The Ivory Witch

Chapter One

My head hung low as my jailers dragged me from my solitary cell, which sat deep within the bowels of the capitals town hall. I could hardly keep my eyes open as I attempted to see through the curtain of my own matted hair, clumped together with the mud and blood of the battlefield. The pieces of the corridor that I could see through it were old, brick mortar melding with wooden beams and mismatched planks.

After what felt like an agonizing hour of being unceremoniously led by the arms, more carried like a useless bag of fertilizer, I found myself thrown roughly to the ground. The stone floor that I landed on felt jagged and seemed to cut into my skin as the coldness of it brought an odd sense of relief to the pain I felt all over my body, courtesy of my so-called caretakers.

I sent a scowl at them, the burley men, faces covered with steel helmets that only showed a reflection of myself, barely acknowledged me before stepping past me, and each of them fell to one knee. Heads bowed, they continued to ignore me even as I growled lowly at them, before looking past them, as well as my veil of hair; feeling my blood run cold as I saw where we were.

A large, flame lit hall sat in front of me. Towering pillars sat in two, almost perfectly symmetric lines, creating a path down the middle of the hall. The stone floor had a searing red carpet covering it, hurting my eyes from the sheer brightness of the color, with delicate designs covering the edges of it, intricate patterns that seemed almost divine in nature. The ceiling had hundreds of arches to it that seemed to resemble a gigantic maw, hungry to devour any who go against it.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I know this place.

With a slight tremble, I looked back down and towards the end of the hall that we were facing, and found a large throne made from pitch black marble sitting at the top of a pedestal. The red rug had stopped a few inches from the foot of the throne, and at the feet of a man who lounged on the chair lazily.

The man had a lion's beard, the silver of it signifying his advanced age; braided into one piece that melded together and reached his chest. He wore a fine tonic that looked to be made from silk, the same sharp shade of red as the carpet that led to him. Even from this distance I could see his small, bright blue eyes as he watched me, disgust evident in his expression.

Around him stood several young women, each holding a different tray and a multitude of platters that were filled with food and other substances. The man slouched over and with a relaxed grip, grasped a glass full of red wine that a servant lifted to him on a silver platter, lifting it to his lips and taking a deep drink from it. The young woman, hair bright red and tied in a long ponytail that she had draped over her shoulder, waited with obviously bated breath, and I knew what she was waiting for.

The man sat there for a moment, swirling the liquid around his mouth while never once taking his eyes off of me. Apparently the wine wasn't to his liking, because after a moment of tasting it he swung the hand holding it high and smashed it against the servants skull, who collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Two guards rushed in from the side somewhere, and just as I thought they would provide care for the poor soul, the people here disappointed me once again when one of them kicked the girl and they dragged her away. With her head hanging just like mine had, with blood dripping on the floor that they crossed over, she shivered, and her fear felt almost palpable even from where I laid.

After a moment, I struggled to my knees, and after successfully doing that I moved onto standing up, and forced my legs to carry me forward. I couldn't stop my heart pounding, my arms twitching and shivering, or the sweat that marked beads on my forehead that I refused to acknowledge and whip away, lest I give the man more satisfaction than necessary. As I approached the man, I tried to think of what I could say, could do, to prevent him from killing me here and now as he tended to do when he didn't like something, or rather someone.