I am midnight. I am midnight.
I am not this.
Three days earlier, Ashallah had welcomed the shade. It first came over her as her prison wagon descended the ramp of an arena, whose outer walls rose eight stories, higher than any Ashallah had ever seen. The underground lair – or at least the portion Ashallah saw – matched the upper levels in scope and size. Whereas the structure atop was intended to impress patrons, what laid below was designed to drive its prisoners mad.
Ashallah’s wagon passed cell after cell of tortured souls, each one being readied for some form of the Grand Sultan’s punishment. Most were slaves and prisoners from every edge of Greater Dyli and even beyond. Ashallah spotted blond men with blue eyes. Black men with brown. Males with skin of beige and eyes of green. Plus, many more of brown eyes and skin.
No matter their color though, all stood or sat behind their bars. Desperate. Broken.
Some clawed through their bars as Ashallah passed, as though any random body from the outside could have saved them. Others glanced up with soulless eyes, ones not caring whether death or salvation came. Then there were those in darkened cells, beyond the faint touches of sconces or torches. Ashallah saw not their faces nor bodies. Their sounds she heard, though. More than a few screamed as her wagon passed. Others spoke of the woman on the cart, whether to themselves or cellmates she did not know. Many more just cried.
Such noises from the broken blended into the grinding crunch of the iron-rimmed wheels on loose cobblestones as Ashallah’s cart lurched forward. Random commands from guards and dungeon servants permeated the hall, as did the growls from animals unknown, from cages and enclosures beyond the cells of the damned.
I need to ready myself, Ashallah thought. Darya needs me. I cannot fall apart like them. I need to stay focused. I have to remain strong.
Ashallah’s captors would make such a goal the ultimate challenge, for her cell placed her directly across the interrogation chamber. At least that was what Ashallah heard it was called. Within minutes, however, she discovered the label of interrogation was an inadequate one. For there was no questioning. No inquisition of the captive. All who made it to that room soon learned of the horrors imagined by the most depraved minds. The screams and cries of the victims matched the intensity of the suffering they endured, allowing Ashallah no reprieve. She slept only in spurts. Her appetite became suppressed so that she desired no food, especially the spoiled remnants the jailer gave her. Though parched, she even had difficulty keeping down water, for her stomach churned with every shrill.
By the third day, Ashallah felt weakened, though her years of training and discipline continued to serve her well. Moreover, the remnants of the jinni she had consumed days before had stayed with her. Her strength somehow endured. Most importantly, she could still fight.
Then Ashallah saw it. The one scene that could break her:
The torture of a turquoise.
A female turquoise.
Although not Darya, she bore enough of a resemblance that Ashallah could not help but relate the two. The jet-black hair, cut shoulder length. The lines of her face. The streaks of turquoise across the base of her neck.
The girl could not have been more than twenty, younger than Darya. She struggled against the iron grips of her captors, who hauled her to an upright table. There a dungeon master secured the turquoise with a series of heavy leather straps and brass buckles. With her arms and legs spread, the turquoise looked like a five-pointed star.
The captors stared at the girl. The thin hairs on Ashallah’s back stood up, as she realized they were not going to leave. Behind them, the dungeon master readied his tools. Dull, rusted blades, some thin, others wide and thick. In the shape of leaves, spades and fine points, they rested on the table.
With each clank of their metal on the wood, Ashallah winced. More than ever, she resisted the urge to bark and scream. No, she reminded herself. They do not know that I can speak. That is my one advantage over them. I cannot break. I will not.
Then the torture began.
It started with woman’s most striking feature: her stripes. The master took a dull blade and carved the stripes at the base of her neck. The turquoise shrieked, her cries reverberating off the stone walls of the dungeon. They reached Ashallah’s cell as though a gale. Ashallah retreated to the back of her cell yet found no relief.
The wailing continued as the dungeon master cut away four more stripes. Then he nodded to one of the captors, a towering brute, who turned back to the table to select his blade. The master stepped aside to a small round table and chair, where he sat and sipped from a wineskin, watching as the captors took turns peeling away the skin of the turquoise.
