《The Wretch of Siradorn》 The Wretch The Wretch ¡°Thou who art poor, who art hungry, who art alone, come to Siradorn. For we accept all of strong backs, of untapped talent, and of righteous conviction.¡± -Earl Julius, on the topic of refugees.
The sounds of the thick oak door creaking open are amplified tenfold by the stone brick construction of the dungeon. Ancient hinges, unoiled and time-worn, protest with a symphony of squeaks and squeals that border on being a long and tired groan. Flickering orange torchlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating a pair of yellow, bloodshot eyes that linger behind a set of rusted iron bars. A heavy grunt reverberates throughout the room as a guard forces the door the remainder of the way open, cursing as he jams his torch in a nearby sconce. His well-polished steel chest plate and helmet reflect the dim light, creating strange shadows in the prison¡¯s lone cell. His eyes are shadowed, but the look of disgust is plain as he unsuccessfully tries to ignore the stench of sweat and excrement while approaching the bars. ¡°Supper,¡± says the guard, raising a large piece of hastily butchered meat up to the cell door. It¡¯s fresh; drippings of red juices splatter on the soiled bricks of the dungeon, while the yellow fat clinging to its edges betray its equine origins. He steps back slightly as the occupant of the cell crawls forward on all fours. If only for the dim light of the torch and the haunched figure of the prisoner, one could not be faulted for thinking that they stood before a normal man. But then he shifts. Slowly the creature rises from crawling to standing while approaching the bars, betraying the inhuman-ness of his form. His legs are bent at strange angles, more dog-like than man, though his feet still retain some semblance of humanity. His arms hang too low at his sides so that the tips of his fingers brush against his knobbed knees. He stands hunched, yet even so, his bald head nearly brushes against the ceiling of his cell. The guard has to crane his neck slightly to meet the eyes of the beast, which are far too wide for a normal man¡¯s. His mouth is too large, with thin red lips that seem to stretch beyond the lobes of his long ears. ¡±By the Maker, I think you must be even uglier than when I saw you last, wretch,¡± the guard chuckles, barely covering his fear with a thin layer of bravado. ¡°Goodness me, look at you¨CI can see straight to your ribs. You must be starving,¡± he says mockingly, ¡°It¡¯s only been, what, a week? But worry not, I have your dinner right here, freak,¡± he tosses the chunk of meat through the bars so that it lands at the creature¡¯s feet, careful to not get any closer than he needs to be, before turning to leave. ¡±Oh, and I almost forgot,¡± he begins to snort heavily, nearly retching as he works to form a thick ball of mucus and phlegm before spitting it onto the prisoner¡¯s meal with a practiced aim. The wretch looks at it briefly before turning his attention back to the guard, its bloodshot eyes betraying neither disgust nor anger¨Conly the cold, calculating look of an intelligent predator. "Not yet," says a soft, beguiling voice, resonating within the creature¡¯s skull, compelling it to remain still. Though its eyes remained locked with that of the guards¡¯, who held its gaze for a moment before a combination of fear and revulsion forced him to turn away.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡±I hate this bloody job,¡± he mumbles and he snatches his torch from its sconce and drags the heavy door shut behind him. The sound of several bolts being slid into position echoes off the stone as the wretch¡¯s eyes re-adjust to the darkness. The creature rests on its haunches as it pinches the soiled meat between its thumb and forefinger, examining it for a moment before tossing it onto the pile with the rest of the rotting horseflesh. The gnawing hunger in his stomach grows a little stronger with each passing moment. "Soon, Child."
