The Rack

The Priestess raised her voice in attempt to override the song of agony. It hummed at first, hollow and terrified, to something resembling the pitch of a distant violin, running long and loud throughout the chamber. Every so often, the rejoice would cease, allowing its composer to draw ragged breath. The conductor of this orchestra--a man cloaked in an array of rags and iron, who held his jaw tightly and shut his eyes during each brief turn of the wheel. 

"-And may the mother pause and gaze upon your life, and offer thou mercy-"The priestess continued, finding it unnecessary to take even the slightest glance at the prayer before her, "-And may thou find peace in the wake of sin, may the mother open the gates to the abyss, and sever your ties to the waking world.-"

With one last turn of the handle, and one last outburst of misery from the victim, the priestess set down The Ledger. The girl's bare body had gone limp and she would no longer feel the cuffs pulling at her limbs. Although she drew breath, there was no need to stretch her any further. The Mother had decided to brief her suffering--at least for the moment. “Born in grace, damned by desire, receive your sins and die in fire”--as The Ledger commanded of blasphemers.

xxx

The bones went unnoticed. On the opposite side of the door they hid from the onlookers' eye, illuminated by the spliced moonlight that shone through the key hole. For the slightest moment, the light flickered, then disappeared altogether, snuffed out like an evening candle. The hinges--weathered by the wrath of time and neglect--squealed their warning to the torturer, who didn't heed. A rush of air, of time, of decay, brushed past him as the cool, stale air of the crypt had lain undisturbed for many decades. It sputtered and stirred, as if roused from a massive slumber, as the old crypt exhaled a yawn of discotent. 

He shut the door behind himself.

There was a small grating as he stepped forward. Reeling to catch his balance, a femur rolled under his foot, grinding against the cobbles of the stairwell. 

There were a few crackling thuds as he was tossed down the depths of the extensive staircase, tossed into the gully of the chamber. The sickening sound of mashing bones and entrails piercing the heavy air that hung like pitch, and blood ran on the sacred ground. His body was encased in a cosmos of roused darkness, its depths  concealing the atrocity of the scene, masking the gore and internals that spread throughout the network of crevices in the weathered floor. 

Although he had survived the descent, the torturer's mangled body did not allow him much movement. He began ascending the staircase. The crypt stank of death once more.

xxx

The priestess had drawn up her mask over her face. First the rose water. Then, the vinegar. The smell of the two liquids rose into the air, mixing with the already prominent fragrance of various plants hanging around the small room to dry. The man coughed a vile, black mucus that dribbled down the side of his cheek. 

He was too far gone--all she could do now was make him comfortable and hope he would depart soon. The plague had washed over the land in a tide, spreading like fire in the cities. The smell of demise hung everywhere. On clothing, in hair. It lingered and clung to whatever it graced, carried off to the furthest reaches of the lands, where the very wind would tell of death and murmur its hymn. It would close its claws around the throats of the weak and wring them of existence. Its hunger would not subside. 

The medicine was set in a pot to boil. The only cure was death, and the priestess would deliver it sweetly, the bitter poison masked by sweet nectar and roses. 

xxx

Despite the down bed and dose of soma, fire lapped at the edges of Godeleith's broken body. The pain--the cuffs pulling at her body, the sound of her cracking bones and body being dismembered raged brightly in her memory. She moaned, plagued by consciousness. Calling for the agony to cease. To let her rest. Water was brought to her lips, but coughing some up, it pooled next to her head. The pillow was already damp with sweat. 

The nurse perked to attention as footsteps pounded the floorboards outside the small infirmary, gathering her pale blue skirts and respectfully leaving the room. She shut the door, leaving Master Tallowind alone with mangled girl. Her heavy, uneven breaths were the only sound in the room. Until he stepped forward, grotesque body putting strain on the groaning floor. 

The infirmary was a well used place, when the castle had been in constant use. Its service was now meager, but dreadfully crucial, although it lay in the shadow of its glory days. Wraiths were all that roused the beds, their misty, refracted forms crying out silently, cast to an existence of immortal pain, war wounds oozing misty blood. 

