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{CoRW: Book 3} Epilogue [Part Three]: A Prison of Doom *Rough Draft*
🕑 Added 2023-03-23 15:50:15 +0000 UTC♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝
Epilogue {Part Three}: A Prison of Doom
Beaumont clenched his jaw as he squirmed impatiently within the Iron Maiden Coffin. The dragon steel spikes that pierced his mortal shell had failed to penetrate the dragon scales beneath. Their twisted, mangled tips tore away at what little flesh remained, but the immortal hardly noticed. Like a lizard shedding skin, it had long outgrown, he was weary of carrying the deadweight of the itchy, defective mortal mask—but it was the only thing keeping him even remotely human.
That was the difference between the gods and the mortals they created. The human elements of empathy, mercy, and forgiveness were foreign concepts to the immortals, as were their obsessive insecurities and craving to be loved. Perhaps that was why Minerva blessed him with her will and a mortal shell—so that Beaumont could better comprehend man's nature and understand Carina through them.
With every seed of knowledge, the deceased goddess’s will unveiled, Beaumont’s understanding grew—as did his concern for Carina. Judging from the burst of pain he had experienced through their connection earlier, Ramiel’s Saint had done significant damage to the ice witch before she had managed to escape.
‘I can’t allow myself to remain hampered like this indefinitely. Who knows when the blind priestess Minerva chose will finally show her face? I’d say the chances of her finding me out here in the middle of the ocean are slim to none. I have to get to Carina first and take her somewhere safe. Then I can fully awaken and help Carina take down whichever god she pleases.’
As far as Beaumont was concerned, none of the immortals who remained in this realm were worth saving. While the Saint remained Carina’s biggest threat along with Ramiel, obtaining power of either the wind or water element would boost her strength significantly.
When Viktor had rejected the aid of the sovereign gods, he had done so in order to submit a request that his half-immortal child might take his place. Ramiel had fiercely protested, but Minerva had taken the dying ice god’s side. The senior gods relented, but only if Viktor’s heir could achieve a list of pre-requirements to assess her worth.
The first requirement was pretty straightforward. Carina required the approval of a reigning god. Minerva had given her blessing, and the other gods had turned against her for it.
‘I will ensure Minerva’s will is done. I have already pledged myself to that purpose though I will need to awaken first to qualify as a reigning god.’
The second requirement, which stated Carina had to kill a god, had come as a shock but certainly explained the god’s reluctance to accept Viktor’s half-immortal heir. Beaumont suspected that was why Ramiel had pushed for this specific condition.
The third requirement was pretty standard as far as immortals went. Carina had to gain the love or fear of more than half the mortal population. This would boost the Scarlet Witch’s reputation and influence among the reigning gods and likely earn her many enemies.
The fourth and final requirement, however, was the most dangerous step. Once Carina had achieved all the previous objectives, she had to shed her mortal shell and survive the process of awakening as a goddess.
‘And the best way to ensure Carina’s success will be to eliminate any threat to her first.’
If that meant killing every single immortal that slithered upon the face of this world, Beaumont was prepared to see it done. As far as he was concerned, none of them could be trusted. All of them were complicit in either Viktor’s downfall or Minerva’s demise.
‘Ramielremains our biggest problem. My realm does not extend to the skies or the domains above them, nor does Carina’s.’
The immortal closed his violet eyes, seeing without seeing the blueprint of the three-mast, armed merchant galleon that carried his prison and captors across the rocky waves. Some two-hundred souls that flickered as pale blue lights above and below deck had joined their voyage.
‘Ramiel’s acolytes certainly prepared far in advance. They must have realized that traveling by sea was the safest option for transporting Minerva’s heir.’
The torture coffin which restrained him had been chained to the main back deck to keep it from sliding free. Unfortunately, those chains were made of the same cursed dragon-steel that resisted his control.
‘Not a problem, there is plenty of earth and metal on this ship, but I’d probably end up tearing the galleon apart if I used that method to break free.’
Sinking into Arachne’s abyss was an alternative Beaumont would prefer to avoid. The immortal’s scaled brow furrowed as his senses picked up two approaching souls of a more sinister and noxious dark green color.
‘Arachne’s brats.’