The rats paid him no mind, skittering across his thighs as he sat in the utter darkness of the cell. The sounds of their teeth gnawing on the mound of meat in the corner gave him something to focus his mind upon. The ever-growing pains in his stomach gave him some indication of time since the guard had last come. The length between visits was becoming longer, though he did not know why they came at all¨Cwhy not leave him to rot in his cell? He could find no clear reason, though it seemed to him a waste of perfectly good horses. Why imprison him at all when they could just easily have killed him? Though he had begun to wonder just how easily he could be killed. He had been imprisoned for¨Che looked towards the pile of meat festering in the corner, crawling with rats, a morbid hourglass of sorts¨Cand judged that it had been nearly two months since he had last eaten. He shuddered as he remembered his first and last attempt at consuming the meals of horseflesh. For the first two days, he could not bring himself to eat the raw slabs of meat delivered to his cell¨Che would rather starve. That is, until he began to. On the third day, these ragged scraps of equine steaks began to look like the most choice cuts of beef he had ever seen. He brought one to his mouth with two trembling hands and tore chunks in a starved frenzy of teeth before promptly spitting them back out in a panic. Not for the taste, but for the pain; it burned, searing the inside of his mouth, blistering his tongue and throat, closing it such that he could not scream out the agony he endured. All this pain from just brief contact with the meat; he did not dare try to taste it again, carefully pinching it between his fingers for fear of it causing him to break out in burning hives. However intense the stabbing pain in his stomach grew, it was nothing compared to what a small bite of animal flesh would do. He could endure and he did; not eating even a morsel of food for nearly two months. While enduring starvation for this long would¡¯ve surely killed any human, the prisoner persisted. More than persisted, he grew. In both strength and size. When once the prisoner¡¯s fingertips could hardly scrape the ceiling when he stretched to his full extent, he now had to remain hunched over to stand comfortably within. He recalled how feeble he was: arms and legs shaking from the effort it took to simply crawl towards the iron bars of his cell and beg for water. Weeks passed, and unexpectedly he began to feel powerful, as if he could sprint through the stone brick walls of the dungeon with little resistance. Out of curiosity and a stark lack of anything to do, he decided to test this newfound sense of brawn against the bars of his cell which had taunted him relentlessly since his imprisonment. Grabbing a bar in each hand, he braced himself against the floor, his feet firmly planted as they could be on the cold, soiled bricks, and gave a mighty pull. His new, twisted muscles rippled with effort and he felt a warning twinge of pain in his back as he heard the iron begin to groan and creak under the stress; however, for all his might, he could not bend them out of place. He would spend the remainder of the day looking for and testing various weak points in his cell: the hinges of the cell door, crumbling masonry, or particularly rusted bars. He struggled and strained against all of these to no avail. He would have to find another way. This was a week ago. Now, he could feel his metamorphosis coming to an end; the changes in strength, size, and form gradually slowing to their eventual conclusion. He knew now that he could have pulled that mocking guard through the bars of his cell, using them to squeeze his body out of that plate armor like a wet towel through a set of rollers. He nearly had, before that strange voice brought him to a halt. Up to that moment, he had waved the voice off as no more than a mere auditory hallucination, some far-off sound that seemed to come nearer as he progressed through his transformation. It never offered more than a passing comfort after the strange and terrible dreams that tormented him whenever he found a brief moment of sleep, a quick ¡°there, there, Child,¡± and nothing more. However, no simple hallucination could force your limbs to freeze mid-action on a whim. This voice was something more than a kind whisper in the dark. It told him to wait, hinting that his freedom was near yet that he was not quite ready to take it. He would disagree, though he sensed that his opinion held little weight in the matter. His burning desire for freedom had now been replaced by the silent confidence the voice imparted upon him. It would only be a matter of time before he breathed fresh air. The Escape The Escape ¡°It is here, at the beginning, that I must apologize to the fledgling Wizard that has opened this text. The incantations you seek to cause great destruction, to conquer your enemies, or to incite jealousy in your peers will not be found here. Magic is a thing of subtlety, of precision, and of the dust that coats tomes such as this one.¡± - Magistratus Grisham, from The Power of Magery.