They went unnoticed--the times of imperialistic monarchs lay far behind. This New World, born of anger and cowardice, governed by the priestesses who spoke the ‘will of the divines.’ 

Tallowind was well aware of the tirades laced with lies. The very bindings of the ledger were stitched in myth-although the masses believed otherwise-each and every page fabricated. 

Turning to Godeleith, needing no more then a mutter, “I am aware of status. But, even so, you will address me as Master Tallowind. Is that clear?”

She hung open mouthed, either at his words or at the man himself. His features were on the cusp of repulsive--right sleeve hanging at a precariously hunched angle, as if his shoulder were too large for his socket.It looked as if flames had ravaged the right, scarred side of his face, and lingered there as a reminder of their toll. 

It was a while before Godeleith could bring words to her throat. 

“Yes, Master Tallowind.” Her voice wavered, in fear, agony or both. 

“How may thou acquire the holy grounds of Arkaleth?”

Godeleith froze for a moment, mind churning. She tasted the words before producing them, then turned her gaze to the man.

“Patience, my dear Mother.” 

Author's Note

Hope you enjoyed it. There are probably some small spelling and capitalization errors, so nitpickers have fun. Any feedback would be AWESOME, id live to hear what people think of this. (that also means death threats. i will read those too.) SUGGESTIONS for the plot, characters, the end, or how to make it less shitty would be very much appreciated. May the force be with you.

Reviews

[xx]

I won't lie - I was confused when I began reading this; but that's probably a result of my own incompetence...The confusion cleared up a bit for me as I continued to read, and the visual imagery you produced made it an entertaining read.

I deduced from your chapter notes that you're already aware that there may be minor grammatical/spelling errors in this chapter, and I have no doubt that you could easily fix them if you ever want to edit this version, so I won't linger on that.

Instead, I noticed a few minor word choice errors. They don't really take away from the quality of the piece that you wrote, so it's nothing urgent. For instance, paragraph four - a man can "heed" a warning, but "takes no heed" of something. The "smell of demise" description can be edited to "smell of decay," or something similar; demise simply means destruction and has no particular smell that a reader might think of.

I enjoyed reading this! I'm a very visual person, so all the imagery pulled me along, and while the piece was a bit confusing to read, I'm sure that everything will be cleared up as the story progresses. :) Keep writing!

-Mina

[eatmills]

Had an amazing review for you, hit send and WC crashed. I will try to reassemble it. I remember first I had to clean the coffee out of my nasal cavity. This is what you get for making coffee spew out my nose.

Pay no heed to Mina's request to change heed and demise. You've used heed in the proper context and have broken the idioms associated with that word. Demise means destruction. What is decay, but the destruction of enzymes.

And the other comment about gore, did I miss something, cause when does the gore start?

I do however agree with Mina this story has no flow. It's like 4 different excerpts of a story that has a mutual theme. Part 1 you started with a female as the sacrifice. Then it part three it's a male.

Part two I would lose the word toss because you are implying that some physical being had something to do with the guy falling down the stairs and that it just wasn't the grate and the femur that he tripped over.

You could tie in part one and two by simply having the preistess looking into the crowd and her seeing one of her henchmen entering into the room during the ceremony. You would still have to build more upon it, though. This would tie parts 1-3 together. Part 4 is much different then the other ones I'm not sure what you were thinking. Perhaps this is where you need to build up to.

I really like your writing style and if you ever need any help, drop me a note.

-eatmills

[symmetryAsymmetry]

For someone who is into gore, this would be really appealing. I also liked the myticism attached. I mean, there's hint of something great happening in the background...like a new religion taking form...and that urges me to read on. I would also like to add that I feel the reader should be given a break from all the gore because after sometime it stops having any effect. I found myself skipping words and generally losing concentration because I wanted it to move on. I think it's always nice add something light-hearted so that the reader doesn't lose interest.

Just my opinion though :-)
Btw, your style is amazing and I think you shoud definitely give writing a novel a shot, if you haven't already...