Chapter 7: They can have her as they please.

There was nothing extraordinary in the sound. I had heard men and women scream upon battlefields, in dungeons, and before the executioner's blade. Their suffering had seldom troubled me, and I had long since learned to disregard the pleas of those who stood condemned before my throne.

But this cry...

Gods.

I knew that sound.

My fingers stiffened, and the chamber before me began to lose its familiarity.

For a terrible instant, I was a boy again, imprisoned in a filthy den, with my wrists restrained and my pleas mocked by the men who had purchased me. I remembered their laughter, the helplessness of struggling against bodies stronger than mine, and the shame of discovering that begging would afford me no mercy.

I had screamed in that place.

I had screamed until my throat could scarcely produce another sound, until even the Rogues grew weary of hearing my voice.

And now Wakefield's daughter had cried out with the same terror.

My breathing faltered.

No.

I had not returned to those dens. I was within my own kingdom, upon my own bed, with a helpless captive who possessed neither the strength nor the authority to harm me.

I was Valdman Wolverton.

King of the Iron Bloodline.

The men who had violated me were dead, their bodies offered to the beasts after I had exacted vengeance upon them.

I had watched them perish.

Why, then, could I hear their laughter?

My hand began trembling, and I withdrew it from the princess.

The movement did not restore my composure. I could scarcely endure the sight of her, for every attempt to look upon her brought another memory of the boy I had once been.

I released her wrists and withdrew from the bed.

Whatever punishment she deserved, I could not continue.

I rose and gathered my garments, dressing with greater haste than befitted a king. My tunic caught against my shoulder as I pulled it over my head, and I cursed under my breath before fastening my belt.

I would not permit her to witness another moment of my weakness.

Without addressing her, I strode towards the doors and departed the chamber.

The oak doors shut behind me.

I pressed a hand against my forehead, struggling to rid myself of the memories that had accompanied me from the bed.

The torches upon the walls flickered before my eyes, their flames wavering until I could scarcely distinguish one from another. My surroundings were familiar, but my senses could not recognize a thing.

The odour of burning oil gave way to the foul stench of the Rogues' prisons, and the stone under my boots might well have been the filthy floor upon which I had spent so many miserable nights.

I could hear them again.

Their laughter. Their threats. The contempt with which they had spoken of my father and the kingdom they had destroyed.

I had begged those wretches to kill me on more occasions than I dared to remember.

Their answer had always been laughter.

"Stop it," I muttered, pressing my palm harder against my forehead.

The memories persisted.

I could recall the restraints upon my wrists, the helpless struggles that had exhausted my strength, and the terrible anticipation whenever footsteps approached my prison.

Thirteen years had passed.

Thirteen years, and the humiliation had returned to torment me within the walls of my own keep.

I gritted my teeth and attempted to continue walking, but my legs sold me out.

The passage swayed before my eyes. I put out a hand towards the wall, seeking support, only to find that my strength was failing more rapidly than I could master it.

My knees struck the stone.

I struggled to rise, furious with my own weakness, but the effort was futile. A fierce dizziness overcame me, and I collapsed upon my side, striking my head against the floor.

The last thing I perceived was the wavering light of the torches.

Then I lost consciousness.

                                 ***

When I regained my senses, I was lying upon the bed in my private chamber.

The scent of medicinal herbs greeted me, accompanied by the faint smoke from the brazier. I attempted to move my head and discovered a dull ache at my temple.

Cade stood at the foot of the bed, watching me with a seriousness that told me he had already learned of my collapse.

The old pack healer sat beside me, holding a clay bowl containing a preparation of crushed herbs. She dipped a cloth into the mixture and pressed it against my injured temple.

I despised the circumstances that had brought me under her attention once more.

"Has it happened again, Your Majesty?" she asked, peering at me with the familiarity of a woman who had attended to my injuries for many years. "Your men found you upon the stones. You struck your head quite severely."

I offered no reply.

My gaze rested upon the wooden beams overhead while she tended the injury. I had suffered worse wounds upon the battlefield, but the humiliation of collapsing outside my own bedchamber troubled me more.

The healer had witnessed these episodes before.

