David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

The spell slowed her movement, and a foot swept beneath her. Falling, she raised her daggers, just barely blocking Ezra’s downward strike. Pushing her away, she rolled to her knees. A bolt of shadow flew from the hand of another priest rushing to join them from farther ahead. She dodged it, along with his follow-up, but then the priestess caught her with a shadow bolt of her own. It slammed into Zusa’s body, bruising flesh and sapping her strength. This time Zusa gave no scream, unable to muster the strength.

The two faceless women flanked her, each blocking an entrance, as more and more priests and priestesses gathered. Zusa kept weaving from side to side, struggling to breathe through the pain. She saw no way out, but it didn’t matter. She’d die fighting, and would not die alone.

“Attack me, cowards!” she screamed, ignoring the pain it caused. Instead they fell back, and furious, she flung herself toward a group. Her daggers plunged and stabbed, but she could not connect. Lightning and shadow swelled against her, forming a wall she could not penetrate. Its very touch jolted her limbs. The faceless women both chose that moment to attack, kicking her with their long legs. One took the air from her lungs, the other connecting with her kidneys. Gasping, Zusa collapsed to the cold floor, unable to stand. A dagger slipped around her neck and pressed against her throat.

“Don’t kill her!”

With dazed eyes Zusa looked up to see Daverik pushing through the crowd. He knelt before her, put a hand against her forehead. Whoever held the dagger backed away.

“You poor thing,” Daverik said, softly stroking her short hair. “You poor, foolish thing. Take her.”

Something hard struck the back of her head, and then came darkness.

The first thing Zusa noticed when she came to was the sound of running water. It was constant, and close, as if a river ran in the same room. The second was how her hands and legs were bound with chains, the metal on the inside sharp and jagged so that the slightest movement drew blood.

“Open your eyes, little doll,” whispered a sweet voice. When Zusa did she saw an older man standing over her. His face was wrinkled and free of any facial hair. His eyes were a pale blue, and when he smiled his serpent’s smile, it was without teeth. He wore the robes of a priest, but instead of black they were a deep red.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Does the little doll not remember me? I am Vrashka. I was there when you were banished, and your little boy beaten. I held the whip.”

Despite the years, she did indeed remember. More so, she remembered the name of Vrashka, Pelorak’s favorite and most ruthless torturer.

“I know you,” Zusa said, looking beyond him to take in her surroundings. She was in a small stone cell, poorly lit. The temple’s prison, of course. She sat on the floor, her arms and legs manacled to the wall. The only thing she did not recognize, or understand, was that constant sound of water. “Just a sick old man.”

“It’s been a long time,” Vrashka said, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest so he could look down at her. “I have gotten older, yes I have, little doll. But I have also gotten wiser, too. Do you see this?”

He stepped aside, revealing the source of the water. It was a strange sight, as if a stalactite had grown from the stone ceiling. Stretching a foot downward, it stopped, its tip hollow so that water might run out in a constant stream. It fell into a small spiral cut into the floor, causing the water to swirl before dropping into a hole, going how far down below, Zusa did not know. Perhaps to the depths of the world, perhaps all the way into the Abyss where it could trickle on Karak’s head.

“Am I supposed to be afraid of water?” Zusa asked, hoping to keep him talking. She felt her strength returning, and where she was manacled there were many shadows. The chains would not hold her, not for long.

Vrashka chuckled, and the sound made her skin crawl.

“You have poor imagination, girl. You do not understand where you are, or what we have. Daverik made this himself. I know what you think, that you will slip into the shadows.”

He reached into his robe, pulled out one of her daggers, and cast it on the floor mere feet away.

“Take it,” he said, smiling. “Slip through the shadows, grab it, and cut my throat. You can do that, can’t you, little doll?”

She smiled back, then pulled in the power, demanded it, stole it with the strength of her soul. Falling backward, she expected the familiar cold feeling, but instead something grabbed her. She felt like a bird trapped in a thunderstorm. Her body became a distant thing, and lost in horror she watched her vision be pulled toward the swirling water. It was so thin, like a single thread of silk. Before her eyes it grew larger, larger, and then her whole form was swirling with it, down into the void, a boat doomed in a maelstrom. Colors faded, only the water retaining vibrancy, shining a brighter and brighter blue that made her entire body ache. Panic settled in, and she yearned for her body, to pull out from the shadows.

And then she was back in her manacles, gasping for air. Vrashka bent down and grabbed her dagger.

“Does she understand now?” he asked. “Your magic will not work here, nor that of any priest. It will be lost into the funnel, the holy water taking in every bit of Karak’s power. You will not escape us, little doll. You are ours now, to be made pure over the crawling years.”

He knelt before her and pressed the dagger against the skin of her breast.

“And I say years, because I know you are stubborn. I know you will resist. Much time, much effort, but I have little else to do at my age. You wear the wrappings of your order, but in your heart you blaspheme against Karak. You expose your face to the world, and in doing so spit in the eye of our god.”

He withdrew the dagger and walked over to the door. Beside it was a small bag, and he pulled out a set of sewing needles. When he turned back to her, his pale blue eyes were feverish.

“Whatever you came here for, you failed. Think on that as I do my needlework.”

The chains held her as he took her hand in his and uncurled her fist. She tried to tense, but he held her firm with surprising strength. She wanted to struggle further, but the inner surfaces of the manacles were sharp and filled with barbs. Doing so would only cause her pain.

Taking a needle in his mouth, Vrashka softly ran a finger along her fingertip.

“Even old as I am, it is never too old to learn,” he said. “I spent time with Leon’s gentle touchers years ago, did you know that? You will soon. They are masters, artists. I hope my needlework can begin to compare.”

There were many hooks along the wall, and he looped the chains holding her arm through one so that it held her tight. Teeth gritted, she tried not to let out a cry, even when he jammed the first needle underneath the fingernail of her forefinger.

“Karak is not my god,” she said, struggling to keep her voice firm. “I will not repent.”

He smiled at her.

“Perhaps. But I have many needles.”

One after another they were jammed into her skin. Each was worse than the one before, and she cried out in agony after the seventh. Leaving them in, he moved on to her other hand. Even more slender needles pierced underneath her fingernails, tearing the soft skin. Tears ran down her face, but he asked no questions, and made no demands. Time became meaningless. All she could think of was Alyssa, and Nathaniel, but their memories were poison, for she was trapped in a prison, which meant they would soon suffer death, or, even worse, join her there in the pits of the temple.

“The gentle touchers are artists,” Vrashka said, stepping back to observe his work. “So careful, so clever. They view whips and daggers as crude toys for children. It is a mark of disdain for any of them to leave a bruise.”