Ayala

Ayala

by Elle Lewis

“Line up!” growled Corbyn.

Ayala got in line beside the other women. Some of them were already trembling. Ayala could hear soft whimpers, breath catching in fearful hiccups. Ayala squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She recently turned seventeen, which now qualified her as a potential Spring offering.

          “Shut your mouths and stay quiet,” Corbyn snapped. “The Scouts will be arriving soon.” Corbyn—the reagent of the town of Larkfall—was a massive man. Tall and burly, the lines of his muscles sang a song of battles once fought. His eyes were the color of an angry ocean. A scar arched over his left eyebrow, and his right arm was missing, replaced by an artificial one. It was constructed with gold titanium, the gears inside constantly buzzing and whirring. Ayala didn’t know what had claimed his arm, whether it was man or beast, and she didn’t care. Corbyn was a cruel man. He governed Larkfall with brutality, mingled with the smallest hint of diplomacy.

          Next to him stood Emory, the town’s Speaker. He was a wisp of a man with silver hair and dark eyes. Emory began reciting the history of the Spring offering, launching into a well-timed prose. His feeble voice spun a tale of honor and duty, sacrifice required by the gods, necessary to their country’s prosperity.

          Ayala ignored him, blocking out his words. Instead she listened to the clock tower, which rose behind her. The clock tower was a tall edifice of black brick. It’s pointed spire leaned to the left, as if the tower felt burdened by the world in which it was part.

          Ayala had been dressed in fine clothes for the occasion. She wore a black and white pinstriped skirt, with a white blouse, the fabric so thin she felt sure every detail of her breasts could be seen. Thankfully a black jacket had been provided to her. It was full of big buttons and lace, the neck so high it brushed her chin. The skirt cut off at her knees but billowed behind her like a silk cloud, revealing tall heeled leather boots.

          Emory continued to recite the history as the townspeople looked on. They huddled close together on the cobblestone streets, their expression solemn. Ayala continued to listen to the passage of time…tick, tick.

          Her eyes caught a murder of crows at the tree line, black forms bursting into a grey sky.

…tick, tick.

          Corbyn eying her hungrily, his eyes taking in every curve of her body.

…tick, tick.

          Ayala felt sure she would be chosen. It was a sensation that started in her gut and blossomed upwards, as if she had swallowed a seed and a tree was growing within her, branching towards her shoulders, touching her heart with its rotten fruit. …tick, tick, clop, clop.

          The sound of hooves on stone echoed in the courtyard. Emory fell silent as the Scouts approached. A black carriage rolled into the town, pulled by two obsidian mechanical horses. The crowd parted, quickly dividing down the center to make way.

          The carriage turned sharply, coming to a stop parallel to the line of women. Steam billowed from the horse’s nostrils, their bodies a well-crafted interlacing of metal, machinery, and aesthetic beauty. The Glennraven crest could easily be seen on the carriage door. It opened, letting loose a new round of fearful gasps from the line of women.

          “Silence!” Corbyn hollered.

          A man stepped out of the carriage, chuckling. “What’s wrong Corbyn, can’t get your hens to stop clucking?”

          Corbyn laughed. “It’s good to see you, Matrick.” He stepped forward, clasping Matrick’s hand in greeting.

          Matrick was on the shorter side, with a round gut and broad shoulders. He was dressed in a green button-down shirt, with a brown leather vest, light brown pants, and leather boots. His brown hair was wavy, coming to a stop at his shoulders. His beard was immaculately trimmed and cut in asymmetrical patterns.

          Matrick grinned, “I hope you have a Spring-Maiden worthy of the King. The two towns prior were quite lacking. Dogs! The lot of them.”

          Corbyn smiled, “Ah, I have a few fresh ones for you. Three just turned seventeen. The others are between eighteen and twenty, but they are faces you have perused before.”

          Matrick waved his hand. “Send them off. I want to see the new girls.”

          Corbyn nodded. “You heard him. Go home.”

          Four young women quickly scampered off in a whoosh of billowing skirts and clicking of heels.

