Hammerlock
Executioner
Captain Mathias squinted into the desert glare as he threw back the curtain covering the shade canopy. Nearby, the horses of his men were tethered under their own canopy, somnolently drowsing in the heat and guzzling gallons of water from the portable troughs set before them. Good thing he had thought to bring along an entire supply wagon loaded with water, Mathias thought. This cursed desert sucks the liquid out of a man faster than a whore could suck him dry. Behind him, he heard the low mutter of his platoon as they tried to find comfort in the blast furnace that was the Zangorean Desert.
At least they've got the shade, Mathias thought. Not everybody here today was that lucky. He glanced over to the spot, twenty yards away, where a tall cross stood alone in the desert, its occupant a nude young woman, head hanging low, face hidden by a mane of what was now lank and scraggly hair, her nubile young body stretched to its limits as she hung, nearly senseless, from the spikes through her wrists. Mathias strode out from under the canopy and walked over to the cross. She was in a bad way, he thought--no shade, dehydrated, and bearing the scars of a morning's worth of intermittent torture. Around her head was a tight, woven crown of thorns, which had plowed bloody furrows in her brow as the Bishop had jammed it down on her head, under threat from the Queen. Shakily, he had intoned the ritual phrase, with a small added twist: "I crown thee Queen of Hell." Mathias, who had been present in the throne room when this had happened, had admired the young girl's steadiness and resolve as the crown had bitten deep into her head, and rivulets of blood had cascaded down her face.
"You sought to take my crown," the queen had icily intoned to the unfortunate naked, bound girl kneeling before the throne. "But you now have a crown of your own, in keeping with your crime. Guards! Take her away and carry out the sentence."
Mathias and his platoon had brought her out here, stumbling in her bare feet with the crossbeam bound across her shoulders, and had nailed her to her cross this morning. The cross stood alone now, baking in the hot sun, bearing its bloody burden. Mathias ran his eyes over the nubile young body, noting the hours of turture she had endured. Beside the crown and being crucified, she had also been whipped repeatedly as she struggled vainly; multiple red welts criss-crossed her torso, some of them weeping blood. Two sharp leopard fangs had been run through her nipples, in the meaty part of the aeroloa, and twin rivulets of blood ran down her shapely breasts and meandered down her naked body. Mathias noted how some of the blood had settled in her bellybutton. He looked back at the canopy and squinted to see the hourglass sitting on the rude table inside. It was half empty. When it ran dry, her torture would begin again.
Mathias was no stranger to crucifixions--he had crucified many malcontents in his lifetime. They had all been criminals, well aware of the fate that awaited them if they got caught. And yet, they had gone ahead and committed the crimes anyway. Mathias felt no remorse for nailing them to crosses; it was the punishment they themselves had chosen by committing their myriad crimes.
But this one was different. Mathias knew that the young girl hanging on her cross, rib cage stretched out and etched on her torso, muscles stretched out along her arms, was innocent of the treason she had been accused of. But the Queen had believed otherwise, and sentenced the young beauty to this fate. For the first time, Mathias felt remorse at what he was doing to her, and pride for how stoically she had borne the punishments inflicted on her quivering and helpless body. He picked up the spear with the sponge impaled on it which leaned against the cross, and plunged the sponge into the tepid water bucket beside it. With the sponge dripping on the spearhead, he held it up to her dry, cracked lips. She made no move to drink, so Mathias pushed it against her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, and she opened her mouth and took in the sponge, greedily sucking it dry. Then she had groaned and pulled herself up on the beam, weight bearing down on her impaled and bloody feet, sucking in great lungfuls of air. After a few moments, she had sagged back down on the cross and closed her eyes again. Her glistening skin, soaked in sweat, was now a firece red, as the glaring sun burned down on her unmercifully.
Mathias returned to the tent, where the hourglass was now empty. Time for another session, he mused ruefully. Something seen from the corner of his eyes brought his head around, instantly wary, the instincts of the trained soldier pulling him to instant attention. All around him, the horizon lay bare and empty, heat waves glimmering in the distance, an occasional small dust devil moving languidly and listlessly through the dry heat. But to the east, from the direction of the city nestled in the foothills of the Zangorean Mountains, a cloud of dust could be seen rising into the still air. Horses, Mathias thought, and probably wagons, too. Someone was coming, but who? The possibility of a rescue attempt occured to him, but he doubted it.
