A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,36
reached for his sword, the jailor lowered his gaze and grumbled under his breath. His fingers still dug into her arm, so strong she thought he might break her bone. When the guard turned to leave, Treale almost wanted to call after him. No, don't leave me here, don't leave me with this man, with these screams, with this smell of blood. Yet she remained silent. Mori was somewhere here in this nightmare; Treale would stay, and she would save her.
"Come," Sharik grumbled, his voice like cascading stones. "Follow Sharik. Work for you."
He pulled her down the hall, trundling like a bear. Treale dragged behind him, and as they passed along the cells, she nearly gagged. She bit down on a scream.
Stars, no… how could such terror exist? Stars, how could such evil lurk in this world?
Prisoners filled the cells, broken and shackled and turned into wrecks of humanity. One man hung from chains, his legs cut off and the stumps still dripping. In another cell, children hung upon the walls, their skin burned off, their eyes pleading and their mouths gagged. In a third cell, a jailor was busy stretching a man on the rack; the prisoner howled, his arms dislocated. Treale wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to weep. She wanted to fall and curl up and never look at these horrors again. Yet she forced herself to look. Somewhere, in one of these cells, Mori languished.
Stars, Mori, I'm so sorry. Now Treale could not help it; tears streamed down her cheeks. I'm so sorry you are here.
Yet where was the princess? Before Treale could find her, Sharik pulled her into a cell. This one was empty. Chains hung from the ceiling and fresh blood and hair covered the floor. For a moment, Treale was sure the jailor would imprison her here, and she made to flee, but he grabbed her and grunted.
"Clean!" he said. "Clean cell. Clean floor."
He stepped back into the hall, grabbed a bucket and rags, and shoved them at her.
"Clean! Clean and you eat later. Clean floor."
When Treale hesitated, Sharik grabbed a whip from the wall. Before Treale could react, he landed a blow across her shoulder. She yelped. The whip lashed through her cloak and tore her skin.
"Clean!" Sharik said. "Clean floor. Make clean for next prisoner."
Her welt blazing, her eyes still damp, Treale knelt. She grabbed a rag and dipped it into the bucket of water. She began to scrub.
"Faster!" Sharik said and his whip landed again. Treale yelped, her back blazing, and cleaned faster.
"When I'm done cleaning," she said and dared to look up, "I want to see the weredragon. I—"
The whip landed a third time, blazing against her from shoulder to tailbone. Treale arched her back and yowled with the pain. Sharik grumbled and clenched his fists.
"Speak again and Sharik take your teeth. Clean. Faster."
Treale cleaned. She did not speak again.
When the cell's floor was clean and the rags bloody, Sharik grabbed her by the hair. He yanked her up and dragged her out into the hallway. Treale yelped, her hair tearing in his paws, but he only tugged harder. He dragged her into a second chamber, closed the oak door, and locked it behind them.
This must have been his home, though it was barely better than the prisoners' cells. The chamber was rough and bare. It contained only a straw bed, a table laden with candles and dirty dishes, a chamber pot, and a chest of old rags.
"You sleep on floor," Sharik said. "Sleep!"
He raised his whip. Treale clenched her fists behind her back. She was a slight woman, thin and short and not very strong, and he was thrice her size. But she was young, she was fast, and she could fight him. There was no room to shift here, but she could grab his whip and strangle him, or gouge out his eyes, or….
No, she told herself. Even if you can defeat him, Treale Oldnale, he'd holler and guards will swarm here. Save Mori. Even if you must give up some pride. You might sleep on a floor this night, but Mori sleeps in chains.
She lay down on the floor like an obedient pup, hugged her knees, and looked up at Sharik. He stared down at her, his feet by her head, their nails cracked and moldy. Finally he grunted in approval, lolloped toward his bed, and climbed in. Soon the man was snoring like a saw, his drool seeping.