          Ayala kept her eyes forward, watching in her peripheral as Matrick stepped closer to the two remaining girls beside her.

          The men that scoured the country for the King’s Spring Maiden were known as Scouts. But Ayala thought of them as hunters, single minded animals that stalked innocent pray.

          “This one has potential.” Matrick purred as he examined the young woman directly to Ayala’s left. He leaned in close to the girl, whispering in her ear as his hands roamed her body.

          Ayala could not hear what was said, but she could feel the girl’s distress vibrating on the air. A soft sob escaped the girl’s lips as Matrick pulled away.

          “Pretty but weak. She’ll break the first night.” Matrick said.

          Corbyn chuckled.

          Matrick stopped in front of Ayala. “And what do we have here?” His voiced deepened, filling with obvious desire and delight.

          Ayala looked him squarely in the eye, disgusted that he was enjoying this.

          Corbyn approached, placing himself directly behind her. “This is Ayala.” Corbyn said as he ran a hand over her hip, trailing his fingers lower, until he gripped her ass. “She is an orphan.”

          Matrick’s eyes sparkled. “Is that right? How perfect. There will be no one to mourn her passing.”

          Both men laughed.

          Ayala’s heart raced, but she remained still, even as Matrick grabbed her chin.

          “Blonde hair, brown eyes, soft pink lips,” he said. “Yes, she’ll do nicely. And a defiant one, I can tell.”

          Corbyn gripped the back of her neck, and pulled Ayala against his chest, lacing his mechanical hand loosely around her throat. “Yes, she is. I am not surprised you chose her. I wanted her for myself.”

          “I can see why.” Matrick said, his hands sliding over her breasts. He moved in closer, and lowered his hands, grabbing fistfuls of her skirt. Corbyn pressed his nose below her ear and began kissing her neck. Quick panic rose within her. Ayala fought to stay calm and remain still.

          Emory cleared his throat. “Excuse me gentlemen, need I remind you that it is a punishable offense to take the Spring Maiden. If, in fact, you have chosen Ayala as the offering, I would encourage you to desist. Or if you want her that badly, chose another girl for the King, and the both of you can take turns…”

          Matrick pulled away, breathing deeply. “No, no…the King will be most pleased with her. Thank you, for reminding us of our purpose.”

          Corbyn drew away as well and stepped back.

          Emory nodded. “Very well.”

          Matrick grinned, gesturing to the carriage. “After you…Ayala.”

Ayala was immediately handcuffed as she took her seat within the carriage. The gold cuffs were attached to a formidable chain that was looped above the door. The inside of the carriage was covered in black velvet with soft plush cushions.

Matrick slid in beside her. Two other men occupied the carriage. Theo and Desmond were dressed much the same as Matrick, except for Desmond. There was an impressive metal apparatus attached to his right arm and shoulder. It was a complicated weapon of rusted gold, composed of several gun barrels, retractable blades, and a flame thrower. Desmond had blonde hair to his shoulders. Theo was younger than the other two, with short brown hair and intelligent green eyes. He wore a bowler hat, with darkly tinted goggles resting above the brim.

          “Let’s go.” Matrick demanded. “I want to be at Glennraven by nightfall.”

          Theo nodded and slid open a panel on the wall of the carriage, revealing an array of buttons and levers. Ayala looked away, centering her gaze at the dismal gray sky that could be seen from the small window.

          The carriage lurched forward, pulling Ayala towards inevitable torture and death.

***

Night had fallen as the carriage sped through the streets of Glennraven.  It was a congested city of dark buildings, oval windows, and narrow bridges. A full moon hung in the sky, its silver light hindered by billowing steam. Ayala caught glimpses of zeppelins and other flying contraptions soaring above the skyline. It was a beautiful sight, surely. But it was the type of beauty that held darkness within it, like a black widow spider. Sleek and elegant, but deadly.

          All too soon, the carriage reached the King’s manor. It was a monstrous building composed of black brick and glittering windows. Matrick unloosed the chain from the ring but kept the cuffs on her wrists. He gathered the end of the chain in his hands and led her from the carriage. Desmond and Theo followed closely behind.