"Look alive, men," he said over his shoulder. "Company coming." His men bustled to their feet, gazing out over the shimmering sands at the dust cloud, already noticeably bigger. "Who in their right minds would come out here on a day like this?" Corporal Danko muttered next to him.
"I don't know," Mathias answered, never taking his eyes off the cloud. "But it'll be awhile before they get here. In the meantime, the hourglass has run out. We have time for another short session before they arrive."
"Yes, sir," Danko had replied, and motioned to the one of the solodiers to proceed. The soldier grimaced at the prospect of going out into the heat, but he obeyed, taking along the whip which he weilded so well. Mathias heard the whip repeatedly flailing against the nude body, and heard her groan as she shifted and struggled on her cross. Her cried are getting weaker, he noted. She wouldn't last too much longer in this heat. The whip had fallen silent, so Mathias turned to see the soldier mounting the rough footstool positioned in front of the cross. Taking her left breast in his hand, he fondled it roughly for a second, then positioned a long, sharp rod against it. With a shove, the rod was pushed through her breast, exiting on the other side, where it was promptly pushed through her right breast. More blood trickled from the scarred and skewered orbs. She hadn't made a sound. Indeed, she had barely reacted to the agony. The soldier climbed down, wiping her blood off his hands on her quivering thighs, and returned to the canopy. It was only the beginning, Mathias knew. Within minutes the glaring sun would heat the exposed ends of the rod to an intolerable temperature, and the heat, running into the length of the rod now buried in her breasts, would begin to burn her breasts from the inside.
Mathias returned his gaze to the dust cloud. He now could see figures at the base of it, shimmering in the heat waves. Wagons. And horses. Squinting, he could barely make out the colors on the pennants hanging limply from the lead wagon. His jaw tightened. "It's the Queen," he said, and his soldiers muttered their astonishment. "What's she doing coming out here?" one asked. "To gloat? Maybe to have mercy on the poor girl?"
"I don't know," Mathias replied, "but we'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, look alive and don your armour. We must receive her in proper order."
Groans ran through the tent as the soldiers reacted to the prospect of standing at attention in their glittering armour in the baking sun, but they all did as they were told. They assembled outside of the canop0y in parade rest formation, and all eyes turned to look at the procession headed their way. There was no doubt but that it was the queen's carriage out front, followed by at least one wagon, and surrounded by the horsemen of the Imperial Guard.
"Showtime," Mathias muttered. "Now we find out why she's here."
TO BE CONTINUED
At least they've got the shade, Mathias thought. Not everybody here today was that lucky. He glanced over to the spot, twenty yards away, where a tall cross stood alone in the desert, its occupant a nude young woman, head hanging low, face hidden by a mane of what was now lank and scraggly hair, her nubile young body stretched to its limits as she hung, nearly senseless, from the spikes through her wrists. Mathias strode out from under the canopy and walked over to the cross. She was in a bad way, he thought--no shade, dehydrated, and bearing the scars of a morning's worth of intermittent torture. Around her head was a tight, woven crown of thorns, which had plowed bloody furrows in her brow as the Bishop had jammed it down on her head, under threat from the Queen. Shakily, he had intoned the ritual phrase, with a small added twist: "I crown thee Queen of Hell." Mathias, who had been present in the throne room when this had happened, had admired the young girl's steadiness and resolve as the crown had bitten deep into her head, and rivulets of blood had cascaded down her face.
"You sought to take my crown," the queen had icily intoned to the unfortunate naked, bound girl kneeling before the throne. "But you now have a crown of your own, in keeping with your crime. Guards! Take her away and carry out the sentence."
Mathias and his platoon had brought her out here, stumbling in her bare feet with the crossbeam bound across her shoulders, and had nailed her to her cross this morning. The cross stood alone now, baking in the hot sun, bearing its bloody burden. Mathias ran his eyes over the nubile young body, noting the hours of turture she had endured. Beside the crown and being crucified, she had also been whipped repeatedly as she struggled vainly; multiple red welts criss-crossed her torso, some of them weeping blood. Two sharp leopard fangs had been run through her nipples, in the meaty part of the aeroloa, and twin rivulets of blood ran down her shapely breasts and meandered down her naked body. Mathias noted how some of the blood had settled in her bellybutton. He looked back at the canopy and squinted to see the hourglass sitting on the rude table inside. It was half empty. When it ran dry, her torture would begin again.