A faint stir among the ship’s crew signaled that the lookout in the crow’s nest had spotted the disturbance. The witch-hunters around him shifted towards the taffrail as the two murky dots faded from view.
‘They must have gone deeper.’
Beaumont gritted his teeth as the tainted souls reemerged directly beneath the ship and barreled towards them at a perilous speed. Resisting the urge to call out a warning, the Immortal watched as the noxious-green dots split apart, heading toward the bow and rudder.
‘They’re going to spin us!’
The two colliding forces knocked the crew and witch hunters off their feet as the ship rocked precariously. The chains of Beaumont’s prison pulled taunt as the ship’s front beak pitched towards the blue horizon of clouds. Men collied and rolled across the deck like falling apples as nearly a dozen fell overboard in the first assault.
The ship captain’s desperate orders were quickly drowned beneath the frenzy of agonized cries for help as the man urged the crew to secure themselves and prepare for battle. The Witch Hunters collected themselves and assisted the mortals in loading their heavy cannons as they listened to the heart-wrenching sounds of their companions being ripped below the surface and eaten one by one.
“We can’t shoot what we can’t see,” one of the gunners protested as the vessel rocked beneath them. The crew scrambled to move the rudder that had jammed below the rear galley but to no avail.
“Our steering’s been crippled,” the First Mate shouted. “Our only hope now is to outrun whatever devil has found us!”
“We’re more likely to sink if we keep the sails at full mast with no steering,” snapped one of the Witch Hunters close by. “We don’t stand a prayer if they tip us over,”
“And who would be to blame for that? Whatever you’ve brought on board appears to have dragged something from the deep to our doorstep, Witch Hunter.” The ship’s Captain snarled as he appeared from the direction of the galleon’s disabled helm. “So, unless you’ve something useful in your arsenal to shake us loose, leave the running of this ship to those who know her best!”
Beaumont might have admired the mortal’s steadfast courage in the face of such ghastly predators if the man hadn’t so aptly pinned him as the source of their trouble.
“He’s got a point,” a female Witch Hunter muttered under her breath as the captain and his crew raced to keep their vessel upright. “It might be the only chance of saving our skins.”
“The Pope’s orders were to keep it secure and unharmed!”
“Are you daft? Do you not see the situation we’re in?”
“She’s right. Either we throw whatever they trapped in there overboard and escape, or we all go down with this ship!”
“I’m not dying for no witch!”
‘Typical.’ A dry mocking snarl slid past Beaumont’s clenched fangs, silencing the Witch Hunters around him. ‘I suppose there’s no reason for me to avoid damaging a ship of cowards determined to sacrifice me.’
“I think it understood us.”
“Let’s move quickly than before the ship takes on any more dam—”
Another savage blow, this time against the galleon’s lower belly and keel, sent a shudder through the entire vessel as it tilted sharply to its port. The Witch Hunters slid along the deck with the ship's motion, one of them crashing into Beaumont’s prison while his companions clung to the chains as their feet hovered above the churning waves.
“There’s more than one!” The distant panicked voice of the First Mate bellowed.
“The bastards are hiding beneath us.”
“Just shoot if you so much as spot a fin!”
“Saint’s Mercy—what are they!?”
Beaumont drowned out the flailing shrieks of men tumbling into the inky abyss below. ‘Now would be a good time for the Saint to appear, but I’m sure Ramiel has other priorities.’
The annoying ping of a lock being jerked free pulled the immortal’s attention back to the female Witch Hunter, who had already loosened one of the six chains binding him to the ship’s deck.
“Hurry!” The male Witch Hunter, who had been the only voice of descent earlier, cried out desperately as he crawled to the edge of Beaumont’s prison. The immortal’s scaled mouth shifted into a fanged smile as the man’s short sword clanged against the coffin’s metal exterior, close enough for even a trapped witch to maneuver and of far less inferior quality than dragon steel.
The male Witch Hunter gasped as his blade ripped free and spun out wildly to impale the chain freed from its clasp. As the ship slowly rightened beneath them, the Witch Hunters regained their footing and glanced at each other before moving in unison to liberate the remaining chains.
