Chapter 22

The walls were patchy, almost cracked, and present in its interstices were thick lines of crusted blood. Blue trails, so timeless, they had inadvertently contributed to the aesthetics of this black pit, a colourful mural for the dungeon walls. The hardened blood tracks told stories of the countless lives taken in that very room. The dominant yet equally aversive smell of dewy metal akin to the blood of the witches, deepened his need to be excused from the scene. Wails, screams and tortured sobs filled the cramped room as more witches were mutilated, dismembered and frivolously punished. The air was stale with a disgusting mix of charred flesh, sawdust, sweat and rotting corpses. A paroxysm of strong mournful squalls broke out as yet another witch was bludgeoned with the swing of the long, heavy sword, its tip gleaming in the sunlight peeking through the only window in the dungeon. A stream of blue blood jetted from the lower half of the body comparable to a fountain of paint, her plea