Click. Click. Click. Thud. This sequence: three locks and a deadbolt held that ancient oaken door in place, or so the prisoner guessed, it would undoubtedly hold steadfast against any man or beast. These familiar sounds had become something he had begun to look forward to¨Ca break in the unending monotony that was his prison¨Ceven if it meant the arrival of that obnoxious guard. Today was no different, the blinding light of the torchlight splitting through the entryway, the musk of man, and the scent of horseflesh. The guard lets out a heavy sigh as he places his torch in the sconce, meat hanging loosely from his gauntleted hand. His face is visible today, the helmet is uncomfortable and limits his vision¨Cwhy make the long descent into these dark dungeons all the more difficult? Already he must deal with the dregs of society and now this sickening creature was in his purview as well, surely he had earned himself this small reprieve. Not having to breathe that stale, hot air, within the helmet made the stench of prisons just a little more tolerable. He always left the door open as a means of escape. The guard didn¡¯t know what this thing was¨Che didn¡¯t ask questions, a sought-after trait in law enforcement¨Cbut he knew that he didn¡¯t want to wrestle that heavy door open again should the prisoner escape its confinement. He says his usual crude greeting, he doubted whatever it was could understand him anyway, as he tossed the piece of meat through the bars. Strangely, the creature never ate, he glanced towards the festering pile of previous meals gone uneaten in the corner, but he was ordered to bring it meals and so he did. However, he was not ordered to remain here in the deepest part of the dungeon any longer than he needed to be and so he turned to make his exit. Just in time to watch the door slam closed with a sound that reverberated in his belly. He bounded across the room in two strides, preparing to rip the door open with all his might, terror making his decisions for him. Click. Click. Click. Thud. The guard¡¯s heart turned to ice upon hearing the mechanisms on the other side of the door lock into place. An iron deadbolt a quarter-of-an-inch thick in diameter sliding into place. Three locks, all with separate keys that only he and the Captain of the Guard had copies of. He doubted his superior had snuck down here behind him. Even worse, he knew he wouldn¡¯t be checking on him any time soon. ¡°Hey! Open this door immediately! You have until the count of three to save yourself from a hanging!¡± There was no response on the other side of the door. ¡°One!¡± The guard yelled, trying, and failing, to keep the terror from his voice. ¡°Two!¡± ¡°Three!¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Click. The sound of a lock opening echoed through the still air. Relief spread throughout the guard¡¯s body. Icy veins, constricted with adrenaline, opened back up just in time for him to realize that the sound did not come from the door in front of him, but rather from behind. The singular cell¡¯s door opened slowly, rusted hinges protesting as the pale and naked form crawled out in an uncertain, tentative manner. It entered the narrow hall that led to the room¡¯s only exit, passively looking at the armored man in its way. The guard drew his sword from its sheath, pointing it shakily at the figure of his once-captive. ¡°Get back in your cage, freak, before I run this blade straight through you!¡± he managed to yell, his fear bringing his normally baritone voice up to something more resembling a tenor pitch. The creature was more clear to him now than ever. Pale and nearly hairless save for its sex, the thing stood head and shoulders taller than the brawny guard, its bald head brushing the ceiling of the dungeon. Its face resembled a man¡¯s, but longer and punctuated with two yellow eyes that were larger than they had any right to be. A thin nose sat above its mouth, lined with lips that seemed perpetually locked in a cruel mimicry of a grin. It looked as if it were starved, with ribs clearly shown and a sunken stomach to match, though its twisted muscles were well-defined under its pallid skin. It took one predatory step toward the guard. The sound of the steel sword clanging off of the stone floor was still ringing in the guard¡¯s ears as he pulled desperately on the door handle. It was no use and deep down he knew he would never see the other side of that door again. He could feel the presence behind him inching nearer but could not force himself to face it, every muscle in his body had gone lax, his armored knees crashing to the floor below as he felt a spreading warmth running down his legs. He couldn¡¯t even open his mouth to beg for his life as the hot breath of the creature buffeted against the back of his neck. Saliva leaked from the creature¡¯s partially open mouth. The pain in its stomach had reached its zenith and the cure was finally within its grasp. Opening its maw to its inhuman limits, it fit the guard¡¯s exposed head neatly into its mouth before clamping down with impossible force. The creature sat on its haunches and chewed vigorously, waves of warmth washed over it as it crunched through the viscera, finally soothing the perpetual agony in its abdomen. Swallowing, it turned its attention back to the headless remains of its once-captor. Its hunger was satiated, but something else drove it to undo the clasps and leather straps that held the armor still attached to the cooling corpse. Tossing the gauntlets, greaves, chestplate, and various other metal pieces into a pile, the creature stripped the remaining undergarments before continuing its feast. It tore away muscle and lapped blood from the stone tiles until every last piece of flesh was gnawed from its bone and nothing but the skeletal remains were left of the guard. The creature sat back from its gorging, breathing heavily from the effort and euphoria that was unknown to it until now. As the feelings of elation began to subside, brief flashes of images appeared in the creature¡¯s mind. A room full of guards, polished swords, and armor lining the walls. A woman¡¯s face, eyes gentle and caring. A dungeon, with a creature that lingered in the darkness of its cell. ¡°What? What is this?