Beaumont called the sword back and flung it like a boomerang, pinning one of the unfortunate Witch Hunters to the deck beside his coffin. He relieved the dying half-witch of his axe and sent that spinning after the female Witch Hunter, who had already moved on to her third clasp. She ducked below his attack with the uncanny intuition of an air witch while her comrades maintained their distance, clinging to whatever rail, rope, or mast they could find as Arachne’s daughters plowed into the ship’s belly yet again.
A roar of cannon fire that failed to hit their intended targets rained harmlessly against the ocean waves as the ship rocked towards its starboard side.
Only then did Beaumont realize that the metal clasp the female witch hunter clung to was the last chain keeping his torture coffin secure. He pinned another chain into place with the sword just as she leveraged the lock open with the butt of her dagger. The immortal’s metal prison lurched towards the looming abyss of fangs and tentacles below.
No amount of skill could save Beaumont as the weight of his enlarged form crammed inside the cursed Iron Maiden far outdid the flimsy restraint of a single blade. The immortal roared as the short sword snapped free. Only the disturbing, reverberating snap of the ship’s kneel, followed by the cracking and ripping of the galleon’s outer planks, could ease the dragon’s rage. His glowing violet eyes watched as the doomed crew and witch hunters crashed into the waves around him before Beaumont sank into the grips of Arachne’s diabolical offspring.
***
The Bozidar Pope sat atop a dusky grey Percheron beneath the dark pine branches of the forest which surrounded Bastiallano’s Fortress. The dark priest cowl which covered Jericho’s face glinted with the unnatural light of his golden eyes as the Divine Heir’s gaze bore into the fortress’s front gate. Behind him, Terik, the Hound Master, and his unit of Witch Hunters blended into the dark forest like shadows, their crimson armor draped beneath cloaks of black and grey.
“Have we yet to gain entrance?” Jericho muttered as he pulled back his hood. Dark purple and grey veins webbed around the Divine Heir’s dull golden eyes, his pale and sunken complexion a testament to the toll the excessive use of divine power had placed upon his mortal frame. “The hour grows late, and I would not be stranded in witch-infested woods after dark.” Despite his reserved tone, determination glinted in the Pope’s eyes and the firm set of his jaw as Jericho turned to face his second in command.
Terik chewed the dry jerky between his lips thoughtfully as he regarded the silent Fortress silhouetted against the darkening gloom of nightfall. “Our man is likely awaiting my signal.”
“Then send it and let us set up defensive barriers before—” Jericho’s voice cracked as he coughed roughly against an already stained handkerchief which he hastily pressed against his lips before tucking it within his robe again. “The sooner we end this plague, the sooner the citizens of Lafeara will rally behind our banner.”
“As you command, your Holiness,” Terik muttered with little urgency. The Hound Master lifted a deer antler flute to his lips and played a soft melancholy tune that echoed through the long shadows of the eerily silent forest.
The Pope leaned against his saddle horn impatiently, his fingers nervously tracing the hem of the holy relic chainmail he wore beneath the priest’s tunic. He paid little heed to the dark, muscular beasts that inched towards the edge of the forest around them. The Hound Master’s hybrid wolf-hounds sniffed the air and growled eagerly.
‘They smell blood,’ Jericho observed as he eyed the walls above the Fortress gate. “Keep your beasts under control, Hound Master. It would not inspire goodwill if they were to eat our newly won allies.”
Terik played a sharp note in response before ending his tune. His dark brown eyes pinned down the alpha beast, a curious monstrosity with four eyes instead of two, upon his scarred, enlarged skull. The pack leader shrank beneath his master’s gaze before turning to snap at the beasts behind him, who lowered their heads in disappointment.
“They’ll get their fill soon enough,” Jericho commented with a cynical smirk. Although he usually preferred to keep Ripper at his side, the Hound Master was more suited to the task of hunting rather than the delicate hands of politics. Terik had no doubt starved his prized beasts for the witch hunt ahead. The Pope straightened in his saddle with a victorious grin as the front gate of Bastiallano’s Fortress groaned and rolled upwards. “Let’s see which rat comes out to greet us first.”
If there was one thing that Divine Heir had learned the day Emperor Arius massacred his family, it was that no fortress is impregnable. Just as Isaac had turned on Jericho’s father out of some misguided sense of justice, so too would Kirsi’s subordinates turn on her for the greater good and the undeniable urge of self-preservation.
