Chapter 3 #2
“No, you don’t understand.” Reyne lost all humor and interrupted Magnius with a fierce growl.
“I have been in the hot desert for weeks tracking fugitives. I’m covered in sand, and I intend to bathe before I do anything else.
Now go.” He flicked his wrist in the air and let the door close in Magnius’s stunned face.
Sand-covered clothes hit the floor, but before he stepped into the deep round tub, he removed his heavy armband, revealing an intricate black tattoo that circled his bicep.
The design—a soaring raptor clutching an arrow that was surrounded by symbols and ancient texts—was identical to the one etched into cold metal.
He placed the relic on the pool's edge and dropped into the refreshing cold water.
He took great pleasure in ridding himself of the sand and dirt that no matter how many layers of clothing he wore, still managed to penetrate his skin.
Once satisfied he was sand-free, Reyne emerged from the tub and was about to reach for a towel to dry himself when one appeared from nowhere and wrapped itself around his broad shoulders.
Reyne glanced behind him to see Lena’s smiling face. The brunette was around his age, pretty with long hair and deep brown eyes that sparkled. Despite her station, she always seemed content, happy even.
Lena was his only slave. She had been a gift eight years ago, the day he joined the Order of the Ramachii. Despite his attempt at refusal, Mordrick ordered him to keep her. Reyne vowed to never treat Lena as a slave and never expected her to act like one either.
Over the years they became friends.
When Lena finished drying him, he replaced the armband, slipped into a pair of snug black trousers. He was on the verge of donning a gray shirt, when Lena tugged the overgrown hair on his chin with a playful smile. “This mess needs to go. Do you want me to get the shaving kit?”
He scraped a calloused palm over his bearded chin. He did need to shave—desperately. “Yes.”
Buzz. The intercom sounded.
“He can wait.”
Lena flashed a skeptical look and pointed to a simple round metal table and chairs used for meals. “Sit. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down a hallway that led to the back of his chambers.
Lena returned with a worn leathery case that she rolled open on the table to reveal a neat assortment of sharp-edged blades, scissors and fluffy cream. “Is that Magnius?”
“Who else would dare.” Reyne released a sigh when the intercom buzzed again. “Ignore him.”
“He won’t go away, you know.” Lena dipped her fingers into the shaving cream. “He is persistent.”
“Has he offered marriage again while I was away?” Magnius didn’t bother to hide his lecherous desires for Lena and persisted with his unwanted advances despite her repeated rejections.
Lena chuckled. “It's been a while. I just don’t understand why he refuses to accept my answer. I even told him once I’d rather remain your slave then marry him.”
“He’s an idiot.”
As if on cue, the intercom sounded again with an unrelenting buzz that refused to end.
“He is holding the button just to piss you off.”
“One day I’m going to gut that obnoxious little man.” The noise continued to grate his nerves until Reyne couldn’t take it anymore. He gnashed his molars and pushed Lena away just as she was about to rub cream onto his cheek and stalked to the intercom with a heavy stride.
He slammed the talk button. “Do you know what this is about? It better be damn important.”
“Mordrick has a need for you. There is a very important mission that requires your immediate attention. He said to remind you again of your duty.”
Again? Reyne ran his fingers through his damp strands. All he wanted to do right now was tell Magnius to fuck off. “All right, I’ll be right there.” He yanked on a pair of tall black boots that covered his trousers halfway up his calf. “We’ll finish this later,” he told Lena.
He thrust his arms into sleeves and headed for the door.
“Mordrick is in the throne room passing sentences,” Magnius advised with a snide nasal tone the second Reyne moved into the corridor.
“Are you really planning on following me there?” Reyne grumbled as Magnius shuffled close behind him. “I assure you I know the way, and I don’t need an unwanted shadow.”
“My orders were very specific. I was to see that you were brought to him immediately upon your arrival.”
His eyes rolled in annoyance while he proceeded to stalk down the hall, his unbuttoned gray shirt billowing behind him.
Because of his rank and his resemblance to their master, Reyne was accustomed to people moving out of his way upon seeing him.
Today, however, the fortress dwellers took one look at his disheveled, bearded appearance and forbidding scowl and stumbled in their haste to remove themselves from his path.
Under different circumstances, Reyne might have found the situation amusing, if fury hadn’t already set his blood to boil.
Reaching the throne room, Reyne pushed on the massive sandwood doors, their imported grain carved and overlaid with intricate ironwork.
Both doors swung open on silent hinges revealing an elongated throne room, with carved blackened stone walls that stretched three stories high.
Rows of tall thin windows ran the length of both sides, with sunlight streaming through etched glass creating long patterns of light that zigzagged across the obsidian stone floor.
At the far end, Mordrick’s elaborately carved throne stood atop a stepped dais.
Intricately carved into a Taleari raptor with its winged feathers spread upwards, the throne was impressive.
The tips of the feathers and talons shimmered with a silvery flare.
The talons stretched forward, clutching the armrests in a deathly grip while the predator's head was turned to the side—beak open—ready for the kill. On the walls behind the opulent throne hung three ceiling-to-floor scarlet tapestries, one marked with a hunter’s arrow, one with an assassin’s dagger and one with an interrogator’s ax.
Ten stoic guards flanked each side of the room, all dressed in identical Taleari military uniforms. A dark grey thigh-length tunic that buttoned up the front with silver buttons, belted with a wide black sash that dropped on one side.
Tight-fitting ebony trousers clung to their thighs; knee-length leather boots, and matching leather gloves polished off the uniform’s sleek appearance.
Not even a muscle twitched among the guards as Reyne strode between them.
Seeing Mordrick in the process of passing a sentence, Reyne paused halfway, crossed his arm over his chest, and waited.
Mordrick paced back and forth with regal grace, his hands clasped behind his back, his head held high.
He wore the same military uniform as the guards; the only difference being a long black inky mantle that swept the floor, held in place on his shoulders by two elaborate silver brooches connected by a heavy silver chain.
Before him stood two guards and one peasant dressed in rags, with a shaggy beard and wild white hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in years.
The prisoner’s wrists and ankles were clasped in heavy chains.
The man appeared so frail, Reyne couldn’t help thinking he was mere seconds from clutching his heart and dropping dead at Mordrick’s feet.
“Four hours in the chamber of the white sand should be sufficient punishment.” Mordrick’s sentence broke the awkward silence.
Reyne cringed, the haggard-looking man would never survive more than four minutes, let alone four hours.
The chamber, as it was called by those familiar with it, was a horrid torture chamber, meant to simulate being staked in the burning desert and left to die an agonizingly slow horrid death.
The floor was layered with super-fine sand that reflected the light while also retaining the heat created from unrelenting sun pouring through the glass dome overhead.
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and since the chamber was perfectly round, not even a corner could be used for shelter.
No body part was immune to the unforgiving torture the chamber created; skin, eyes, nose, mouth, even one’s nether regions burned as the sinister sand oozed into your clothes, assuming you were permitted to keep them on.
Some prisoners were denied clothes and tossed inside as naked as the day they were born.
As part of the mental torture, prisoners were given an unbreakable hourglass, to be used to track their sentence, if they chose it. Most begin praying for a swift death long before the last grain of sand slipped from the upper chamber, marking the passing of an hour.
It was an experience Reyne wished never to repeat.
“No. Please, not that,” the haggard peasant wailed and dropped to his knees. He crawled towards Mordrick and attempted to kiss his shiny leather boots. “Please, anything except white sands. Please, I beg mercy. My lord, mercy please.”
“These pathetic attempts at leniency sicken me,” Mordrick sneered with a roll of his eyes. “Six hours then.” He flicked his wrist, and guards grabbed the moaning peasant’s upper arms and dragged him towards the double doors.
Metallic chains scraping the polished floor and the echo of the peasant’s pitiful sobs were the only sound to break the blanketing silence that followed Mordrick’s horrid sentence.
That, and the soft rustle of silk as Mordrick returned to his throne.
Reaching for an ornate chalice, he took a deep swallow of its burgundy contents.
“And what was his crime?” Reyne asked, attempting to swallow his bitterness while approaching the dais, thin rays of light illuminating him as he strode forward.
“Ah, Reyne, there you are.” Mordrick drained the chalice, letting it dangle from two fingers when finished. “He was caught stealing a barrel from our water merchant in Istabella. It’s as if what I provide is not enough.”