¡± a voice, deep and strangely distorted¨Cas if two men were trying to speak at the same time¨Cechoed throughout the small dungeon. The creature realized it was its own, it hadn¡¯t bothered trying to speak since its first memory of awakening its cell. ¡°Worry not, Child. ¡®Tis but the memories of a mortal man, nothing to concern yourself with,¡± another voice, softer and far more beautiful than the beast¡¯s own, filled its mind. The confusing images and emotions were replaced with a warm, fuzzy sensation that made the room blur, making it difficult to think. ¡°But you are a child no longer, are you? You have consumed and filled that void, the relentless gnawing hunger within you. An incomplete being finally made whole. A seed nourished by the foundations of life: blood, sinew, muscle, and bone. You are more; perfection made manifest and you need a name deserving as such.¡± The Voice paused, seeming to think for a moment. Amiran. The word was not spoken by The Voice, but came from somewhere else, somewhere deeper. It imprinted itself like a stamp on the beast¡¯s mind. The fog enshrouding Amiran¡¯s mind cleared as quickly as it came, The Voice seeming to have left with it. He stood, feeling his new, even greater strength in his legs as he walked to the oak door to claim his freedom only to find it still securely locked. He waited for a moment for whatever force locked it and freed him in the first place to release the locks once again, but whatever it was¨CAmiran guessed it was The Voice¡¯s doing¨Cdid not come to his aid again. Left with no other choice, he gripped the door handle with both hands and, kicking the still-wet bones off to the side, braced his feet against the uneven stone floor before pulling with all his might. Compared to his previous attempt with his iron cell door it was obvious to him that he had grown in strength; already he could hear the latches on the opposite side of the door begin to fail, the metal fasteners popping and cracking under the stress. A few more seconds of effort and the door had completely given way, the sudden release of energy sending Amiran stumbling backward. On the other side of the doorway was a long, narrow staircase. At its top, after what looked to be hundreds of ancient stone steps, was a blindingly bright light. Amiran felt a fresh, cool breeze work its way down the stairs and brush across his face as if to greet him. He was free. The Camp The Camp ¡°Welcome, refugees from the surrounding counties of Jishim, Brugen, Hoom, and beyond. Siradorn and its council greets you with open arms and heavy hearts. Until quarters are available, you must, unfortunately, remain outside the walls. Of course, should any of our shared enemies siege our beloved city, you will find protection within our walls. Maker have mercy upon us all.¡± -Earl Juilus, addressing the council of Brugenauts.
Amiran¡¯s pupils narrowed, adjusting quickly to the midday light. His eyes focused, finding himself in a forest clearing surrounded by trees covered in brilliant orange and yellow leaves. The crisp autumn breeze chilled his naked skin just as the noon sun¡¯s light warmed his face, sensations that were almost overwhelming compared to the unchanging environment of his cell. The birdsong of the forest and rustling of leaves in the wind filled his ears, a welcome change from the chittering of rats and sound of water dripping on stone. Behind him was a small, ruined tower whose rusted gate hung uselessly to the side of its entrance from which he exited. A single dirt path broke out of the trees and into the clearing. Amiran took a step towards it. The singing in the trees stopped as soon as his foot landed in the soft, decomposing layer of fallen leaves that covered the ground. A squirrel in a nearby tree made a warning kuk kuk, signaling to the other creatures of the forest that danger was near. Amiran did a quick sweep of the wood''s edge and saw nothing. Then it dawned on him: he was the predator, he was the danger that stopped the birds¡¯ song in their throats. Of course, how could he expect to be seen as anything but? He had just devoured a man whole, raw. The nameless guard¡¯s blood still covered Amiran¡¯s face and chest; he undoubtedly reeked of murder. Though he remembered nothing before his awakening in the cell, he knew that this¨Cthat he was not natural. This bothered him only slightly, what was he to do about it? He could not sit idle and ponder on this, there were too many questions that seemed to fill the very fibers of his muscles, urging him forward and down that dirt path. The forest was silent as the lone figure followed the narrow trail. It was as straight as far as unpaved paths go, allowing Armian to keep his eyes to the sky, which was now barely obscured by the thinning foliage of the trees. He appreciated how the thin beams of light forced their way through the remaining leaves that still stubbornly hung onto their branches despite their time and usefulness having long since passed. The silence that followed him made the sound of his bare feet against the compacted dirt and loose stones made him feel as if he was the last being on earth. It was the smell that brought him out from this near-meditative walk. The unmistakable yet familiar stench of rotting meat told him of the pile of nearly a dozen horse corpses long before he laid his eyes upon them. Amiran, all but immunized to the stench of rot, approached the open grave. The horses that had not already long been picked clean by the wildlife each had a poorly cut strip of meat carved from their flanks and a single, long gash across their throats. Amiran deduced that this was where the guard had been sourcing his ¡°meals¡±, but why the waste? He laid his eyes on the freshest corpse, this one that had been slaughtered mere hours before and bore little of the desiccation or bloating of the others. It was on this one that a symbol could be seen on the creature¡¯s left shoulder. The horse had been marked with a brand depicting a grinning skull, seared into it recently enough that the burns had yet to scar over before its death. Closer observation showed that every horse in the mass grave had the same brand burned into it, but for what purpose was unclear. As he continued his hike, a vague sense of familiarity told him that the trail''s