She had treated me when memories of the Rogues deprived me of sleep, and she understood the affliction better than most. But I had little desire to discuss it, particularly before Cade.

The old woman wrung the cloth into her bowl before speaking again.

"If the Wakefield girl is the cause of these afflictions, Your Majesty, I would counsel you to have her slain. Your health is of greater importance than the life of a captive. There is little wisdom in keeping an enemy who troubles you in this way."

I turned my head towards her. "Slain?"

"Aye, Your Majesty. She has already served her purpose in your conquest. Her father is dead, and his kingdom has fallen. What further use have you for the girl?"

I regarded her for a time, wondering how she could speak so readily of releasing Wakefield's daughter from the punishment I had prepared.

Death.

An execution, a funeral, and the conclusion of her miserable existence.

Was that all the repayment my suffering deserved?

"My lady," I said, addressing the healer with the restraint her years of service afforded her, "you speak of death as though it were a punishment worthy of the sins committed against my bloodline."

She bowed her head slightly. "I speak only for your welfare, my King."

"Then concern yourself with my injuries and leave the matter of vengeance to me."

She fell silent.

I pushed myself upright despite the discomfort in my head.

"I will not grant that Lass a merciful death. Her father condemned my people to slaughter and delivered me into years of torment. She shall learn what it means to suffer under the authority of a man who despises her blood. I have not conquered Wakefield merely to send his daughter to the grave before she has paid her debt."

Cade approached the bedside. "My King, the healer speaks out of concern for you, and I fear there is wisdom in her counsel."

I directed my gaze towards him. "Have you also acquired a fondness for granting mercy to our enemies?"

"Never, my King." He inclined his head. "I have witnessed your suffering since the days of our captivity. There are few men living who understand what those Rogues did to us, and fewer who would survive such torment."

His words stirred memories I had been struggling to suppress.

Cade had endured those prisons alongside me. He had witnessed the cruelty of our captors and suffered indignities of his own. There had been nights when his companionship was the only comfort afforded to me, and I trusted his loyalty above that of any warrior in my service.

He understood my hatred.

But understanding did not grant him the right to counsel mercy.

"I have no intention of sparing the girl," he continued. "Nor would I advise you to abandon your vengeance. But why must you be the one to administer every punishment?"

I regarded him in silence.

"She troubles your mind, my King,” he started. “Her presence recalls the very torments you have fought to put behind you. Let the men attend to her. They have suffered under Wakefield's cruelty as we have, and they would gladly repay the debt. When they have accomplished their purpose, you may execute her at your leisure,” he finished.

The old healer nodded her agreement.

"Your Beta speaks wisely, Your Majesty. You need not subject yourself to further suffering for the sake of one miserable girl."

I considered their counsel.

I had intended to make Azalea my bride, to reduce Wakefield's cherished princess to a possession of the man he had once condemned to slavery. I had imagined the satisfaction of watching her pride crumble under my authority, of teaching her through humiliation what her father's victims had endured.

But the events of this night had revealed an obstacle I had not anticipated.

I could not touch her without recalling the Rogues.

And I would sooner cut the flesh from my bones than endure another such humiliation.

There was no dishonour in entrusting a punishment to one's servants. I had ordered countless executions without personally drawing my sword. My authority was not diminished because another hand performed the deed.

Why should the princess be any different?

I rose from the bed, disregarding the healer's attempt to persuade me to rest.

My thoughts returned to Elric.

Of all the warriors who had survived the Rogues' cruelty, my Gamma possessed the greatest hatred for Wakefield's bloodline. He had questioned my judgement when I slaughtered the three soldiers who had attempted to violate the princess, and I had seen the contempt with which he regarded her during our journey.

Elric would not hesitate.

He would consider the task an honour, a privilege long denied to men who had suffered under Wakefield's tyranny.

I turned towards Cade and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"Send Elric to her," I commanded. "Take five men with him. They may do with her as they wish."

Cade inclined his head. "As you command, my King."

The healer said nothing.

I withdrew my hand and made for the doors, content to leave the matter in the hands of my Gamma.

Azalea Wakefield would suffer the fate I had prepared for her, whether or not I witnessed it myself.

And knowing Elric as I did, I doubted the girl would survive until morning.