Disclaimer: I own nothing
Chapter 7
Prince Nuada wasted no time heading for the Palace dungeons – the place where the men who raped the siren were being kept, and incidentally, where they would die.
Ever at the Prince's side as he walked down a dark stairwell, away from the pleasant coolness of the Palace corridors was Adrastos, who spoke only once he was reasonably certain they were alone,
"Are you bedding her?"
"Being a gentleman every now and then wouldn't kill you." Nuada managed to reply with a wry smile – but only just. Adrastos caught the malcontent in his friend's response and did not speak again as they descended deeper into the Palace dungeons. Before long, the air took on a hot, dank quality, like entering a cave filled with bats. A thin layer of moisture clung to the narrow stone corridors like oil or grease, the underground tunnels growing smaller and more labyrinthine as they descended, gradually now, to the very oldest part of Nuada's Palace. Quite suddenly the dark, insipid corridor opened to the chamber of the dungeon proper.
It was a massive hollow. Cells, mostly unoccupied, lined the walls of a great open room cut nine stories deep into the earth. In front of the cells were walkways, corridors by which guards could access the inmates, and which spiralled ever downward to the space below. Looking over the side of the balcony, Prince Silverlance could see his prisoners, the human men at the very base of the prison, shackled together like the animals they were. Bethmora's dungeon was mostly silent, those who dwell there having long abandoned any hope of freedom – but in the moment that followed Nuada's arrival a low, deep moan of inhuman agony resonated through the prison, uttered by some soul whose confinement drove him to madness.
For a moment, standing at the edge of the great pit of unspeakable despair and darkness, the Ancient Prince felt like a Poet – he glanced at Adrastos, who, though sardonic and occasionally crass, was certainly Virgil if he was Dante. And Bacchante… would ever be Beatrice, lady of the light.
"This is about her, isn't it? You're doing this for the siren." Adrastos broke the maddening gloom of the dungeon with a touch of logic. Nuada let his friend's words hang in the air long enough to fade, and then he spoke,
"You needn't be here." The Royal's voice was calm; a request, not an order. The Commander gazed down into the dungeon pit at the mortal captives, his face contorted in pity and bitter resignation,
"I don't want to know what you'll do to them." Adrastos turned back to the Elvish Prince and rested his hand on Nuada's shoulder, looking at him with the same cynicism he'd shown the Prince's prisoners. "Don't let this revenge consume you." With that, Commander Adrastos stepped passed the Prince and through the corridor leading from the dungeon. Nuada walked in the opposite direction, taking the fetid stairway circling every deeper down to the bottom of the black pit.
At this hour, the Prince thought in vicious reverie, lay at my mercy all mine enemies.
Bacchante left the training hall silently, mindful that her footfalls were no more than whispers against the stone floor. She walked through the Palace halls swiftly, darting back to her room. Somehow, the lady was afraid then, terrified of being seen. She was afraid that the Prince would find her, and catch her alone in the hallway…
When the lady reached her small, quiet room, she closed the door behind her as quickly as possible and instinctively felt along the doorframe for a deadbolt lock, anxious when she saw there wasn't one. Bacchante noticed there was a keyhole – she knew she'd seen the key before, she had it. The lady stepped over to her vanity and began opening its drawers and rummaging through their meagre contents furiously; she opened her final drawer, a small compartment to the side of the vanity's ornate mirror, and stopped. Lying there was the small envelope of fine paper the Prince had given her, and on top of it was the silver key.
Bacchante sighed softly, lifting the letter from its drawer. It was soft in her fingertips and covered on one side by a thin layer of dust – had it really been so long since Prince Nuada had given it to her, tucked in the cover of a textbook? She didn't remove the note inside the envelope – she remembered what it said, and the kindness behind the writing of it. For a moment, Bacchante held the small bit of paper in her hands, and gazed up at her reflection in the gilded mirror with minor contempt. How dare she feel the need to lock her door to him, she thought – he'd never hurt her or been cruel to her; rather much the opposite. Her fear was irrational and unfounded, and as she held the token of his kindness in her hand, she felt embarrassed for wanting to shut herself away from him like a timid chambermaid.
With a flickering smile Bacchante returned the envelope to its drawer, covering the silver key with it. If there was something the Prince wanted her for that night, the lady thought, she would oblige him. Absently, Bacchante stepped into her lavish washroom and ran a hot bath, debating what she should wear. Perhaps the Prince wanted her for dinner, and nothing more… Despite the steam rising in the room, the lady shivered deeply. Surely he would never try anything. No, she thought with a small smile, he was arrogant, perhaps, but every ounce a gentleman. Tonight, she thought as she let her dress fall to the floor in a pool of fabric around her ankles, she would be safe with him.
Prince Nuada descended to the floor of the dungeon, a snide grin of vengeance twisting his features. He didn't frequent Bethmora's prison often, and as a younger man he'd avoided it altogether – it was a fearful place.
The dungeon floor had the feel of a great black pit, surrounded on all sides by cells that towered upward to a lost ceiling, invisible in the darkness. The ground was the same grey stone as the rest of the palace, but in the dungeons it was covered with a thin black film, like grease or tar. From out the floor of the prison rose iron stakes, of the sort that women were burned at when their kin accused them of witchcraft. At the top and base of each were shackles, to hold in place the victim.
In the very centre of the dungeon floor, at the eye of the Prince's prison was a single cross amid a forest of iron staves. It was made from wood – the only object within the reaches of the dungeon that had ever once been alive. It was a massive, ancient thing, stained black with blood, wood ravaged where iron nails had been driven through the wrists and feet of those who'd died upon it.