Captain Arlo rode through the raised fortress gate in full armor with the Duchess of Winter’s bloody banner notched in his saddle stirrup. The knights behind him looked grim and weary as they rode out in the silence of defeated men who had thrown away their pride for the chance to survive.
The Pope nudged the giant grey Percheron beneath him, leaving the shadows of the forest behind as he sauntered forward with the confidence of a fanatical conqueror who would place the whole world at the feet of his god.
Bastiallano’s Captain halted on the road ahead and slowly removed his helmet, still gripping the sullied silver-white banner pressed against his saddle.
“Your decision, Captain?” Terik called out, caution tempering the twisted look of satisfaction on the Witch Hunter’s face.
Captain Arlo met the half-witch’s brown eyes with a look of resentment before he smiled and tossed the banner down onto the road between them. “Bastiallano yields to the light of the Saint and her Holy Emperor.”
A streak of lightning split the quiet horizon above them as Jericho smiled. “You made the right decision, Captain—or should I say, General?”
“You are overly generous, your Holiness.” Arlo bowed his head respectfully, then gestured towards the open gate at their backs. “Please, allow me to provide a tour of your new military fortress."
The knights split apart with military precision to either side of the entrance road, where they bowed their heads in bitter silence as their Captain turned to lead the way. The fresh blood on their cloaks and armor told Jericho that quite a few knights had resisted Arlo’s change of allegiance.
‘They can hardly seek justice now when they have committed such treachery.’ The Pope frowned as the first of several carts, loaded with the stripped bodies of dead men, appeared beyond the fortress gate.
“How many able men remain under your command, Captain?”
Arlo’s clenched his jaw as he locked his eyes on the road ahead before answering. “A good seven-hundred men stand ready to defend our post at your command, your Holiness.”
“And your losses?” Terik pressed as his hounds sniffed the appetizing pile of flesh and bone.
“Very little, only fifty or so. The rest—choose to die in the name of their Duchess.”
The index finger of Jericho’s left hand tapped against his collar bone in agitation as the line of dead men continued, stacked against the walls as their treacherous brothers stripped them of weapons, armor, and personal effects. Among the fallen were women and elderly servants of the Duchess' estate, who had similarly been put to the sword.
‘A good two hundred or more. Such a pity.’ The Pope crossed himself solemnly at the tragic sight of a child’s limb, peeking through the pile of corpses. ‘No matter. Our ranks will swell soon enough.’
Terik whistled softly, calling the thirteen crimson wolfhounds away from the tempting feast. The alpha padded behind the Hound Master’s horse and growled softly as if protesting the waste of good food. Captain Arlo eyed the scared, stitched head of the pack leader anxiously as the beast's four eyes focused on him with an ominous, hungry grin.
“Not to worry, Captain,” Terik called out as he tapped the deer antler resting across his lap. “They only eat when I tell them to.”
“Have you secured the Plague Witch?” Jericho cut in, focused on the next phase of his plan.
“She remains in her tower with the half-witch Lieutenant,” Arlo replied.
“And the witches?”
“Most of them left at first light to return to Strugna. The rest fled at the first sign of battle.”
The Pope snorted at the captain’s disgruntled expression. “Better for you that they did. Kindly provide Terik with the locations of the Duchess’s refugee and plague camps. His beasts will take care of any lingering threats near the Fortress.”
The Hound Master nodded, but his brown eyes shifted in the direction of Lafeara’s capital with an expression Jericho well understood.
‘We should have heard from Ripper by now.’
The Albino Commander had never failed his Pope before. And judging by the sudden influx of divine energy into the holy artifact Jericho wore beneath his tunic, it would appear that their mission had been successful. His stubborn little sister had finally awakened. Nesta would join them soon enough once she finished punishing the Covens who had killed the imposter they had dressed up as the Pope.
‘I suppose it’s too soon to hope that Kirsi has already been dealt with.’
Based on all the holy records Jericho had researched that contained even a hint at the Scarlet Witch’s history, Kirsi had a knack for surviving and was smart enough to know when to cut and run if the odds were stacked against her.
