The walls were too damp, and moldy. She knew infection spread inside her body. She could not remove the gag from her mouth, or she would heal herself. Completely incapacitated, slowly decaying, Galatia began to welcome death.
Surviving even this long was not her choice. She’d surrendered to death long ago. The Mountain King’s witch kept her alive. King Cordillera would torture her for hours, and Ida would heal her just enough so she would not die. It was vicious, and psychotic. Galatia had no idea such evil actually existed. Too many times she wanted to call out to Mykal with her mind. She always stopped short of trying; afraid Ida would pick up on the use of telepathy.
She had given King Cordillera nothing. Sometimes he didn’t even ask how to summon the other wizards he just seemed more intent on the method of torture, as if it got him off hearing her muffled screams.
When she writhed in agony chained to the table, when her eyes found his, she saw nothing but black in them. Lifeless and black eyeballs. If his body possessed a soul it was lost, or covered in blood, and dripping with nothing but darkness.
He was not a man, not a person. The Mountain King was a behemoth. If he succeeded in obtaining the magical powers he sought, there would be no hope for the rest of mankind.
That was the single thought that kept her from talking.
So far…
Something moved in the darkness. Galatia opened her eyes wide. She worried her eyeballs would pop free from the sockets. It made no difference. She could not see a thing. Grunting, she attempted to ask who was there. Her words were not audible. Drool spilled from the sides of her mouth like syrup.
A scraping noise came from her left, or from directly in front of her. She wasn’t sure which.
She closed her eyes and violently shook her head from side to side. She just wanted this to be over. She just wanted this nightmare to end!
Something brushed across the top of her foot.
She opened her mouth; the wad of rags kept her from making a sound, but screamed anyway. It could have been a feather, a finger, a tail. She had no idea what traipsed over her foot. Not knowing was what made it worse. Her imagination took control of her mind. She saw things that didn’t exist hiding in the dungeon. She knew beyond a shadow of any doubt she was always being watched, stalked.
She quickly raised her legs, drawing her knees up toward her chest. The muscles in her arms and back protested. The sudden movement, the shifting of weight, put unbearable stress on her shoulders and chest. She gasped, unable to catch her breath. The shackle irons cut into her wrists. Blood rolled down her forearms and dripped off the tip of her elbows.
Something snickered below her. She kept her knees raised. She knew if she lowered her legs, whatever waited below would touch her again. Hot tears fell from the corners of her eyes. Only behind the rags, she was laughing, not crying.
This time it was not a snicker. A cackle echoed in the darkness.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Galatia’s mind screamed. Leave me alone!
***
Blodwyn sat on a bench outside the mess hall. His staff stood between his parted knees. He held onto the shaft with both hands, and unblinking, watched as Mykal walked toward him.
The entire time Mykal climbed up a tree into the canopy he ran through the conversation he expected he’d have with Blodwyn. He got down exactly the words he wanted to say. He even figured on some of Blodwyn’s responses, and had a counter ready.
However, seeing the man—his friend—sitting thoughtfully, he knew his plan might deviate. He said, “Hey.”
Every word prepared escaped his memory. There was nothing left inside his brain to call on.
Blodwyn shifted his way down the bench, patted a spot beside him.
The sun was mostly hidden behind low grey clouds. The air was cool, and crisp. Mykal sat. “Look, I’m sorry about the things I said.”
“You do not need to apologize to me. Your anger is
Surviving even this long was not her choice. She’d surrendered to death long ago. The Mountain King’s witch kept her alive. King Cordillera would torture her for hours, and Ida would heal her just enough so she would not die. It was vicious, and psychotic. Galatia had no idea such evil actually existed. Too many times she wanted to call out to Mykal with her mind. She always stopped short of trying; afraid Ida would pick up on the use of telepathy.
She had given King Cordillera nothing. Sometimes he didn’t even ask how to summon the other wizards he just seemed more intent on the method of torture, as if it got him off hearing her muffled screams.
When she writhed in agony chained to the table, when her eyes found his, she saw nothing but black in them. Lifeless and black eyeballs. If his body possessed a soul it was lost, or covered in blood, and dripping with nothing but darkness.
He was not a man, not a person. The Mountain King was a behemoth. If he succeeded in obtaining the magical powers he sought, there would be no hope for the rest of mankind.
That was the single thought that kept her from talking.
So far…
Something moved in the darkness. Galatia opened her eyes wide. She worried her eyeballs would pop free from the sockets. It made no difference. She could not see a thing. Grunting, she attempted to ask who was there. Her words were not audible. Drool spilled from the sides of her mouth like syrup.
A scraping noise came from her left, or from directly in front of her. She wasn’t sure which.
She closed her eyes and violently shook her head from side to side. She just wanted this to be over. She just wanted this nightmare to end!
Something brushed across the top of her foot.
She opened her mouth; the wad of rags kept her from making a sound, but screamed anyway. It could have been a feather, a finger, a tail. She had no idea what traipsed over her foot. Not knowing was what made it worse. Her imagination took control of her mind. She saw things that didn’t exist hiding in the dungeon. She knew beyond a shadow of any doubt she was always being watched, stalked.
She quickly raised her legs, drawing her knees up toward her chest. The muscles in her arms and back protested. The sudden movement, the shifting of weight, put unbearable stress on her shoulders and chest. She gasped, unable to catch her breath. The shackle irons cut into her wrists. Blood rolled down her forearms and dripped off the tip of her elbows.
Something snickered below her. She kept her knees raised. She knew if she lowered her legs, whatever waited below would touch her again. Hot tears fell from the corners of her eyes. Only behind the rags, she was laughing, not crying.
This time it was not a snicker. A cackle echoed in the darkness.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Galatia’s mind screamed. Leave me alone!
***
Blodwyn sat on a bench outside the mess hall. His staff stood between his parted knees. He held onto the shaft with both hands, and unblinking, watched as Mykal walked toward him.
The entire time Mykal climbed up a tree into the canopy he ran through the conversation he expected he’d have with Blodwyn. He got down exactly the words he wanted to say. He even figured on some of Blodwyn’s responses, and had a counter ready.
However, seeing the man—his friend—sitting thoughtfully, he knew his plan might deviate. He said, “Hey.”
Every word prepared escaped his memory. There was nothing left inside his brain to call on.
Blodwyn shifted his way down the bench, patted a spot beside him.
The sun was mostly hidden behind low grey clouds. The air was cool, and crisp. Mykal sat. “Look, I’m sorry about the things I said.”
“You do not need to apologize to me. Your anger is
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