1
Dungeon of the Damned
Chains rattled against iron, and somewhere in the bleak darkness a banshee screamed. Its cry, like the sound of teeth grating against metal, high and wild, sent a shiver of trepidation down the spines of those who listened. A low growl echoed through the chambers, followed by a sharp bark. A sword slid into a warm body, the hilt sinking into fur and withdrawing with a slight sucking sound. Moans were soft, aware of the coming inevitable sentencing, and doom was near for those unlucky enough to be cast into the Dungeon of the Damned. Little light poured into the blighted prison, hidden far under the fertile earth of an island and crawling with the souls of the pure and the damned.
The newest prisoner, Maeve, knelt on the uneven stone floor, aware of the grime that now stained her bruised, bare knees. When she’d arrived at this godforsaken place, the fae—her jailers—had stripped away her breastplate, sword, shield, and crown. Upon her capture, a simple golden collar had been placed around her neck. Aside from the collar, she also wore a plain, sleeveless tunic that fell to her knees, leaving her long arms and legs bare to the elements. The tunic covered the pattern of brown ink that adorned her neck, chest, and upper arms. The patterns symbolized her heritage, a lost civilization, and even Maeve, the sole survivor of her people, did not know what they meant. The destruction of her homeland, Carn, had happened only twenty-five years ago, when Maeve was five or six, but when she tried to think back, memories of her people evaded her, lost like the cool winds of winter burned away in the warmth of sunlight.
Cold air crept into her windowless cell. Stale seawater dripped off the stones, creating a pool of stagnant liquid in the corner, her only source of refreshment. A putrid smell came from it, but she knelt all the same with her hands clasped in front of her. In between sips of water, she rocked back and forth, her mane of dark hair gracing her shoulders like a halo.
Maeve’s lips moved as she whispered the same prayer she’d repeated every day since her imprisonment. She kept her steely blue eyes closed against the gloom, unwilling to let in the nightmarish images. Today marked her thirtieth day in the dungeon, and although the shrieks of the damned filled her with terror, she knew her time would come. She resolved to face judgement with the same determination that had carried her through every situation life had dealt her thus far.
Her capture was an accident, a fate no one could have saved her from. Not even him. The warlord she had fought and bled with. At the thought of him, she rocked faster. What had he thought when she did not appear after the raid? Did he see the jailers arrest her? And then there was the thought she pushed to the back of her mind, the desperate wish that she had not argued with him, that their last words had been on kinder terms. He would have known something was wrong when she did not show up, but would he assume it was because of their argument, not a situation out of her control? Unless . . . no. She did not want to think it, but the cold, damp, and loneliness pressed in, and she couldn’t keep the horrific thought from invading her mind. Had he wanted the fae to take her and lock her away?
The jangling of keys grew louder until they were thrust in the lock of Maeve’s cell. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and splashed onto a scarred stone. The muscles of her arms trembled as the eerie squeak of iron made her cringe. She remained in position, staring at the floor as the shadow fell over her.
“Get up,” barked the rough voice of a jailer. “Hands behind your back. Don’t try anything if you want to avoid the stocks.”
Maeve took a deep breath, counting. They’d half-starved her and kept her locked up for thirty days, hoping to break her. But they hadn’t, and the time had come to act. Another drop of sweat followed the path of the first and slid between her eyes to hang precariously on the edge of her nose. In one fluid motion, Maeve pushed off her heels and balanced on her hands, then swung her feet high over her head and slammed them into the neck of the jailer.
The assault took him by surprise and he fell with a shout. His hand fumbled for his belt as he stood, seeking the short metal rod with the glowing ember at the tip that burned the prisoners and brought them to submission, but Maeve was faster. She allowed her momentum to carry her through until she was back on her feet, upright. She kicked out at the jailer’s thigh, then brought her knee up hard between his legs. He gave a muffled cry and collapsed to the floor again, holding his groin and swearing.
Keys clanged against the stones, but the jailer held them tight as he whimpered and then shouted, “Help! She’s escaping! Catch her!”
Footsteps echoed off the walls. If she did not act quickly, she would be caught and locked up again.
Maeve placed her bare foot on the jailer’s wrist and pressed down until his fingers came open and the keys fell free. Panic clawed up her throat as she bent to snatch them; they were warm and slippery from his sweaty hands. She made a face and leaped over the prone jailer just as a shock crackled through her right leg.
She spun, hair flying over one shoulder. The jailer sneered through his agony. He’d driven the rod into her calf, and a burning sensation had bolted across her skin like a hot knife being dragged up her leg. Gritting her teeth against the shriek in her throat, Maeve lashed out with the keys, dragging them across the jailer’s face.
He screamed and dropped the rod as he pressed his hands against his cheek to stop the crimson flow that trickled down his chin.
Maeve darted out of the open cell, dragging her burning leg behind her. A whip slammed into her and ripped open the back of her shift with its teeth.
Maeve grunted and spun to face whoever had whipped her. Blood boiled under her skin and the familiar haze of battle lust rushed over her, dulling all pain while she fought.
The fae with the whip was too far away for her to strike. He leered, showing off a row of crooked yellow teeth. He was a slim creature, tall and skinny, who looked as though his bones would snap in half if stepped on. Unfortunately, she was familiar with him and knew he would bend, not break, if she fought him. The prisoners called him Nathair, the snake. His head was shaped like an adder’s—flat, with gleaming yellow eyes that were more reptilian than fae. The row of yellow teeth in his mouth were sharp and pointy, and when his mouth was closed, the tips of his fangs hung out, completing his sinister look. Despite his scrawny appearance, he was fast and his whip acted as an extension of his arms. He lashed out again, and this time the whip curled around Maeve’s arm that held the keys. The teeth of the whip sank into her skin. Her eyes narrowed, and she charged Nathair, determined not to release her chance at freedom.
The whip fell away, leaving angry red welts crisscrossing up her arm. Her free hand curled into a fist and she leaped into the air, drawing back her hand for maximum impact. The air gave her strength, but as she followed through with the strike, Nathair vanished.
A sinking sensation twisted through Maeve, but she was already airborne. She’d forgotten who she was fighting against and had failed to consider the tricks of the fae—namely, the ability to slip into the shadow world and reappear wherever they liked. Instantly.
A hand tipped her foot, and instead of flying, she crashed. She closed her eyes right before the impact and landed on her face. There was a snap and searing agony ripped through her nose as it broke. Warm liquid pooled from her face and her ears rang. She felt, rather than heard, the keys come free from her fingers and slide across the stone passage.