Evil Resides Here (Ch2) (standard:fantasy, 2841 words) [2/2] show all parts
Author: Burn	Added: Apr 25 2012	Views/Reads: 2180/1566	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I awoke with a cry of horror, and flung myself forward. Something tugged harshly at my wrists, and forced another scream to dance upon my lips. My mind couldn't comprehend...

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They really intimidating part was the fact that they looked virtually 
indestructible. Armor covered every inch of their body, making them a 
formidable enemy for a full grown man, and entirely impossible for me. 
Captain Grief must have read my thoughts because he shoved me roughly 
once more, and said “No man has ever escaped this fortress.” His 
message was clear. 

I would be slaughtered before I even took my first step. Thought of
escape was punishable, and I didn't want to think about what attempting 
it would bring upon someone. Shuddering, I opted for turning my gaze 
toward the ground. I was not going to push my luck any further than I 
probably already have. The manacles cuffed on my wrist were beginning 
to cut into my already raw flesh, and fresh blood oozed out of the 
infected wounds. The shackles cuffed around my ankles scraped against 
the rough ground, and kept getting snagged on the sharp ledges. Every 
time I stumbled I got cuffed upside my head. By the time we reached the 
main door of the fortress I was seeing spots. The sudden onslaught of 
sunlight seared my eyes, and frantically I closed them. Little did I 
know this could have been the worse choice I had ever made. If I had 
kept my eyes open I would have seen the danger coming. I could have 
prepared myself for the shock, and known what was coming next. I could 
have... 

I could have done nothing to save myself. 

The walk wasn't too long. After just a few strides forward I was being
shoved to my knees, and Captain Grief was yanking my head back to stare 
at the Overlord. My heart sank, and fear caused a yelp to escape my 
lips. He was a very tall man. He wasn't lanky like a stick, but rather 
had long arms, and legs riddled with muscle. He had a single sword at 
his side, and my guess was that he didn't have to use it very much. He 
wore armor much in the same style as his guards, but his was more 
extravagantly detailed. His armor was shiny, and seemed to be void of 
any blemishes. It was clear that he didn't see very much action but I 
didn't doubt his skill with the sword. He had the scariest eyes I had 
ever seen. His gaze was penetrating, and unrelenting. They were the 
blackest of black, and so deep I felt as if I was getting lost in a 
trance. I was being enfolded in a womb of pure terror the longer I had 
to stare at him. He must feed off of fear because a horrible smirk 
curled his lips up at the corners when he saw me tremble. 

“You must be Warren.” The words were icy, and made me want to shrink
back. I wanted to just dissipate into the ground, and never be seen 
again.  I guess my reaction amused the Overlord because the smirk 
remained plastered upon his ungodly face. Deep within his gaze 
animosity was wrestling with cruel humor. When I failed to answer he 
strode forward to me with purpose, and snaked his hand out. I flinched 
back, thinking he meant to cuff me upside the head. Instead, his long 
fingers traced a line down my cheek. “Perhaps I should make myself 
clear. When I speak to you, I expect an answer.” His fingers closed 
around my chin, and forced me to look up into his unholy eyes. My lips 
trembled as I fought back the fear of a six year old. “Understand?” 

My answer was instantaneous. 

“Yes sir.” 

The Overlord nodded, and promptly turned away from me. He had his back
to me, but that didn't make me feel any better. “So,” he drawled, and 
strode over to a small table. The table held a flask, and a few small 
cups.  I couldn't tell what was in the flask, so my horror was great 
when he grabbed two glasses, and deftly poured the liquid in equal 
proportions into each glass. As he did so, he spoke. “You didn't answer 
me. Are you Warren Peace?” He cast a glance toward me. The glance said 
it all. I was expected to answer, or face the consequences. 

“Yes sir.” 

He nodded, and turned back to the glasses. “Your sisters' name is Fiona
Peace?” Again, I answered with the appropriate response. He then turned 
toward me holding both glasses, and strode purposefully toward me once 
more. “It has come to my attention that you tried to help her escape 
this morning?” This time, his tone was more rigid. It didn't hold the 
same icy calmness. I gulped, and knew that I was snared in this trap. 
There would be no way to lie my way out of this for the idiot behind me 
must have made a report. As I hesitated to respond the Overlord raised 
an impatient eyebrow. Finally, I lowered my gaze to the ground, and 
spoke softly. 

“Yes, I did.” 

The Overlord didn't say anything else, but only placed the cup against
my lips. My eyes grew wide, and I nearly bucked backwards against 
Captain Grief. His stern hand curled up in my hair, and restrained me 
from doing so. “Drink this.” The Overlord adopted a commanding tone, 
one I didn't dare not to act promptly on. Slowly I parted my lips, and 
allowed him to drain the cups contents into my mouth. The taste was 
very strong, and I gagged it down. The Overlord took a step back, and 
accessed me with those cold eyes. “One day Warren Peace, you'll make a 
great warrior. But today, your actions have earned you a punishment.” 
His gaze lifted to Captain Grief, and the two men had an understanding. 
I was suddenly shoved to my feet, and dragged toward a stage set up in 
the court yard of Sector five. A single pillar stood erect in the 
middle of the platform. People began to file in, regret in their eyes. 