After only a moment's pause, Prince Nuada stepped over to the Dungeon Master – the creature to whom the prisoners had been charged. Bethmora's Dungeon Master was a beast of cruelty – he stood easily ten feet tall and only vaguely resembled either the Elf Prince he served, or the humans he butchered. He had no eyes in his head, but three in his chest – his nose and mouth were those of a dog. The Dungeon Master's name was Mr. Mortar, and he was the only brother of the unfortunate Mr. Wink.
"How are you, my friend?" Nuada asked him. Mr. Mortar did not speak, but lowered his head to the Prince. Despite the beast's frightful appearance, he held himself with an odd, graceful repose – a quiet dignity. To the left of the beast stood his captives, the men who'd taken the siren and raped her. Nuada remembered each of them vividly, burned from Bacchante's memory forever to his own. Now they were at his feet, huddled together on the squalid floor as far from the Dungeon Master as their chains would allow – like dogs, Nuada thought with revulsion.
Amid the traffickers, the Ancient Prince found their captain, and for an instant met his eyes. He was the man who had been the first to rape Bacchante – he had stolen her innocence. Even now, he bore a look of defiance, of arrogance and pride, and for this, the Ancient Prince looked upon him with abhorrence.
"Mr. Mortar, bind them to the stakes." Wordlessly, the Dungeon Master moved to free the prisoners one from another, dragging them individually to the iron staves that dotted the dungeon floor. As Mr. Mortar reached for their chains, he revealed that in the palm of each of his hands was a mouth – a small, vicious maw with dozens of small, very white teeth. Prince Nuada stood back and waited for the first prisoner to struggle – he did, and then let out a sharp scream as the Dungeon Master's hands bit into his flesh, stripping skin from the muscle that lay beneath. The mortals, Nuada thought, would learn quickly not to fight.
As soon as the men were shacked face-first to the iron stakes, Nuada looked to Mr. Mortar,
"Flog them." At the Prince's order, the Dungeon Master retreated to the wall of the prison, and removed from it a corded leather whip. At the end of the lash was a three-pronged metal barb like a large fish hook, which clattered on the stone floor as the whip was unfurled. "These men are worse than vermin;" the Prince spoke as his Dungeon Master neared the first prisoner, "show them no mercy. Do not stop until you've skinned their backs."
The stroke fell and was met with the first of many cries of anguish that would shatter the grim stillness of the dungeon. Prince Nuada watched, inscrutable, his back against the stone wall of the dungeon pit, arms folded across his chest. As the punishment of the first trafficker continued to completion and the mortal's cries of agony subsided to grim resignation, the Ancient Prince watched the light in the eyes of his comrades flicker and fade. None of the prisoners dared to speak.
It took four hours for the Dungeon Master to scourge Nuada's prisoners; the Prince stopped him before he broke the whip across the captain's back,
"I will tend to him myself." With a small nod of understanding, Bethmora's Dungeon Master handed him the whip.
"Who are you?" The captain's question broke the dungeon's silence.
"My name is Prince Nuada. Everything you see before you belongs to me. I am the one responsible for the destruction of your world, and before the sun rises, you will join your slaughtered kin."
"You're sick." the captain snarled, flicking his eyes to his men, their flesh ravaged and bodies broken.
"I would hardly think a man who takes a woman by force is in any position to pass moral judgement," the Prince began, his voice laced with bitterness and rage, "Or have you forgotten her already? She's beautiful – surely you remember that. You took three sirens from the North Sea – she was the only one who survived you." The mortal almost uttered a bitter, maniacal laugh, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke,
"Is she your woman?"
"She belongs to no one. If you'd remembered that, you'd have suffered a kinder fate." And with that Prince Nuada brought the whip down over the man's back, the metal hook at its tip slashing a strip of flesh clean from the man's body, as meat would fall from a butchered swine.
The Ancient Royal tore through the mortal's back without mercy until all that remained where there had once been skin was a mass of mutilated flesh. Despite the torture, the mortal captain did not cry out as his men had – too proud to admit pain or fear, even now. But that would change.
"Mr. Mortar, take the captain to the cross." Cruelly, the Dungeon Master unchained the mortal and dragged him to the eye of the dungeon, the tops of his feet scraping across the fetid stone.
"Why?" The captain asked the Ancient Prince, his question harbouring only a hint of desperation as he was dragged before the crossed staves. "Am I some example for–" The Prince did not let him finish,
"No. You will suffer because you stole the innocence of the woman you ravished." Reminded of Bacchante's memory and the horrible shame she'd felt renewed the Prince's wrath. "You loved her only with your eyes," Nuada growled at the mortal, his voice dripping with malice, "No more." The Ancient Prince tore the eyes from the captain's skull, forcing from his prisoner the first scream he'd uttered all night.
With the pull of a lever the Dungeon Master released the cross so that it lay flat, and the man could be nailed to it. The captain, blinded, writhed in the Dungeon Master's gnawing grasp, shrieking like a madman as Prince Nuada drove iron nails through his wrists and feet, pinning flesh to wood. Slowly, with the cold churning of gears, the cross was righted, the blinded rapist splayed like a martyr before the men he once commanded.
"Douse them with kerosene," Nuada ordered, his voice hoarse with rage, "but nothing more. It's only fitting that Lady Bacchante be here to watch them burn."
Author's Note: Eek!! Sorry It's been so long since I've updated… I don't think that will happen again.
As a side-note, the religious imagery in this chapter has nothing to do with the crucifixion of Christ – it certainly wouldn't have that meaning to Prince Nuada. A lot of the imagery in this chapter is a homage to a poem I read a few years ago called "The Hollow Men."