Matrick guided her through the lush manor. He walked quickly, with purpose, making Ayala wonder if he was late delivering the King’s offering. Matrick tugged on the chain periodically, forcing her to keep up. The manor was filled with many of the King’s servants and guards. Ayala did her best to ignore their whispers…

“The Spring Maiden has arrived!”

“Oh, she is a beauty, that one.”

“It’s a shame.”

“Do you think he will choose death by fire or water this year?”

Matrick pulled Ayala up a wide stairwell that led to a long hallway. At the very end stood two enormous double black doors; the King’s chambers. Ayala’s stomach twisted painfully, as if she had swallowed a cup of rusty nails. She followed Matrick, heart racing. And then, mistakenly, she looked down at the hallway floor. A tangled scream escaped her lips and she pulled back on the chain.

Skeletons were suspended in the floor, a clear resin poured over the bones, displaying the morbid details clearly. She stared in horror at empty eye sockets, rows of teeth and rib cages.

Matrick laughed. “The past Spring Maiden’s. We encase them within the floor so that their deaths can always be remembered…and enjoyed.” His eyes hardened. “Don’t look so shocked, you little cunt. Walk.”

She swallowed and continued forward, her heeled boots clicking loudly on the road of bones. She told herself not to look, but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes roamed over the encased skeletons, boney fingers reaching, begging for mercy that would never be given.

Matrick stopped in front of the doors, finally uncuffing her. Desmond and Theo flanked him, faces grim.

“This is where I leave you. The three of us will remain outside of these doors. I don’t need to tell you that escape is pointless and impossible. It’s really not worth it to fight,” Matrick said with a crooked grin.

Matrick rapped his knuckles on the door. “Sir, she has arrived.”

***

King Amiel Rockwell regarded her with hunger in his eyes. He trailed a finger down the side of her face. “And what is the name of my Spring Maiden?”

          “Ayala,” she whispered.

          “Well, Ayala…would you care for some wine?”

          She nodded, and he smiled.

          The king’s chambers were enormous, the walls covered in black wallpaper with silver roses embossed throughout. A fourposter bed draped in silk was pressed against the main wall, chains and handcuffs dangling from the wood. Mirrors and twinkling black chandeliers were scattered throughout the room. A large circular window showed the surrounding city, tired yellow lights peeking through the gloomy night.

          King Rockwell was middle aged but still relatively young, with long black hair and deep blue eyes. He wore pinned striped pants and suspenders over an unbuttoned white long-sleeved shirt, revealing a muscular chest and well-defined abs.

          Ayala watched him pour two glasses of red wine. She also noted two large black cabinets. The door was ajar on one of them, revealing spiked leather items inside that promised pain.

          Rockwell handed her a glass. “Tell me about yourself. I like to get to know my maiden before we begin.”

          “I’m from the town of Larkfall. My father was Abner Hughes.”

          Rockwell took a sip of wine. “Abner Hughes…that name sounds familiar.”  

          Ayala held her glass but did not drink. “He was a warrior, in your father’s guard. But he was executed, for being a sympathizer and supporter of the free women.”

          Rockwell’s blue eyes sparkled. “Ah, the free women of Ixania. They are a troublesome bunch. But their movements are closely monitored. Let me guess, he attempted to smuggle you into their territory and was caught.”

          “Yes,” Ayala responded.

“And now you are here with me,” Rockwell stated with pleasure.

“Yes, my King.”

He grinned. “How poetic.”

“My father told me tales of Ixania. He was quite interested in their way of life. Specifically, the fighting styles of the Queen’s all female guard.”

“No wonder he was executed.” Rockwell responded. “And what are your thoughts on the women of Ixania?”

“I have no opinion on the matter.”

“A perfect answer.” Rockwell said. “Enough. Politics damper the mood, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ayala nodded.

Rockwell set his wine down on a nearby table and took hers, placing it beside his glass. He stepped in close, grasping her chin, raising it so that she met his eyes. “Some women attempt to please me, in hopes that they will be spared. I can assure you that will not happen. You will die eventually, in a way of my choosing. You may be here with me for days, weeks. It all depends. If I tire of you, your death with come more swiftly. I encourage you not to fight. If you do, I will chain you. Either way, I will do what I want to you, for as long as I want. Do you understand?”