From the base of her neck. Down to her breasts. Then her torso. Her legs. Even the stripe that crossed her precious valley. The master and the captors left no trace of turquoise left on her body. Dark crimson fluid streamed from her fresher wounds, while the older ones had crusted over. Somehow, the woman had survived and remained conscious. Though as Ashallah looked upon her - fighting her urge to avert her gaze - she knew it had come at great cost.
By that time, the dungeon master had flattened his wineskin. He rose, unsteadily, as he sauntered to the tables where his blades laid. His hand fumbled over a few, finally settling on a rusty short sword with serrated edges.
“Now, about that hair,” he slurred.
The turquoise’s eyes went wide. She gasped, seemingly wanting to scream. But with her strength robbed, no sound escaped.
Ashallah gripped the bars. She knew what would happen next. Her scalp would be cut from her head, and with that, more bleeding. All leading to a slow, excruciating death.
Matching the woman’s contorted face, Ashallah opened her mouth. Her lips parted. She could feel the muscles of her throat strengthen, ready to emit the cry the woman could not.
Thud! The heavy sound of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestone floor diverted all of their attention. As did the clopping of an ox’s hooves. The clamor of bronze scales over steel chainmail. Along with the purposeful steps of the janissaries.
“Are you still at this?” asked a slender janissary as he came into view of the dungeon master. The oxen-pulled wagon crawled after him, escorted by his four brothers-in-arms.
“Still? We just started our fun,” the master retorted as the other two smirked.
“Fun? You had two directives: to torture this traitor and . . .” as he pointed to Ashallah, “. . . to make sure she witnessed what was to come.”
“She was watching,” the master said as he nodded to her.
“No matter. The Grand Sultan wants her above. The festivities are to start.”
“Already?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Nearly the entire city has gathered at the arena. Their sounds are deafening. Even here, I can hear their murmurs.”
“She was wailing,” the dungeon master said bluntly.
The janissary, having lost his interest in the dungeon master, turned to the wagon. With a snap of his fingers, the other four janissaries who had accompanied him moved to Ashallah’s cell. Ashallah stepped back as the barred door creaked open.
“Do yourself and us a favor. Cooperate.”
Gladly, Ashallah thought as they clasped her wrists in iron shackles. Just take me away from here.
The janissaries urged her along into the wagon. Unlike the cage she had known during her desert journey, this transport had no mounted cage. Rather, thick iron rings rested at its corners, with heavy chains attached. Each janissary ran a chain through one of the smaller rings of Ashallah’s shackles before securing the other end back to the iron ring. The result was four tightly-bound chains, any one of which pulled Ashallah back to the center of the wagon if she swayed too far in one direction or another.
“That ought to do it,” confirmed the slender one. He patted the ox on its hindquarters. The beast lumbered forward, the wagon wheels creaking forward again.
“What about her?” the dungeon master asked.
“That . . .” the slender janissary started. “She was given to you to make an example out of her.” He glanced at Ashallah, who stood over him, silent. “I suppose she served her purpose. You may do with her what you pleased.”
An icy chill ran down the length of Ashallah’s spine. It remained as she eyed the dungeon master and the two captors, who grinned with devilish intentions set in their minds. The turquoise, her head drooped but her gaze on those around her, muttered.
“Enough . . . enough . . . enough . . .”
Stop repeating yourself, Ashallah wanted to shout. Do not give them the satisfaction.
But she did not shout. And the repetition did not stop. Not for Ashallah. The word echoed through her mind, replicating in her thoughts.
Yes, enough, Ashallah told herself as the wagon carried her away.
Enough, as the dungeon master reached for a new tool.
Enough, as she moved past cell after cell, the screams of the turquoise drawing the attention of those down the hall.
Enough. Of the torture. Of the brutish men who served this empire. Of the Grand Sultan.
Enough.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmJhYXxikFY
