Here Be Monsters - By M T Murphy Page 0,11

he said with an excitement that made Krel wary.

The reaver followed the path around the fire and approached the iron throne. He knelt, as was customary in such a formal setting. “Warchief,” he said with a fist over his heart.

“Come,” the warchief replied. “Stand beside me.”

Krel dared not hesitate. He rose and stood to the warchief’s left and slightly behind the throne. “How may I serve you this day?” he growled.

Instead of answering, the warchief bellowed, “Bring the prisoner!” His voice echoed in the huge chamber, and the magical fire leapt and crackled in response.

A grated wooden door on the left side of the chamber groaned as two warriors worked a crank and chain to draw it open. It led to the dungeons many floors below, in the base of the stronghold. A female warrior emerged from behind the rising portcullis. She dragged a small human behind her by one leg. It wore with a filthy satin gown, and its tangled chestnut hair was adorned with sagging ribbons. Its face was purple with bruises, and dried blood caked around its mouth.

The warchief roared. His dark eyes flashed as he extended a claw toward the guard. “I told you to keep it alive.”

The warrior dropped the human’s leg and then prodded it none-too-gently with a toe. “Get up,” she hissed. When the prisoner didn’t move, her green skin flushed darkly. “It’s unconscious. The humans are not strong.” She strode back toward the iron grate and passed through it, returning moments later with a bucket of foul water.

Krel couldn’t take his eyes off the human. He must have been called for a commission. In the past, he’d always chosen the subject for his art. Every human soul had a different quality. Some spoke to his sense of beauty, some did not.

The water splashed all the way to the bottom of the dais. The human choked and spluttered, and the guard grabbed its hair, forcing it to kneel on all fours with its head up. “See?” the guard said. “It breathes.”

The warchief turned to Krel, his eyes shining. “I want the largest globe you’ve ever done. Can you add etching to the glass without ruining the tone? I want it suspended here.” He pointed a gnarled finger toward the centre of the room, above the fire.

Krel stared at the human, entranced, and inched down the stone steps. “A glaze on the glass will give a better effect than etching,” he murmured absently.

“The soul of a princess.” The warchief barked a laugh. “It was captured in Guitanmarsh. A rare find, wouldn’t you say? It will be like a beautiful shining jewel, yet it will strike fear in their rebellious hearts. How long will the process take?”

The human shook, whether from fear or shock, Krel didn’t know. “Stand it up,” he said to the guard as he closed the last few steps toward the pair.

“No human stands before the warchief,” the guard growled.

Krel glanced over his shoulder at his patron. “The time required depends how complex its strands are. I need to examine it.”

“Do as the reaver wishes,” the warchief said, leaning forward on his iron throne, watching eagerly as the guard lifted the young human to its feet.

Krel began his inspection. With a ceremonial knife he kept on his belt, he cut away the filthy fabric wrapped around it, baring the skin down to its navel. The human trembled, but held itself as still as it could as long as the blade was next to its pink flesh. Krel slipped the knife back into its sheath.

Something wet hit his face. He looked up in disbelief. The thing had spit in his face. It began a stream of the high-pitched babble language the primitive creatures spoke. Its legs flailed forward, tiny kicks landing on Krel’s hardened muscles like the slaps of an infant. “Restrain it,” he said.

“Does it need to be conscious?” the guard said, sounding hopeful.

Krel shook his head. “Just alive.”

The guard delivered a heavy blow to the side of the princess’ head, and its movements stopped immediately. Green hands as hard as steel held the human upright while Krel continued his examination. He retrieved a thin glass bar from his belt-pouch. He had created the divining rod with the same enchantment he would use to make the orb. Running it along the path from the chest bone down to the navel, he began to delve, looking for the seat of the human’s soul. The strand presented itself quickly. There was only one.

Krel shook