Ayala nodded and gritted her teeth.

His fingers found the buttons of her jacket, expertly undoing them. “Now, do I need the chains and handcuffs? Or are you going to be good?” he asked as he slid it off her shoulders. 

Ayala shook her head. “You won’t need them. I know my duty.”

“Good girl.” Rockwell kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hands roaming her body. Ayala did not resist as he unbuttoned her blouse, kissing along her collarbones. “Each Spring I wonder…what type of woman will they bring me?” He breathed against her exposed skin. “Will she tremble? Will she break easily beneath my hands? Or will she be defiant.” He laced his hand behind her neck again forcing her to meet his eyes. “Are you defiant, Ayala?”

“No.”

 Rockwell drew Ayala to the edge of the bed. He ran his hands behind her waist, reaching for the clasps of her skirt.

She placed her hands lightly on his chest. He immediately grabbed her wrists, ready to overpower her. Ayala gazed up at him from beneath her lashes, a coy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “May I try something first my King? Something that I understand men enjoy?”

He relaxed his grip on her wrists. “You may.”

“Lay down on the bed,” Ayala requested.

Rockwell complied, stretching out on the silk sheets. He placed his hands behind his head, eager. “Have the scouts brought me a little devil?”

Ayala smiled and straddled him. She began kissing his chest, trailing her lips and tongue down his stomach.

He exhaled, threading his hands in her hair. “Oh yes, a devil indeed.”

“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered against his skin.

“Is that right?” He mumbled, barely listening.

Ayala undid the buckles clasping the suspenders to his pants. She continued to kiss him, unbuttoning his pants, trailing her lips lower, lower…

Rockwell closed his eyes. Ayala began pleasuring him, but her attention was centered on the chains and handcuffs that dangled from the wooden posts. She had been thoroughly searched for weapons prior to the lineup at Larkfall and knew she would have to use her environment. This was her opportunity. It was only a matter of time before the beast tied her down, no matter how complacent she pretended to be. But she would have to move fast.

Ayala withdrew and snatched one of the chains.

Rockwell’s eyes snapped open and he abruptly sat up. Ayala elbowed him in the face, hard. She continued to hit him, a rapid succession of blows that made him fall back onto the bed. Rockwell groaned, blood and thick chunks of tissue seeping from his nostrils. Ayala hurriedly grabbed his wrist and snapped one of the cuffs around it.

Rockwell struggled and growled furiously, pulling on the chain. 

 “You fucking bit-.” She hit him again, silencing him. Blood covered her knuckles, sticky and warm. While Rockwell was momentarily stunned, Ayala removed a case from a pillow, crumbling the silk into a ball. She stuffed it into his mouth, gagging him. She then grabbed another chain, locking his ankle in place, ensuring he could not twist or get up.

Ayala got off the bed. Rockwell began yelling but the sounds were muffled. He thrashed, straining against the restraints.

“I regret that I have to do this quickly,” Ayala said. “If it were up to me, I would torture you first. But it’s only a matter of time before the Scouts realize that the sounds you are making are not coming from me.” Ayala reached for the glass decanter that held the wine. She then snatched a coverlet that was draped over the bed. Rockwell continued to struggle, screaming around the cloth that was jammed in his mouth.

Ayala hurriedly wrapped the decanter in the cloth, breaking it quietly. She then selected the biggest shard. “Which is disgusting,” she said as she approached Rockwell. “The fact that I can tie you up, beat you, kill you…and all the while the Scouts will recognize it as sounds heard in past years from the many women that you have tormented in here. Women that have been chained, touched and violated against their will. You vile, piece of shit.”

Rockwell’s eyes widened, and he began shaking his head back and forth, terrified. Ayala did not hesitate. She pressed the glass below his ear and drew it across his neck, cutting through his throat in a jagged ugly line. His skin split open, blood spurting as she severed his carotid artery. Hot blood cascaded onto her face and neck, splattering onto her fine clothes in a spray of ruby rain. She watched with satisfaction as a river of blood erupted from his neck, quickly soaking the silk sheets on the bed. Rockwell twitched and gurgled, eyes rolling to the back of his head as the life drained from him. She watched until he became still, until she felt sure that he was dead.