A rumble of divine energy echoed as rain clouds loomed above them ominously.
“We should build a pyre now before the wood is soaked,” Terik muttered as he eyed the heavens.
“Ramiel will not let it rain on our glorious achievement,” Jericho retorted with smug confidence. “He is merely sending a warning.”
“A warning to who, your Holiness?” Arlo asked with a hesitant smile.
“To our enemies, obviously, Captain.” The Pope smiled, then tipped his head back with a victorious laugh as he inhaled the exhilarating scent of victory.
The Witch Hunters wasted no time in securing the Fortress gate and walls. The last of the dead were stripped of their armor, then carted outside the walls, where they were tossed into a ditch near the forest. As promised, Captain Arlo gave the Pope a personal tour of the Fortress estate while the Hound Master had his men erected a suitable burning post which they surrounded with dry kindling and stuffed batches of straw.
“The sooner we burn her, the better,” Terik muttered as the last bucket of pine tar was added to the messy heap. His eyes rose sharply to the top of the wall as a pigeon fluttered into view. The small fowl circled the courtyard and cooed once it spotted its trainer below. The Hound Master quickly moved towards the witch hunter in question as the bird alighted on the half-witch’s arm. “Is that a message from Ripper?”
“It—doesn’t bear his mark,” the witch hunter replied as he untied the paper scroll. “Looks like it's from Connelly.”
“Hand it over. I’ll take a look.”
The half-witch complied, then turned away to feed the hungry fowl while Terik unfurled the hastily scrawled letter and scanned its contents. He’d read the message three times over before Captain Arlo returned with the Pope.
“I have a map of your new hunting grounds!” Jericho declared as he held up the folded leather document. His golden eyes quickly fixated on the small scroll of paper in Terik’s hand with a smile of anticipation. “What news, Hound Master?”
“Ripper is dead.”
The Pope faltered for a moment, his smile fading in an instant before he turned to the Captain beside him. “Fetch Lieutenant Declan and the Plague Witch at once.”
Arlo blinked but swiftly bowed his head in acknowledgment before he spun around and retraced his steps toward the Fortress’s back gardens.
“What of Nesta—what of the Saint?” Jericho hissed sharply.
“It would appear the Saint dealt Kirsi a mortal blow before—both of them disappeared,” Terik replied quietly as he handed the message over. “And your sister, Lilaru, is dead.” The Pope scoffed sharply. “They say she killed Earl Percy Hawthorne will Ramiel’s aid before falling in battle.”
A flicker of surprise and perhaps even a tinge of grief shadowed the Pope’s face as he pressed a hand against his clenched jaw and read the message. “It seems the Saint’s awakening turned the tides in our favor as expected, but Kirsi did a lot of damage and still managed to escape! Damn it!”
“The Covens appear to have fortified themselves inside the King’s palace. They’ve taken the Royal Family hostage, and one of Bastalliano’s Captains has surrounded the palace with a thousand knights.”
“That is of little concern to us,” Jericho snarled as he crumpled the note in his fist. “Though we can certainly use that information to our advantage.”
“The witches led by Kirsi refused to accept the Pope’s anointed as their King and rebelled the moment the Divine Heir left the city,” Terik recited with an affirming nod. “They may question how your Holiness managed to escape unscathed.”
“Divine providence is a powerful thing. How many witnesses survived the battle?”
“It would appear that all the nobles of the Royal Faction who survived are currently imprisoned in the lower dungeons.” The Hound Master glanced over to where the alpha beast had risen to its feet, ears pricked and eyes trained on the northern back wall.
“Then it's a good thing we kept them in the dark regarding our larger plan,” Jericho commented with a cynical grin that quickly faded into a worried frown. “I need to find the Saint.”
“Surely your sister will come searching for you, your Holiness.”
The Pope grunted, sounding only half-convinced. “Kirsi escaped, so the Saint will most likely be searching for her.”
“Then it’s a good thing we have just the provocation to bring the Scarlet Witch to us first.” Terik smiled as he plucked another strip of dry jerky from his pouch and popped it between his lips. “Once the Sacrifice has been burned, I take my beast hunting and spread the word that the Plague Witch is dead.”