end was near. He felt as if he were recognizing the various landmarks like boulders and oddly shaped trees that lined the path. Has he been here before? He stepped off the trail and into the cover of the forest, a fleeting memory warning him of the guards standing sentry at their post a mere few yards from the edge of the woods. The two men stood at the corner of a wide road whose well-laid paving stones ran parallel to the forest¡¯s edge before continuing well beyond into the eastern horizon. They chatted casually, occasionally blowing into their cupped hands to ward off the slight chill of the autumn afternoon. All the while unaware of the presence observing them from only a stone¡¯s throw away. Amiran looked past them, past the short green grass and shrubbery that waved listlessly in the cool breeze, where he saw high stone walls. In the center of them was a wooden gate, tall and imposing from even this distance, that stood with sturdy towers to either side of it, most certainly stocked with guards of their own. What fortress was this? Amiran tried to remember something, anything, that might tell him where he was. These blurred memories and feelings were of little use to him; why imprison him in some ruined dungeon when there was this bastion of stone and men so close? Why continue to bring him meals despite it being obvious he would not eat? Why keep him alive at all? He could feel an infinite tide of questions beginning to push at the thin barrier of his composure, he could not let them flow quite yet.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°Not fortress. Siradorn.¡± Amiran whirled, claw-like nails already whipping through the air toward whatever was behind him, only for them to continue passing through empty space. The immense force of his swing threw him off balance, nearly causing him to fall into the layer of leaves that covered the forest floor. Amiran quickly scanned the trees around him for the source, neither sensing nor seeing anyone responsible. He did not doubt that he had heard¡­something. It was certainly not the Voice that had been absent since his naming, no, this voice sounded unsure, as if it had just awoken from a poor night¡¯s rest. Unnerved, he immediately distanced himself from the spot by trudging towards the west, towards the sun that had now just begun its journey to dusk. He kept to the trees. Amiran may not know who, what, why, or where he was, but he was no fool. What he lacked in memory he made up for in intuition and instinct; he would be set upon in mere minutes were he to risk traveling on the road. Intuition also told him that he would find answers to all those questions he dared not ask inside those imposing walls. Now, it was only a matter of how to get in. Obviously, he could no more easily walk through the main gate as he could step foot on the road¨Che would find his way in, but it wouldn''t be here.
The acrid smoke of cooking fires stung his nostrils long before he came upon the first tent. Not so much a tent as a crude shelter; some locally sourced fallen branches propped up a patchwork canvas made up of sewn-together bits of old clothes, rags, and other miscellaneous patches of any material a needle and thread would hold together. Some worn tools and the remains of a cart lay on about the perimeter of the tent, the nearby ground so trodden as to become mud. Amiran looked further, stepping out from behind the trunk of an ancient oak tree and risking a position closer to the edge of the woods to get a better view. While this tent sat alone at the edge of the woods, only a short distance away were even more ramshackle shelters in a row, some side by side, others spaced to make room for a footpath that led further into the center of the camp that teemed with people. Beyond this set of tents was another row, more densely packed together than the ones before it, and then another row, and another, continuing until the shacks and shanties pressed against the walls of Siradorn. These great walls forced them to spread out until the edge of the next tree line. Men, women, and children, most dressed in varying states of worn and dirty clothing-went about their business, crawling in and out of tents, trying in vain to keep the mud out of their dwellings and off their clothes. The activity increased as Amiran looked towards the center of the camp, where a large, guarded cart was being unloaded, its contents being distributed to a line of patient inhabitants that snaked around and out into the main road. The road itself was rife with activity, wearied people on foot or in horse-drawn carts made their way to the camp, their backs to the setting sun as they trudged onwards with effort. As one of the families approached the edge of the camp with their cart, a squad of armed guards briskly walked up to them and motioned for them to stop. The men undid the pair of horses from their harnesses and led them away as quickly as they¡¯d arrived. The man driving the cart could hardly protest before his wife quieted him. The shuffle of leaves behind him drew Amiran¡¯s attention. He turned as he stood from his crouched position to find a middle-aged man, eyes wide with fear, standing amongst the trees. He wore similarly ragged clothes to the others in the camp, a patched wool cap pulled low to cover the tips of his ears, chilled by the near-evening autumn breeze. He held a simple bow, string pulled taught with an arrow notched, pointing directly at the beast¡¯s chest. The limp rabbits tied to the hunter¡¯s belt suggested he was well-practiced. Amiran was confident he could close the gap between them and silence the hunter before he alerted the camp to his presence; however, he was not confident he would come out unscathed in the process. They both hesitated¨Cthe hunter, frozen in fear; and Amiran, deciding the best course of action. A chipmunk speeds through the leaves between them.