A sour odor hung in the air, and she realized it was her own vomit spilling from her lips. Her stomach convulsed again and again. Rough hands grabbed her, lifting and dragging her backward as she spit a mix of saliva and blood and bile.
Her mouth hung open, as the blood streaming from her nose made it difficult to breathe. She tilted her head back to stop the flow and gasped for air. A fist slammed into her ribs and tears sprang to her eyes. She bent over, coughing and hissing, but the jailers held her firm and pulled her back upright. Her arms were yanked behind her back and secured below the elbow with iron clamps, forcing her chest to thrust out awkwardly. She sucked in air through her parted lips while the jailers secured chains around her ankles, ignoring her pathetic struggles. Rage surged through her abused body and her stomach clenched as a jailer shoved her forward.
“Calm down, prisoner.” Nathair’s whispering tones made her shiver with revulsion. “You’re to be taken to the Hall of Judgement.”
Eyes wild, she tried to tilt her head to look at him, but a slow clap rang from the shadowed edge of the prison hall. Heat flared around her neck as the golden collar came alive, reacting to the sound of its master.
Maeve gulped for air as the heat cut off her breathing. Her vision went dizzy, yet still she pressed against the influence of the spell with all the strength she could muster.
“Feisty as expected; I told you not to transport her without me,” a cold voice scolded the jailers.
Maeve sagged in her chains as the heat became unbearable, then evaporated.
“Master,” hissed Nathair, clearly surprised. He recovered quickly. “You saw what she did. I ask leave to teach her a lesson with my whip.”
“From the look of her, you’ve already begun,” the Master snorted.
Nathair uttered an oath and curled up his whip.
The Master’s cold voice faded as he walked away. “Bring her to the Hall of Judgement. I want her unspoiled. Ready to work.”
2
Hall of Judgement
“The accused shall kneel,” the warden bellowed. He had the head of a bull with dark rough hair and curved horns, and although his hands were manlike, his feet were hooves. A heavy musk came from his animal-like body. A minotaur. A lesser one, but a fearsome enemy all the same. He stamped his javelin against the stone and pointed it at Maeve.
Maeve lifted her chin and drew up her shoulders as best she could with the heavy chains weighing her down. Her battle rage had faded, leaving her with a weary exhaustion. To compound her misery, the thin golden collar around her neck continued to drain her energy.
Two swift kicks to the back of her knees brought her crashing down, adding new scrapes to her old ones. Keeping her chin raised in defiance, she glanced around the Hall of Judgement.
Thick black columns towered on either side, reaching to the inky blackness far above them. About ten feet over her head were yellow torches, the only light in the forsaken place. Jailers—some fae, others human—lined the hall, along with the court of the Master, made up of fae and beast alike. They had all come to witness and revel in the disgrace of their prisoners.
Memories flooded Maeve’s mind, unhappy memories she’d long repressed. She’d assumed—wrongly—that the past lay behind her and a life of freedom was ahead of her. It had been a long time since she’d had a run-in with the fae, and to be back in their grasp was a blow to her pride. Strength was supposed to be her salvation—even though it was the fae who’d taught her how to use her abilities—but ultimately it had failed her. She closed her eyes, once again recalling the heat of flames and the searing pain as a blade drove into flesh over and over again. Screams and cries echoed in her mind, much like those she’d heard in her cell in the dungeon below.
A heady fragrance hung in the air, making Maeve’s eyes water. She held back a sneeze to avoid doing any more damage to her broken nose. What she would give for a healer. Already, she could feel the swelling around her eyes. Squinting, she stared straight ahead into the darkness, which pointed like an arrow to the end of the hall, to the Dragon Throne. It was covered with bronze-colored dragon scales.
Some said that over five hundred years ago, the fae conquered the dragons, who had been intent on ruling the world. After destroying their civilization, the fae slew them all except the largest one, and used their black magic to force the last living dragon into an eternal slumber in the form of a throne. The intricate layers of the scales were so detailed, Maeve assumed the tale was true, but there was no possibility the dragon was still alive. For one, it did not have a head, and they would have had to kill it to force it to morph and shift into such an inert object. Because dragons had been slain hundreds of years ago, the tales about them often conflicted with each other, but everyone agreed that the race of dragons were dangerous, predatory, and untamable.
Maeve’s vision swam. The Dragon Throne served as a reminder that she was in the home of monsters, the fae. Banished from the world above, they did not treat those who could walk in daylight kindly. There was no empathy in their hearts, only malice. Maeve suspected there was a bit of jealousy as well, though the fae could enter the world above during the night of the full moon, and that window of time was enough for them to carry out their wicked plans.
Maeve assumed, since they had brought her to the Hall of Judgement, they were not interested in forcing her into servitude in the lightless kingdom or executing her. Which meant the Master wanted to make a deal with her. A deal she would have to take, for escape did not seem likely. Not with the pitiless gaze of the warden on her. She could hear the rattle in his chest as he growled, and his hooves clopped eerily as he circled her, like a wolf around a fawn.
Maeve swallowed hard. Did they sense her discomfort?
“Enough,” the Master called out.
He stood by the Dragon Throne, a shadowy figure, intentionally hidden from the light. He towered well over six feet, yet kept his form shrouded in a velvety black cloak and his face hidden behind a black mask. Only his eyes were visible, and they were nothing more than liquid pools of darkness with no irises.
The gleam of his gaze met Maeve’s, and she suppressed a shudder. He’d attacked her thirty days ago, during the full moon. She’d had a sick feeling in her stomach all day, as if her body was attempting to tell her something was wrong and that she should call off the raid. But she’d been headstrong, determined, and angry, and when the Master had appeared to capture her, she was taken off guard.
His fingers were long and slender. Sharp claws appeared on the edges and retracted, like those of a wildcat. Maeve recalled his claws sinking into the skin of her arm, the snarl on his face, and the hint of fangs as sharp as a wolf’s. Then he’d collared and dragged her to his dungeon.
“Maeve of Carn.” His sinister tone echoed off the stones. “I will not mince my words. Your actions and your crimes against the Divine drew our attention. You are a warrior, defender, and champion, and yet you forsook your sacred oath of protection. Because of your dark deeds and your particular skill set, we sought you out. We have decided you will fulfill a quest for us. Upon completion of the quest, I will grant you freedom.”
Maeve’s ears burned at his words. Crimes against the Divine? Dark deeds? He accused her and pointed the finger, but she was no champion, no protector of the people. The people of Carn were gone, dead. It was up to her to find her place in the world. Yet, her skill with the sword had landed her in a few hairy situations, and even though she worked as a mercenary seeking out the not-so-innocent and forcing them to face their crimes, she’d gotten careless. When faced with difficult situations, she’d let her battle rage overrule her judgement and acted with violence, killing those who should live, simply because they were in her way. Deep down, she knew her actions went against the laws of the Divine, but she’d assumed her deeds would not be judged in her lifetime. She clenched her jaw so hard it sent a spark of pain up the side of her face. “I’d rather rot than work for you,” she spat, shaking with hatred.