“Strip him of his shirt.” 

The Overlord had spoken. I didn't know what was going on. I didn't know
why Captain Grief had sliced my shirt off, or why my hands were bound 
with rope to the pillar. The answer became clear when they dragged my 
mother to the front of the platform, and forced her to watch. Tears 
were streaming down her face as she sobbed “Please no... he's just a 
boy!” Fear had iced over my heart, and just as I was about to speak to 
her something like fire sliced through my back. I felt as if I was 
being torn in two, and a cry lifted from my lips instantly. My mother 
screamed out as I arched away from the fiery bite, and began to plead. 
Yet, another blow was delivered. This one was worse for it overlapped 
the first bite, and tore into my skin with such a fury that it knocked 
the wind out of me. 

I gasped for breath, but each intake of oxygen I took hurt. Only five
blows were given to me given my age, but they were hard blows. By the 
time they sliced through my bounds I fell to the ground, howling in 
pain. I was only six years old after all. Blood was streaming down my 
back, and soaking into the fabric of my back. The skin that had not 
been lacerated was already turning into angry welts. My mother screamed 
for me, but she still could not reach me. They held her back, still. 
The Overlord yanked me to my feet. I howled louder, my wounds causing 
me to double over in pain. He strode with me to the edge of the 
platform then addressed the people that surrounded me. 

“Let this be an example that age means nothing to me. You will be
punished for your insolence. This boy will live to see another day, but 
he'll live with the scars for a life time.” With that, he shoved me 
roughly into the crowd. No one bothered to catch me. They were all too 
afraid. I hit the ground, and another bout of fire shot right through 
me. I curled into a ball, and willed the black womb of death to consume 
me. I willed for the sweet bliss of darkness, yet I could not summon 
it. I was all too aware of what was going on. My mother was finally 
able to rush to me, and cradle me in her arms. She held my head close 
and murmured endearments into my ears. She was in pain, but her pain 
didn't equal the amount of pain I was in. She waved a few men over to 
help her carry me back to the house, and by that time, the pain was 
excruciating by now, and I finally lost consciousness. 

For the next few days I was continually fighting a fever. I had to lie
on my stomach so my mother could nurse the wounds. At least I was 
unconscious for the worse part of it all. She had to clean up the 
wounds, and it would have been a painful ordeal to go through. Because 
I was constantly fighting a fever she was always by my side. She was up 
all hours of the night, worrying, and fretting over me. Her own health 
was declining, but there was no one to force her to rest. If I awoke I 
would be in excruciating pain, and she did her best to knock me out 
once again. Yet, in my subconscious I dreamt of shoving a sword through 
the Overlord to the hilt. I dreamt of ripping his family apart just as 
he had done to mine. He would rue the day he ever messed with a 
helpless six year old boy. When I was old enough, I would be his worst 
nightmare. 

The next year of my life was torment. Fiona had been killed in the first
round of the Harvesting. She had no will to fight. She had no will to 
move on, and live without her family. I was there. I was still healing, 
but we had gone to support her. We were in the audience. I watched as a 
dagger was dragged across her throat, and the blood spilled from her 
body. She fell to her knees, and then to the ground. I didn't cry. My 
mother sobbed, but I only used the anger to my own advantage. 

Daily, I was striving to make myself better. I would practice with a
stick because I didn't have a sword. I'd thrust, and parry. I'd stab, 
and slash. I worked on my endurance. I worked on my foot work. The 
scars that marred my back were motive enough. Little did I know that my 
mother's health was steadily getting worse. I didn't know that she 
often collapsed with fatigue while at work. I didn't know that it was 
hard for her to keep food in her stomach. I didn't know that some 
nights she would wake with a horrible fever. I didn't know until she 
was simply gone. One day, I had woken up early to make her a breakfast. 
I made fresh bread, and spread the butter on top. I poured her some of 
her favorite juice, and added a few slices of cheese. I then started up 
the stairs, and stopped at her door. 

It was then I realized there was something wrong. Hesitantly, I swung
the door open, and strode inside. My insides churned, and I dropped the 
tray of food to the floor. I was only seven years old at this time, but 
I knew enough to know that skin should not be that white, and lips 
should not be that blue. She had died in agony for her lifeless hand 
still clutched at the sheets, yet during the night she had not made a 
peep. 

‘Well, how would you know?' My conscience had accused me. ‘You were
outside, sleeping in a blanket.' 

Horror flashed through me as I realized I could have saved her if she
had been crying out, but I had not been concerned with her. Nay, she 
had not told me that her health was failing. I resented her for that. 
With a heavy heart I dropped to my knees, and sobbed. My mother, my 
sister, were both gone. 


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