer dismisses my father, turns on his heel and strides out of view, leaving the flabby pig gawking in his direction.

He finally turns his livid, muddy green gaze on me, and jabs a trembling white finger at my face. "You won't... I'll get you back, girl. And when I do, I swear—"

"I don't think so, pig." My voice breaks as more tears slide down my hot cheeks. But I muster up what little courage I can, and force myself to smirk at him. No way in HELL am I giving him the sick satisfaction of seeing how terrified I really am. He's seen me quake and cry enough as it is. He won't get that from me ever again. "I'm long gone, worthlessswine," I snarl. "You'llneversee me again—"

The truck starts up, rumbling to life, and a Collection Agent approaches to close the outer doors of the truck. While I still have time, I stare my disgusting father in the eye, swallow back another wave of panic, and press my hand between the iron bars. I extend my middle finger at him.

"Goodbye, worthless pig," I croak, ignoring the flood of tears streaming down my face.

Father's mouth pops open and his eyes bulge again. His lips flap uselessly while behind him mother rouses herself, shakes her head and stumbles to her feet. She takes one look at me, extending my finger at them from the back of the rumbling truck, and lurches woodenly toward her flabby husband.

Goodbye to both of you. If you were any kind of decent parents, you would ' ve loved and protected me, and none of this would be happening. May you both rot in Hell forever, where you rightfully belong.

*****

*****

Deep shadows creep into the fetid, enclosed space, and the sudden movement of the truck, grinding to a halt, shakes me awake.

Huh? What... oh Gods, that SMELL —

I gag, nearly vomiting as the oppressive, sour stench of urine, sweat, and Solarus knows what else assails my nostrils. Some of it is mine, when I had no choice but to pee in the corner, before I passed out. Because wetting my pants wasn't an option.

Bleary-eyed, disorientated, and aching all over I press myself against the cold wall and try to get my bearings. The welts across my arms and breasts still hurt, but I suspect they will for the next few days. Maybe a bit longer. Although honestly, that's the least of my concerns now.

It's gloomy and cold in the back of the truck, with streamers of gold and orange sunlight slipping through a narrow, barred opening. It's sunset, probably close to six-thirty. Well past dinner-time, and the realisation makes my belly grumble.

I wish I at least had a candy-bar.

I clutch my growling stomach, though it does nothing to ease my hunger. The Collection Agents stripped me of my backpack and the couple hundred quid I stole from mother's purse, before they shoved me unceremoniously into the truck.

I knew I should've stuffed a bag of crisps or an apple into my pocket before I left.

I sniffle and swipe my hand across my blurry eyes, and try to ignore the revolting stench. And the dull pain in my head and hands. The welts across my arms and breasts burn as they brush against my singlet and skivvy.

Too late for that now, isn't it?

The sharp, loud whistle of a locomotive, punctuated by steel-capped boots crunching through gravel and the squeal of loosened door bolts cut into my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.

The truck doors swing open, flooding my cold, putrid confines with vibrant early evening light and a rush of fresh, frosty air.

"Alright girl, enough of yer nappin' an' git out." The rough voice of a scruffy, uniformed man barks at me. "We're on a tight schedule 'ere, an' we'll not 'ave ye keepin' us waitin'." He spits on the ground and climbs into the back of the truck, ignoring the foul stink of my cage.

I recoil on instinct. "You'll keep your fucking paws off me, pig." I glare at him and lurch to my feet. "I have legs, and you don't want to piss me off." I brandish my crude focus-stone in my trembling fist. "I'm a Witch—"