AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This is the prologue of my novel, Tales of Stupidity - Fantasy Misfits. Keep in mind that it is a work in progress, so there may be some errors. Enjoy!
“Where is it?”
Alexar raised her head high enough to look into the self-proclaimed
Bandit King’s eyes. She shook her head slowly, defiantly, and tensed in
preparation for another flash of pain.
A jolt ran through her – her muscles cramped and she hunched over in her
seat, groaning and gasping for air. She slumped back and took a deep breath.
“I’ll ask again,” Twain Redblade said patiently.
“Go to the Seven Hells,” Alexar hissed. She dug her fingers into the
chair’s armrests as another jolt set her nerves on fire and agony threatened to
leave her unconscious.
“Oh my,” the Bandit King said mockingly. “That one seemed painful, my
little Green Mage. Why don’t you just tell me where the sword is, and I’ll let
you go?”
“You won’t. If I tell you, you’ll kill me.” Alexar spat blood onto the stone floor. “And what makes you think I know where it is?”
“I’m offended that you would doubt my nobility,” the Bandit King said, pacing
back and forth in front of her. “I would never give you my word if I did not
intend to honor it.” He stopped and leaned in over the chair, his breath hot
against Alexar’s cheek as she turned her face away.
“And I know you know where it is because my lovely assistant has the
Sight,” he said, nodding at the leather-clad torturer somewhere behind Alexar.
“She Saw you.”
“Then get her to tell you where it is,” Alexar said, squirming to put
some distance between her and the Bandit King.
“It doesn’t work that way,” the Bandit King said, stepping back. “One of
your fellow Green Mages has put some kind of blocking spell on the memory. You
can tell us, or we can dispel the block. But from what I understand, such a
magical procedure is painful, and very dangerous, so it would be best if you
just told me where the Pwnsword is.”
“It’d be best if you just dropped dead,” Alexar said, her eyes gleaming with contempt.
The Bandit King laughed hoarsely, then backhanded her, whipping her head
back, sending blood and spittle flying. “Green Mages are not allowed to wish
harm upon others, are they?” he asked. He knelt down and sighed tiredly. “I
really don’t want to hurt you, miss, but I need to know where the sword is.”
Alexar scoffed. He did want
to hurt her. He was just like the men and women under his command – he enjoyed
inflicting misery, the sadistic bastard.
He gave a curt nod, and lightning raced through Alexar. She screamed and
trashed in the chair. When the pain passed, she sucked down a big breath, fixed
the Bandit King with a hateful glare, and spat blood into his face.
Shaking his head, as if disappointed, he rose and wiped himself off with
a handkerchief. “At some point,” he said, “you’re going to have to heal
yourself, or you’ll die. That’s what I like about capturing you Green Mages; I
can torture you forever. You could just allow yourself to die, but I know you
people value life too much to do that.”
“And what do you value?” Alexar asked, glowering at him.
“Power,” the Bandit King replied. “Yes. Power. Gold. Strength. All the
important things.”
“And you think the Pwnsword will give you power?”
“I know it will. Vasha, administer another dose.”
White-hot pain arced through Alexar. She cried out, then shut her mouth
tight. She wasn’t going to give these two foul creatures the satisfaction.
“It really is a shame that you’ve pledged yourself to a life without
violence,” the Bandit King mused, watching her intently, his eyes dark and
vile. “I do enjoy it when my prisoners futilely swear revenge. The spark of
fire in their eyes as they swear they’ll kill me one day.” He closed his eyes
and shuddered with pleasure.
“I have sworn never to commit violence,” Alexar said, her voice low and
laced with hatred. “I have sworn to live by a philosophy of peace, tolerance,
and understanding. But I will make sure that you die, Twain Redblade. Even if
it means being disowned by the Green Mages and being stripped of my robe and my
powers. I will see to it that you get what you deserve. This I vow.”
“Brave words,” the Bandit King said, unimpressed. He gestured to his
torturer. “I have to convene with my officers. Vasha – make her suffer. Drive
her to the brink of death, give her a moment to heal, and drive her there
again. Do not stop until she gives me what I want.” He left the cell.
Alexar spat and looked over her shoulder. “Shall we?” she asked, blowing
hard with exertion, and grit her teeth.
