A thick fog falls over Londonium, and wisps of mist dance down the alleys and avenues like phantoms chasing away the daylight. Ahead of me looms the Tower, the most dreaded dungeon in all the land of Brytannia. Perhaps no other place besides Hell has known as many suffering souls, and it's halls have been the last that many have walked.
I stop and stand in the shadows of the Dance Floor. The gallows, where a dozen arms tower above and crook down, a noose run through their metal loop, threaded back to a wench. A wench that is slowly drawn tight, raising the victim from the worn wooden boards beneath and leaving him to dance in the air gasping for breath. Many such executions have I witnessed, and many prisoners have I stood final watch over.
Tonight, my commander has summoned me forth for such a vigil again. His details were sparse, only that a member of the Radz was to be executed at dawn, and rumors had it that a band of the rebels was going to make an effort to storm the Tower. It would no doubt be a suicide mission, but one can never underestimate their guile and resourcefulness.
Sometimes I thought them in a way similar to me: rebels battling an establishment that had abandoned traditional convention, the way of the sword and the spell, to embrace the double evils of gunpowder and steam. I have never held a musket in my hands, nor ever sought passage on a train. I prefer my sword and my steed, and to myself, think the world would be a better place if our Queen were to possess the same wisdom.
I waste no more time, wrapping my heavy cloak tight around me to ward off the growing chill of the night, my left hand resting on the pommel of my sword so that should any wiley cutpurse think he can take me, he might reconsider.
The watchmen at the portcullis of the Tower raise the gate quickly as I approach, as the last dying rays of sunlight reflect off the gold badge at my chest: a blazing sun with one eye staring outwards. The badge of Her Majesty's Divine Order of Retribution. Elite knights that have not abandoned the code that has protected the sovereigns of Brytannia for centuries.
A guide quietly falls in step in front of me, leading me deep down into the bowels of the Tower. I have never seen it's deepest dungeon, and legends say it's catacombs run for miles. Many speak of having seen and heard spectres of long dead occupants wandering the environs. I have never had such an experience.
The deeper we go, the more putrid the odors become. The musty smell of mold, sweat, piss and excrement at first. Then death and decay. I walk as briskly as the guide allows, my boots clicking loudly on the stone floor.
Suddenly we stop, and I realize I am not sure how far we have travelled as my mind has wandered. Wandered to the many faces I have seen breathe their last breath at the end of a noose.
The guide's key turns loudly in the rusty lock, and I step into the cell. Only a single torch burns within, and my commander, Owain turns towards me, the dim light glinting on his gold shoulder epaulets.
"Donovan," he says heartily, shaking my hand in a firm embrace. His weathered features are framed by a salt and pepper beard. "I am glad you could undertake this task."
I nod, curiously looking around for the prisoner, "Always at your service sire."
He nods in return as well, stepping to the side and turning, letting the light shine further into the room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I find myself surprised at the prisoner I see shackled to the far wall.
It is a young woman, naked. Her skin is fair, and the slightly pointed ears and almond shaped eyes tell me that some elven blood courses through her veins. Her breasts are small and upturned with dark nipples, her hips slender and legs long. But what catches my attention the most is the total lack of hair between her legs, as if for some reason, she shaved it away.
I look up and realize her dark brown eyes are regarding me curiously, obviously having noted my interest at her unusual grooming. I quickly turn back to Owain. "This is the dangerous prisoner?"
"Aye my loyal knight. She is a witch. Her and her companions cast a ritual on the tracks North of Browburg so that when the train passed over them, they writhed like snakes." He shakes his head in disgust, shooting the girl a poisonous look. "But they got more than they bargained for. Instead of gold onboard, it was a troop carrier, and all of them were wiped out but her, despite their magic."
I nodded, looking back at her again. "Don't worry though Donovan. Without her runes and poltices and other talismans, she is powerless."
"Yes. But do you think they will try to save her?"
Owain laughs loudly, clasping me on the back, "The Radz are as unpredictable as the seas of the North Cape! But we shall be prepared, come what may. Remember, use your sword on her first, then any that would dare to save her."
"I understand."
"Good, " he says as he steps towards her. "You will dance at dawn witch," and he spits in her face.
Her tongue flicks out as quick as a serpent's, licking away the saliva that drips down her cheek. When she speaks, there is something musical to her voice, and it carries the lilt of the High Elves of the Emerald Isle, now laced with bitterness, " I taste your fear knight. One day soon, your sword will fail you and our carcass will feed the vultures."
For a moment his eyes narrow, and he seems to be about to say something, but quickly he turns on his heel, knocking for the guide to let him out. He leaves without any further word, and following the clatter of the lock again, only silence reigns.
I take off my cloak and hang it on a peg near the door. As I turn, I find her regarding me. Her eyes are a deep dark brown, and her head is tilted to the side in curiosity. Despite the dirt that covers her, and the whelps from where they have lashed her with a scourge, she still remains beautiful. Strikingly so.
For a moment, I imagine the noose around her neck, stretching it beyond it's natural length as she gasps and kicks on the Dance Floor. I decide I shall not stay to witness tomorrows execution unless I am asked.
"Sir knight," she speaks softly. I find that I have been looking at her for some time, for how long I am not sure, a bit mesmerized by her alabaster skin, raven hair, and gentle curves. Something a knight should not do, yet of which I am guilty.
"My name is Sena."
I nod, "I am Donovan."
"Donovan..." she says my name as if she is tasting it, letting it roll over her tongue, and she shuts her eyes and says it softly once more, a chill creeping over my flesh. "Donovan..."
Her eyes slowly open again. "Isn't it true, Donovan, that a prisoner destined for the gallows is granted one last wish?"
"Within reason, " I point out.
"Of course."
I wonder what ruse she may be playing, or if it is part of some grand plot to initiate an escape attempt by her companions.
"I want you to grant me my final wish my brave knight."
I search her words for sarcasm, but find only sincerity in them, and I step forwards, my curiosity peaked. "And that is?"
She pauses a moment, her eyes wandering over me, almost hungrily, "Fuck me."
For a moment I am stunned by her request. And then a feeling of excitement fills me, and I feel myself growing hard at the thought. My duties are many, and my time is limited. I cannot remember the last time I held a woman near me. And then I feel anger, "Temptress!" I say, "You mock me."
As I start to turn, I hear a pleading in her voice. "I do not jest knight. I would have asked your commander, but he is a coward, another worm of the Queen's court. But you are different."
I shake my head, "I am no different. I took the same oath as he, and wield my sword in service to Her Majesty."
