Page 8 of The Last Knight (The Cursed Kingdom #5)

Chapter Seven

A gonizing screams echoed, seeming to bounce off the walls. The sounds were so familiar, and yet even after decades of hearing them, he’d never grow accustomed to it.

It was expected that the ruler of the Dark Realm would inspect the torture chambers, confront those imprisoned and give orders to the guards as to how to proceed next.

When a groan sounded, the darkness pulsed through his veins, reacting to the pitiful sounds and Gunther took a deep breath at the energy that surged within. It was such a good feeling, even despite his mind acknowledging that what occurred was wrong.

He turned and walked into a dank, dimly lit room, the smell of blood and bodily fluids heavy in the air.

It was rarely cleaned, the stench adding to the discomfort of those being held.

A hapless man hung by his wrists. His legs had long since buckled under him.

Blood dripped down his arms from where he’d struggled against the shackles in a fruitless effort to get away from whatever was being done to him.

“Unshackle him and return him to his cell,” Gunther said, his voice sharp. “There are things we must discuss.”

One of the torturers, a Torant with a grotesque twisted face disfigured from being tortured himself, moved to the man and unlocked the shackles, letting him collapse to the ground. His head hit with a hard thud.

Again, the darkness rose. This time Gunther pushed it down. He peered down at the unconscious man. “What was his crime?”

The other torturer chuckled. “Getting caught during our last raid of a village.”

The gleeful look on the Torant’s face made Gunther’s stomach turn.

He ruled these horrible creatures. Releasing the prisoners or stopping his subjects from committing harmful deeds would mean losing credibility and respect as a leader.

The Torant race thrived on battle, destruction, torture and death.

The disfigured Torant dragged the hapless man away while the other stood next to an empty slab, another torture surface equipped with leather straps used for arms and legs.

When the Torant returned, Gunther looked to one and then the other, the entire time silent.

“Your methods are rudimentary and need improvement. Perhaps practicing on one another would give you a sense of what the captives go through and how badly it really hurts. They could be faking for all you know.”

Both torturers went still as statues. Gunther’s personal guards laughed, as always gleeful at the thought of pain and suffering, no matter whose.

“Fros, bring four guards here and have them perform the…new methods,” Gunther stated looking over his shoulder to one of his personal guards. “Molf, come with me.”

He walked away, ignoring the protests of the two who were about to be tormented.

With the guard at his heels, he went to the dungeon next. Surprisingly, there were only five prisoners being held. All seemed to be Atlandians. From the emaciated bodies on two of them, he could tell they had been there a long time.

“I’m disappointed,” Gunther said. “There is nothing extraordinary done here? Do these two have any pride in their work?”

Molf grunted. “I believe they have gotten lazy. Meliot wished for there to always be captives held and they took little effort to capture the ones we have.”

Gunther held his right hand out and immediately the iron door of the two cells opened. “Come out,” he ordered loudly.

The males walked out, some having to be helped, including the man who’d just been tortured.

Darkness swelled inside Gunther at the pitiful sight, fighting against the compassion that made his stomach lurch.

“Return to your homes. Be sure to tell others what to expect if they cross anyone from the Dark Realm. There will be no pity, ever.” Lifting his hands with palms toward the group, he sent pulses of magic that would transport them back to wherever they came from.

Heavy footfalls were followed by the appearance of a Torant and another creature. Both stared at the empty cells agog. “We did not release them. It was probably the other…”

“Clean the cells until they are spotless. Once that is done, clean the corridors and once that is done, scrub the torture room. Ensure you do not disturb what is happening there.” He turned to Molf. “Send guards to oversee their work.”

Molf gave the jailors a triumphant look and then hurried to do Gunther’s bidding.

Gunther walked from the dungeon straight out to the courtyard, needing fresh air which he gulped in lungful after lungful until finally the stench left his nostrils.

In the courtyard, there was little activity. Torants were notorious for sleeping long hours, which suited Gunther fine. Only the guards at the gates and atop the walls moved about.

The overcast sky loomed, allowing for little light.

It was eternally dusk in the Dark Realm.

Gunther went to the stables, planning to ride out and explore his lands.

Despite living in the Dark Realm for so long, he’d never truly traveled freely and had no idea what lay beyond the few places he’d seen.

He had little to fear, his powers stronger than any other who lived in the realms. Therefore, there was no need for any kind of escort.

Mounted on a black horse, he guided the steed through the gates. Nodding to the guards who dared not question him, he continued out.

The surroundings proved to be as desolate as he expected. Gnarled trees, their branches intertwining lined the road, their branches sprouting thorns and thick grey-green leaves that could withstand the frigid temperatures of the icing.

The horse’s movements seemed loud compared to the stillness of the forest. There was no birdsong, nor any type of insect about. As far as Gunther knew, the only creatures that managed to survive there were wolf-like creatures and large rodents that looked like a cross between a rat and a beaver.

Movement caught his eye and, a moment later, a deer came into view.

Pulling his horse to a stop, Gunther gawked at the beautiful creature.

The deer, or at least what looked like one, had thick light brown fur from the neck down to its legs.

Large, doleful eyes met his for a moment, the creature seeming as startled by him as Gunther was by it.

“What are you?” Gunther asked, not expecting a reply, of course.

The sound of his voice seemed to pull the animal out of its reverie, and it whirled around and scampered away.

“Interesting,” Gunther considered as he dismounted. With a long exhale, he allowed his shoulders to fall as he walked to a tree and placed his right hand against it, leaning forward, head bent.

The predicament of his current situation was overwhelming. How to maintain the illusion of continuing the way things had always been there in the Dark Realm without bringing more destruction?