Mathias was no stranger to crucifixions--he had crucified many malcontents in his lifetime. They had all been criminals, well aware of the fate that awaited them if they got caught. And yet, they had gone ahead and committed the crimes anyway. Mathias felt no remorse for nailing them to crosses; it was the punishment they themselves had chosen by committing their myriad crimes.
But this one was different. Mathias knew that the young girl hanging on her cross, rib cage stretched out and etched on her torso, muscles stretched out along her arms, was innocent of the treason she had been accused of. But the Queen had believed otherwise, and sentenced the young beauty to this fate. For the first time, Mathias felt remorse at what he was doing to her, and pride for how stoically she had borne the punishments inflicted on her quivering and helpless body. He picked up the spear with the sponge impaled on it which leaned against the cross, and plunged the sponge into the tepid water bucket beside it. With the sponge dripping on the spearhead, he held it up to her dry, cracked lips. She made no move to drink, so Mathias pushed it against her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, and she opened her mouth and took in the sponge, greedily sucking it dry. Then she had groaned and pulled herself up on the beam, weight bearing down on her impaled and bloody feet, sucking in great lungfuls of air. After a few moments, she had sagged back down on the cross and closed her eyes again. Her glistening skin, soaked in sweat, was now a firece red, as the glaring sun burned down on her unmercifully.
Mathias returned to the tent, where the hourglass was now empty. Time for another session, he mused ruefully. Something seen from the corner of his eyes brought his head around, instantly wary, the instincts of the trained soldier pulling him to instant attention. All around him, the horizon lay bare and empty, heat waves glimmering in the distance, an occasional small dust devil moving languidly and listlessly through the dry heat. But to the east, from the direction of the city nestled in the foothills of the Zangorean Mountains, a cloud of dust could be seen rising into the still air. Horses, Mathias thought, and probably wagons, too. Someone was coming, but who? The possibility of a rescue attempt occured to him, but he doubted it.
"Look alive, men," he said over his shoulder. "Company coming." His men bustled to their feet, gazing out over the shimmering sands at the dust cloud, already noticeably bigger. "Who in their right minds would come out here on a day like this?" Corporal Danko muttered next to him.
"I don't know," Mathias answered, never taking his eyes off the cloud. "But it'll be awhile before they get here. In the meantime, the hourglass has run out. We have time for another short session before they arrive."
"Yes, sir," Danko had replied, and motioned to the one of the solodiers to proceed. The soldier grimaced at the prospect of going out into the heat, but he obeyed, taking along the whip which he weilded so well. Mathias heard the whip repeatedly flailing against the nude body, and heard her groan as she shifted and struggled on her cross. Her cried are getting weaker, he noted. She wouldn't last too much longer in this heat. The whip had fallen silent, so Mathias turned to see the soldier mounting the rough footstool positioned in front of the cross. Taking her left breast in his hand, he fondled it roughly for a second, then positioned a long, sharp rod against it. With a shove, the rod was pushed through her breast, exiting on the other side, where it was promptly pushed through her right breast. More blood trickled from the scarred and skewered orbs. She hadn't made a sound. Indeed, she had barely reacted to the agony. The soldier climbed down, wiping her blood off his hands on her quivering thighs, and returned to the canopy. It was only the beginning, Mathias knew. Within minutes the glaring sun would heat the exposed ends of the rod to an intolerable temperature, and the heat, running into the length of the rod now buried in her breasts, would begin to burn her breasts from the inside.
Mathias returned his gaze to the dust cloud. He now could see figures at the base of it, shimmering in the heat waves. Wagons. And horses. Squinting, he could barely make out the colors on the pennants hanging limply from the lead wagon. His jaw tightened. "It's the Queen," he said, and his soldiers muttered their astonishment. "What's she doing coming out here?" one asked. "To gloat? Maybe to have mercy on the poor girl?"
"I don't know," Mathias replied, "but we'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, look alive and don your armour. We must receive her in proper order."
Groans ran through the tent as the soldiers reacted to the prospect of standing at attention in their glittering armour in the baking sun, but they all did as they were told. They assembled outside of the canop0y in parade rest formation, and all eyes turned to look at the procession headed their way. There was no doubt but that it was the queen's carriage out front, followed by at least one wagon, and surrounded by the horsemen of the Imperial Guard.
"Showtime," Mathias muttered. "Now we find out why she's here."
TO BE CONTINUED