Author's Note: For those of you that are wondering, 'why the hell is she posting this story again?' I'm here to answer those questions. I've spent the past few weeks going through and editing Phoenix Rising. That means no more continuity errors, hopefully no more spelling and grammar errors, and basically, particularly in the earlier chapters, better writing. Nothing about the plot and the characters has changed, but the story looks and reads better now.
For those of you who haven't read Phoenix Rising yet, this is my baby. Its complete, and I will be posting a chapter every week. There are 14 altogether, so I've got a ways to go. I hope you enjoy the story, and please leave me feedback, I truly appreciate it.
They were coming. She could feel it in every inch of her body, from the hair rising on the back of her grimy neck to the marrow of her bones. She could hear their taunting calls from outside the tiny closet she crouched in, mocking her attempts at escape. Determinedly, she blocked out their rough voices as they told her exactly what they were planning on doing to her when they finally caught her. She could still see their faces, blackened with dirt to conceal their identities, twisted into visages of intense delight as they raped the women of the castle. Their sounds of pleasure derived from the torture, rape, and death they delivered. The scent of drying blood that flowed from the veins of their victims. The horror and pain on the faces of the men who were forced to watch the mayhem before they too were killed. She had seen it all.
She couldn't think about that. She had to concentrate on remaining hidden. It was her only chance at survival. From deep inside, she called forth hidden wellsprings of magic and constructed a rudimentary shield across the door to the linen closet. As always, the magic felt as if it were oozing from the bottom of a deep well, until it pooled into her tangible grasp. It took every inch of her concentration to craft the webs of power across the door. For the first time, it was almost easy to call upon the magic, with the sharp prick of fear spurring her ever onward. She didn't dare relax until the door was covered in glowing blue light. It was too late to wish for more magical knowledge.
The waiting was the worst part. The crushing weight of fear, the sharp edge of panic, and the all-consuming knowledge that she was probably going to die closed in around her, far more constricting than the close walls of the closet.
When the soldiers finally arrived and began banging at the door, screaming for her to let them in, it was almost a relief. Every muscle in her body was stiff and tense as she reached into the well again and dragged out a strand of blue fire.
The door blasted open with a crash and splinters of wood flew everywhere, lodging into almost every available surface of her skin. She ignored the rivers of fire awash over her body, closed her eyes tightly, and thrust out her magic.
Again. And again. Those hands would never touch her.
In the back of her mind, an unfamiliar, inhuman voice screamed in rage.
You will pay. How do you feel now? Does it hurt you as much as it hurt them? Does it hurt you? It had better hurt.
It took her several minutes to realize that there were no more men trying to pry her from the room, no more hands grappling for purchase against her body. When she had worked up the nerve to slit open her eyes and look at the damage, she immediately closed them and let out an involuntary, sickened moan. It took an act of extreme will to order her heaving stomach to maintain its contents.
Blackened and charred bodies lay in a gruesome pile in the corridor outside the linen closet and all the way in, ending in a semi-circle around her. Surprise, fury, and agonizing pain could be seen on the faces of those who still possessed recognizable features. Every weapon had been melted and lay in silvery, molten puddles. The air itself was filled with the stench of burning flesh, and crackled from the power that had so recently flown through it. It tasted of metal and blood. None of the men moved.
She couldn't think about them. Not yet.
She considered, briefly, seeking shelter in the village, and immediately decided against the idea. The wall of bodies was a formidable influence. And what if more men were on their way? What if the villagers blamed her for the massacre?
Distant voices immediately sent her mind into panic mode. Again. Reaching deeply inside, she knew before she mentally saw that only a tiny spark of her normally plentiful blue fire remained.
The voices drew nearer. Now the sound of armor clinking together and the scrape of booted heals on the ground became apparent. Numerous feet landed at exactly the same time as they marched, which spoke of organization and authority. There was no talking, not even a whisper, and certainly no threats. The silence was absolute.
Never did the thought occur to her that the men were friendly. All she could see was the vicious faces of the men she had killed. Light burst into the hallway, and murmurs of disgust and fear abounded, before they were quieted by a stern order. A single soldier walked the rest of the way down the hall, moving between the piled bodies, until he stopped in front of the entrance to the closet, unceremoniously kicking a dead soldier out of the way. He was tall, with command written in every line of his body. His face was calm, as befit a warrior, but not hard and emotionless. There was sympathy in his eyes as he regarded her. She wondered what he was thinking about her, dirty and covered in blood, cowering in the back of a closet.
She wondered if he was going to kill her.
There was a pause that lasted an eternity, and then the man said quietly to his waiting men, "You can stand down, there's nothing to worry about." Then, he stepped carefully into the closet and knelt down in front of her, his regard gentle and patient, before saying to her, "Don't worry now, little lass. You're safe. We're with the King's Own."
His words took several minutes to sink into her mind, and then she lost what little composure she had left from the trials of the day. Bitter tears dripped in trails down her dirty face, and sobs wracked her shoulders. With surprising grace for his size, the man moved over to her and cradled her in his arms, murmuring soothing words of nonsense. Gradually he gathered her into his arms and moved out of the closet and into the hallway, silencing all questions from his waiting men with a curt nod of his head. The troops knew better than to ignore his orders; they had been through too much with their commander to doubt him.
They all stared at the sobbing girl in wonder and respect, not knowing if she had caused the disaster outside the closet, but knowing that she had witnessed events worse than many of them had ever dreamed of. The man holding her looked at her with gentle eyes, and murmured softly, "What will become of you now, little one?"
She didn't respond. She simply burrowed her face deeper into his shoulder as relief coursed through her veins.