Beckyann Short Number 6

((A continuation of "The Depths of Love" ))

*Several years ago, the Eastern Plaguelands*

Green eyes opened, and at first saw nothing but more darkness. She'd been kept in darkness so long that it took a moment for her to comprehend that she could see more than just the inky blackness. The pain was still there of course, a constant companion now, but the change in light meant that she didn't have a sack over her head anymore. She could take in a breath of the fetid, still air of whatever stone chamber she was in and try to come to terms with what was happening.

Beckyann tried to sit up, only to find that she had sharp pains in her wrists and ankles. She rolled her head to her side; practically the only movement she could still perform in her weakened state. As her eyes adjusted and her mind stopped swimming, she realized she was on a hard wooden table of some sorts, the piece of furniture located in a sealed stone room with arched ceilings that went up into pitch blackness. Only a few eerily glowing torches illuminated the room, their pale blue flames giving off a sickly magical light. It was by this light that Beckyann was able to discern that her wrists were bound to the table with thick rope loops. Presumably that was also why she could not move her legs.

The sight sent a shiver of trepidation through her as she remembered what had happened and where she likely was. Her guards had fallen, overwhelmed by the undead, and crazed looking cultists had captured her, dragging her off while Frederick lead his men in retreat....

Frederick...why? No, I won't think of that. Whatever happens next, I will remember only the joy and love we shared. I won't think of it again.

He had gotten to safety, that was all that mattered now. And she was...somewhere. Why there had been living humans amongst the walking dead she didn't know, but Beckyann knew that whatever the reason was would be unpleasant, and that she would soon have all of the answers she cared to. She began to tug at the ropes binding her to the table in vain, the fear making her heart pound in her chest. She knew that if she didn't escape quickly there would be no hope for her. There was no one coming to save her now. No champion to protect her; she had to be her own champion.

Without warning, the sole door to the chamber opened with a creaking noise, the dark opening giving a view of a long, sloping corridor beyond with diseased filth running along the floor and eerie glowing phosphorescence on the walls in some places. Standing in the door was a man in a dark black robe, his face marked with dull gray runes and symbols, especially around his eyes. He smiled at her when he saw her looking at him.

“Well well, our guest has awakened from her beauty rest,” he said in a sinister tone. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and bolting it in place. The sound of the metal driving home in the bolt was like a death-knell to Beckyann.

“W-what do you want?” she said, her voice wavering more than she cared for it to. “Who are you? Why have you taken me prisoner?”

The man didn't respond, instead walking to the foot of the table where Beckyann could not easily see him and grasping the edge of a stool, dragging it across the floor. The noises it made echoed loudly throughout the room as he positioned it beside her. He didn't sit down though, instead reaching into a thick pouch at his belt and taking out a book, gently placing it on the top of the stool and within sight of the bound woman.

The book was a neat little travel journal, bound in red leather with carefully inscribed runes on the cover. Beckyann recognized it instantly, being quite familiar with her own research notebook. She looked up at the man in confusion, still pulling at her restraints.

“You see,” the black-robed man began, “You've done quite a bit of research into the plague. While you drew some rather incorrect conclusions at the end of your work, some of the notes you describe in this book are...of interest. Specifically your isolation of the magical plague and manipulation of some of its attributes in an attempt to find a cure. While your research was doomed from the start, it showed promise. You will tell me everything you know about the plague and about the undead, including all of the spells you developed to help you prevent cross-infection during this research.”

Beckyann's eyes widened for a moment, his words echoing around the room. She blinked in confusion, shaking her head, “I d-don't understand. You clearly are allied with these...things. W-why would you want to study my research? W-who are you?”

The man smiled, picking up Beckyann's journal and slipping it back into his pouch. He leaned over her, a hand coming out to brush some of her blonde hair from her face. His touch made her cringe and her flesh shiver with fear. “You see,” he said, “Your research could help us enhance the power of some of our devices that we've been using the spread the plague. In time, you will come to understand why it is so important that we purge all life from this world. You will come to see the gift that we offer to the living who are too afraid of their own mortality to embrace perfection. You will come to understand that the Cult of the Damned will lead mankind towards its destiny.”

Beckyann's mouth opened in horror as she saw the unrestrained adoration on the man's face as he spoke of the plague of undeath. In that moment, she came to realize that she was in the hands of lunatics that would stop at nothing to end all life in the world, and she knew that there was no hope for herself. Only in defiance could she serve her nation and her people. Her jaw set in a grim line as she glared up at the man, shaking her head. Her voice came out strong now, resolute despite knowing what would happen next.

“I will never tell you any of my spells. You can ask until the breath leaves your body, and my silence will be the only answer you shall ever receive.”

The man looked at her and laughed, reaching out to pat her head once. “Oh my, you do have spirit don't you?” he asked with a sneer. “We'll see how well that serves you over the next few hours...and days...”

With that, he walked casually to the foot of the table that she was strapped to. The blonde-haired mage could hear the man rummaging through a pile of objects that sounded as if they were made of metal, but she couldn't lift her head high enough to see what he was doing. She needn't have bothered with wonder however, as he soon looked up at her with a smile on his face, a jagged dagger in hand.

“Now then, let us begin with your containment spells...”

The dagger came down. The room echoed with the first screams.

***************************

Almost a month later the tormented, dead corpse of a blonde woman was dumped into one of the scourge meatwagons outside of the ziggurat where the interrogations were taking place. The meatwagon had been filled with the corpses of those who had been particularly resistant to torture or that had died only after fierce struggles. After sitting for a few days, some of the higher functioning scourge exited the ziggurat and began hauling the wagon off towards its ultimate destination.

A week later the body of Beckyann Eastberg would join the rest of the corpses delivered to Acherus, where a new tale would begin from the ashes of the old.