A Clash of Honor - By Morgan Rice Page 0,63

“You have no choice!”

They both broke into hysterical laughter.

“That is not what I mean,” she said, her heart pounding. “If you unchain me,” she added, “I will show you pleasures unlike any you’ve ever had in your life.”

The two jailers looked at each other, a smile on their faces, debating. She wondered if they were buying it.

“What pleasures, exactly?” asked one, coming close, so close she could smell his rotten breath as he held a blade up to her throat.

“Pleasures beyond what any woman has ever showed you,” she said, trying her best to sound convincing.

“That doesn’t impress me,” said the other dismissively, “I’ve spent my life in whorehouses. Do you think there’s something you can show me that some common whore cannot?”

They both yelled out in laughter again, and the other took his metal poker and dipped it into the hot fire, until the tip of it glowed orange.

“Besides,” he said, turning to her. “I prefer to torture you anyway. I get more pleasure from that. The king said you are ours to do with as we wish. And we most certainly shall!”

Gwen’s eyes opened wide in terror as the hot poker came close to her face, so hot it made her sweat even from a foot away. She saw the malicious smile on the man’s face, and knew that in just a moment, her face would be scarred forever.

“Wait!” she screamed out. “I don’t just offer you pleasure! But riches! I am the daughter of a king, lest you forget! I will give you more money than you can ever imagine! Certainly more money than McCloud ever will!”

Her jailers stopped, intrigued for the first time.

“And how much is that exactly?” he asked.

“More than you can carry. Wheelbarrows fill. An entire house full, if you like.”

“And how will you manage that?” the other one asked, stepping forward.

“I will send word to my father. He will ship me whatever I like. Did you not see our wedding? The jewels that I wore?”

The two attackers looked at each other, unsure.

“Your father is dead,” said one.

“But his court lives on,” she said, thinking quick. “My mother still lives. So do my siblings. They will send you any riches you want. if I pen a letter.”

One of them stepped close, holding the blade tighter to her throat.

“Why don’t we just kill you,” he said slowly, “pen the letter in your name, and take the riches anyway?”

“Because you don’t know my penmanship,” she said, thinking faster than ever. “They would never believe it if it were not in my hand! Then you would have nothing! Surely it is worth more to you to have all that gold than to have me dead!”

They looked at each other, debating.

“What’s to stop us from forcing you to pen the letter, then killing you? That way we get the gold, and we get to torture and kill you!”

She looked at them, terrified. She thought quick, and a solution came to her.

“I will do whatever you wish,” she said. “I will put myself at your mercy. But I can’t write with my hands shackled. Unshackle me, and bring me a quill and parchment, and you can choose what to do with me.”

The two men looked at each other, then finally one nodded to the other, licking his lips.

“You are more stupid than I thought,” said one, coming up a few feet behind her and unlocking each of her shackles with a key where they met the stone wall.

“Because now we will take your letter, and then I will reshackle you and rape and torture you all night!”

The two erupted into uproarious laughter.

As soon as the man finished unlocking her second shackle, Luanda burst into action. Each shackle was affixed to the wall by a three foot iron chain, with one shackle on her wrist and the other on the wall. As her jailer unlocked the one on the wall, leaving her wrist still shackled and connected to the chain, she knew she only had one chance at this.

She swung around with her wrist, still bolted to the shackle, swung the heavy iron chain overhead, and brought it down with all her might, aiming for the man’s face as he stepped carelessly back in front of her.

They had underestimated her. They did not expect that she still had the reservoir of strength that she did, that she had the means to use it, that she had the knowledge and cunning of a king’s daughter, one who had been trained her

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