In a way, it was a proper punishment that he be sentenced to life in such a place, one of no laughter, no beauty.

Nothing but desolation and darkness surrounding him.

He had nothing to complain about. As ruler he was not subject to mistreatment.

And yet, the human in him rebelled against the notion of living in such a place, of ruling over beings that thrived on evil.

At the thought, the battle between his two halves seemed to rise, the dark rebelling against any thoughts of making changes for the better.

Without war, strife and such, what would become of the realm? There would be dissension, the Torants would rise up against him. Little prompting would be needed as it was clear none in the Dark Realm believed that a human deserved to be ruler.

Surely as he stood, back at the castle, Kel and Joc worked to find ways to dispense with him. He almost laughed. If they only knew he would gladly give up his place. If not for having to forfeit his life, he’d leave immediately.

A frosty wind blew, announcing the imminent arrival of the icing, which would overtake the realm with not only frigid temperatures, but sharp shards of ice falling from the sky.

Every being in the affected areas fled to shelters, hiding from the possibility of freezing to death or being cut down by the falling icy blades.

His mind returned to the other realm, the visit with Aubrey. She’d refused to help him. Yet he knew, without her help, he could not escape. Somewhere in her reach was the key, the only way to be freed.

Of course neither she nor the others, some of whom he’d help capture for Meliot, would trust him enough to help. He didn’t blame them in the least. Especially since Gunther wasn’t sure that the darkness would not follow him.

Was it fate that his penance for the past wrongs over two hundred years could only end in death?

Surely there was mercy, and he deserved it.

He closed his eyes as the picture of familiar faces formed an ache like that of a hot poker being shoved into his lungs.

The pain made him bend. Instinctively, he reached up and traced the path of the long, jagged scar that traveled from his left temple to his upper lip.

It could be he didn’t deserve any less than the current situation. To have evil fill him and to be witness to horror and death for eternity, or until he was cut down by one of his own guards.

As the first shards of ice began falling, the horse neighed loudly, turning to look at him. Gunther created a shield to protect the animal and then himself.

Once more, he allowed his gaze to sweep over the surroundings that would soon be covered in ice, turning it into a haunted yet beautiful place.

Although reluctant to return to the stone walls of the castle, he had to. He had to continue to study the tomes and search for answers. Then he had to come up with a way to convince Aubrey that, more than anything, he wanted a chance to right wrongs and to finally be free.

His cape billowed behind as he rode back to the castle. In the periphery he caught sight of two figures hiding behind trees. Spies probably sent by Kel and Joc. The generals wished to be apprised of his movements.

The idea that they thought he wouldn’t be aware was laughable.

They’d grown used to Meliot’s waning powers and thankfully were not aware of how strong his were.

He’d let them continue to think he wasn’t aware, as it would be beneficial.

Perhaps their distrust and hope to find a way to get rid of him could be beneficial in his search for a way to leave.

Urging the horse to a gallop, directing it toward the castle, Gunther’s mind whirled with more questions than answers.

As he walked from the stables, the two generals stood shoulder to shoulder waiting for him to approach.

The one called Fros met his gaze, the unwavering intensity lacking any kind of due deference to Gunther’s station. “We are told you released all the prisoners. As generals we should have been informed of it.”

The other, Molf added, “If you could give us direction, we would assign the required duties such as cleaning and guarding to those best qualified.”

As soon as the last words were spoken, the three of them dematerialized and then appeared in the throne room.

Gunther on his feet, the two generals on their backs, the force of the landing taking the wind from their bodies.

Both struggled until getting to their feet, their chests heaving.

As soon as they stood, Gunther lifted a hand, and they were flung across the room in different directions.

Furniture, tankards, lamps and all other items crashed to the floor and spilled on surfaces as the men’s bodies soared past.

Molf ended up sprawled on his stomach after bouncing from the top of the fireplace, Fros slid down a wall, landing on his butt. Both growled with fury, once again getting to their feet. Molf charged Gunther, anger obviously blinding him to the fact he would not prevail against Gunther’s power.

A pulse of energy sent Molf hurtling through the air, legs and arms flailing uselessly until he landed with a sickening crash atop a table that shook and collapsed. The huge Torant lay still, unable to rise this time.

Fros glared at Gunther from afar, smart enough to keep his distance.

The darkness within Gunther was gleeful, encouraging him to continue the attack, delighting in the grunts of pain and anger. He allowed it but restrained himself from continuing the punishment.

Instead, he crossed the room, found a goblet that was intact and conjured a pitcher of ale from which he poured the cold liquid. Without taking his eyes from the generals, he took a long drink.

“I must admit, this was enjoyable. I can see why Torants delight in causing pain and injury.”

Molf straightened. “You disrespect our station,” he growled.

“Interesting that you think that. This entire…er, interaction could have taken place in the courtyard where your men would have been witnesses.”

“We are your generals, whom you should trust with…”

Gunther cut him off. “I trust no one. You must earn my trust. I am not Meliot, to whom you owed allegiance.” He met the Torants’ gazes. “Trust takes time.”

Expressions flat, the generals exchanged looks. Gunther chose not to read their thoughts, it was obvious that they were silently agreeing to do anything in their power to find a way to dethrone him.

“Now,” Gunther said, “let us sit and discuss the plans for the upcoming days.” With a casual sweep of his hand, every piece of furniture and other broken items came back together, returning to their original place.

All except one bowl that resettled onto the center of the table in two pieces. A reminder of what he’d done.

As soon as the discussion was over, Gunther would travel to the other realm. Time was of the essence.