What Goes Bump In The Night

II: In Days Passed

A repetitive clattering, rhythmic and hypnotizing. That was all that filled the empty confines of my conscious thought for the remnants of the night. A recent invention, the Adlerbahn, has made my job far easier than it potentially could have been. The Adlerbahn is a show of the Axial Church's technological prowess: a fully functioning mass personnel transport that utilizes a fixed railway system. How it works, I'm not even entirely sure. All I know is it takes three workers, all incredibly knowledgeable in the ways of magic. At the front is the engine, the cart that pulls the others and houses the magic propulsion system. Behind it are several coaches, descending in glamor the further you go back. As a Witch, I'm granted free entry to the most desirable of coaches whenever it suits me. Full of nobility and clergy, the front coaches always know why a young woman of just twenty like myself earns a spot in their ranks. The average plebian lacks any reasonable knowledge about the Extermination Maidens. Most only know what they've heard from rumors, and the nature of such gossip means it's a generally negative paradigm we bear. If anything, it makes my work easier: just showing up as an unassuming woman from the Church makes my attack all the more sudden. Snapping me from my deep thoughts, the Adlerbahn attendant taps my shoulder. She's a pretty girl: tall, slender, and with an easy-to-look-at face.

"Excuse me, could I offer you a beverage of any kind?"

"Yes, just water."

She nods and retrieves an intricate glass made for fine wine, but then pours from a steel pitcher full of ice-cold water. I take it, nod and then place the receptacle carefully to my lips.

"Would you like any food, ma'am?"

"Just the beverage, thank you."

She leaves and I'm left to swish the water around, trying my damndest to wash out the taste of iron that lingers on my tongue.

Idle chatter keeps my anxiety at a steady level. Isolation is a preference of mine, far more so than company. My introversion is helpful on missions where I'm trekking through the wilds and searching for days with no other person in sight for kilometers. But when I'm not on a mission, it makes my life miserable. Just the twenty or so nobles that are spread out in their spacious benches makes my heart race. I don't like people, but it's not hard when they don't like me either. This land has lots of pride, so much patriotism, and dedication to its own ideals; dangerous for an outsider like me. Unconsciously, I place a hand over my ear while saying that to myself. I'm a citizen here, but not by birth. Twenty years ago I was born in Krovnoch, the neighboring country to the north of Rotelan. Both sides have been in a bitter war over matters of nobility and religion for generations; although, there hasn't been a real conflict in many years. The war has declined to a point of racing to be the most prosperous, showcasing life expectancies and religion like they're trophies. When I was a child in Krovnoch, the elite imprisoned me. My parents were spies, dissidents. As if execution wasn't punishment enough for them, I was condemned to a life of serfdom: a nice word for slavery. As a child, every morning was filled with pain: but both the physical and mental anguish deteriorated with every passing day.

Shooting from my hands to my shoulders, every muscle cries in pain. Both legs struggle to keep my weight from collapsing downward, wobbling at the joints. The lacerations and scars on my back ache, a reminder of my servitude. At the ripe old age of eight years old, I'm a slave at the mercy of the nobility in Krovnoch. Along with fifteen other victims, I'm forced to trot out and eat a puddle of the least nutritious slop they could produce. Then, they hand out mining picks and shovels for us to all carry into the deep caves at the crest of the mountains. They want jewels, minerals, and anything shiny to show off their wealth. Of course, it doesn't occur to them that the wealth is earned by forcing malnourished and mistreated slaves to spend their days chipping away at rocks. If we aren't working hard enough, they lash out with metallic-tipped whips. The guards even carry swords, but it's mostly for the monsters we may come across or the larger of my colleagues that might try and rebel. Every other worker is around the age of thirty, war criminals or terrorists of some kind. The only young members present are me and my friend Andres. He's like me: a child of unfortunate circumstances. At a year older, he worked hard to treat me kindly. Day in and day out he spoke to me with kindness. If I was hungry, he'd give me some of his minuscule food that was served. If I was cold, he'd take the shirt off his back and let me bundle up. Andres, above all else, was smart. He knew when to play nice with the guards, and when to make a scene. Usually, it's whenever I'm at the business end of the whips; that's when he decides to speak up. I hate that he does that, because it always ends with him taking the beating meant for me. Today, the atmosphere felt more ominous than what was customary. We were tasked with mining a burial ground that belonged to a scholar employed at the central church of Rotelan. He was all-knowing, but banished for engaging in heretical practices. His burial chamber, locked away in a harrowing labyrinth of cave-ins and dead ends, was just on the other side of a massive rock wall that we took weeks working toward. From the beginning of the day, all the way to the waning hours, we were chipping away. My hands were so calloused that I could barely get a grip on the splintered handle of my pick. Soon, I'd collapse, falling underneath my own ravaging hunger and unsatisfied thirst. Through blurry vision, all I could see was the concerned face of Andres. His eyes are so beautiful, and his skin so soft. As he cradled my head, every bit of pain and worry vanished. He was the sole light in what were years of darkness. Even worse was having to hear his cries as they whipped him, every croak growing weaker and weaker until his shouts were nothing more than hollow gasps. In the chaos, I slowly stood up. None of the other workers batted an eye, all too busy chipping away to do anything, probably all scared too. Looking for anyone to help, I approached each of the others, pleading that they do something. Not a soul acknowledged me, but something strange did happen. When I was begging a man built like a mountain, he made the final crack that broke open the sealed chamber. His breakthrough caught the attention of the guards and they all stormed over. Flooding in, they searched the room that looked a lot like a study you'd find in a nobleman's home. Bookshelves full of dusty texts, a desk with many ancient papers, even flasks filled with mysterious mixtures. The fruits of our labor meant nothing to me, only Andres had my attention. He was beaten harder than ever before. It wasn't just a latticework of bright red whip scars, there was a purple and yellow discoloration on him from kicks and punches too. His breathing had diminished to a light wheeze that showed just how close to death's door he was. Desperate to save him, I shuffled over to the burial chamber. All the guards were breaking open chests and stuffing their pockets with the bountiful gold that was absolutely pouring from every storage. There was no way I'd find any medical supplies, but it was better than not looking. While the other slaves just rested, I limped around, scavenging with the decaying energy that I had to give. Now and then, a guard would shove me out of the way, too enthralled by grabbing all the gold they could carry. One particular guard shoved me so hard that I collided with a massive coffin in the center of the room. Holding onto it so I don't fall over, my hands find a rusted chain. Immediately upon coming into contact with it, I hear something.