Ayala threw the glass down. It would not be enough. She took several steps back and positioned her body. She then began kicking one of the wooden posters, again and again, until the wood split. With a snarl, she wrenched it away. Ayala held the makeshift weapon in her hand, pleased. It was sturdy, the tip sharp.

She sprinted, rushing through the double doors. The three Scouts turned, facing her. Ayala kept moving, not wanting to lose the element of surprise. She crashed into Matrick first, shoving him against the wall. Matrick grabbed her by the arm, an angry snarl crawling from his mouth. Ayala twisted out of his grasp, lacing her fingers behind his neck. She pulled and then brought her knee up, kicking him repeatedly in the balls.

Desmond raised his arm, leveling the metal apparatus at her.

“Stupid whore!” Desmond shouted. Theo pounced, grabbing the metal apparatus and forcing it upwards. The shot intended for Ayala exploded above, blasting into the ceiling. Ayala continued to wrestle with Matrick as Theo drew a dagger from his waist. In one fluid motion, he shoved the blade into Desmond’s chin, forcing the blade into his skull with a wet crunch.

Desmond gurgled, his eyes wide. Blood oozed from his mouth as he sank to the floor.

Ayala flattened her hand and landed well-aimed hit into Matrick’s throat. He grunted in pain. She slammed the piece of broken wood across his face and then shoved the pointed tip into his stomach. Matrick screamed. Ayala spun and then kicked, connecting with the exposed piece of wood, forcing it further into his gut. Matrick blinked and looked down at the wood sticking out of his body.

“Don’t look so shocked you little cunt.” Ayala said as he slid to the floor.

Ayala turned, facing Theo. He ran to her, pulling her into his arms.

“Are you alright?” Theo caressed her blood-stained face, relief filling his eyes.

Ayala nodded. “What if Ixania doesn’t allow us in?”

“You just murdered Amiel Rockwell,” Theo said. “The queen will throw you a fucking parade. Let’s go.” He handed her his blade and then removed the metal apparatus from Desmond’s lifeless body. Theo strapped it onto his right shoulder, his expression set in cold resolution. Blood seeped from the two fallen men, covering the encased skeletons in a sheet of red. The expanding blood distorted the clear resin, making it appear as if the bones were moving. Eye sockets widened, and jaws stretched, as if the of skulls of past maidens were laughing at the sight of retribution.

Theo and Ayala ran towards the entrance. Theo used the flame thrower as they passed, igniting curtains and furniture on fire. Flames quickly raced through the manor. Chaos ensued. Servants and the King’s Guards spilled into the hallways, like angry ants fleeing a destroyed ant hill. Together, Ayala and Theo cut them down. None escaped their wrath.

Theo left a pile of bodies in his wake, rapidly changing gears on the apparatus, switching between flame, blades, and bullets. He killed like a man possessed, without fear, reckless in his determination to see them to safety. Ayala moved with deathly grace, an angel that had fallen from heaven, with the sole purpose of reigning down righteous death. Her blade cut through flesh with ease, her body twisting and turning with well-practiced precision. Blood erupted around her like red fireworks.

They raced through the front doors and into the night. The carriage was still on the front driveway, the mechanical horses motionless.

“Go, hurry!” Theo shouted.

Ayala climbed in. Theo pointed the muzzle of the apparatus at the entrance, but no opposition came. There was only fire, licking the open doorframe. Theo jumped in, shutting the carriage door. He opened the panel, breathing heavily as he pressed buttons and pulled the levers that operated the horses.

The metal chargers came to life, steam billowing from their nostrils. The carriage jerked forward, thundering into the narrow streets of Glennraven. The flames multiplied and expanded, racing along the roof of the King’s manor, angry and all consuming. The fire rose into the night sky, red and yellow tendrils reaching for the moon as Theo and Ayala sped to freedom.