Page 52 of Grimoire Omens

“Would you prefer the term chattel? And you will obey.”

“What happened to making me your queen?”

“That was when I planned to use you to take over Earth. Here, in Infernal, such a union would be considered quite distasteful. But fear not, as my witch, you will be accorded certain privileges so long as you do as you’re told.”

“Good luck with that,” my dry reply.

“There are ways to make you cooperate. A stint in the dungeon will likely soften you up.”

Wait, was he serious? Looking at him? Yeah. Yeah, he fucking was.

“You mean the dungeon owned by your king, the king who wants you punished for trying to take his throne?”

“Urieus soon won’t be an issue. With you by my side, he shall rescind my sentence, and upon his imminent demise, I will rule the East. Then, with the power you will wield on my behalf, I shall then look to the south, west, and eventually the north.”

“It’s like you want to die,” I mused aloud, shaking my head. “You can’t seriously think I’ll help you take down one let alone four kingdoms. You said it yourself on the rooftop. I don’t have the training or skill.”

“Not yet, but with the proper teachers and practice, you shall become the most powerful weapon Infernal has ever seen.”

Lovely. He planned to launch me like a nuke. Really not ideal. Also not ideal? The terrain he made me march on. Rough, dry, and cracked hard ground, the dirt of it reddish-hued, or so I assumed. Hard to tell, given the sky had an ombre tint to it.

Vegetation-wise, sharp bladed tufts of grass grew in patches, not green like on Earth but bleached white. Gnarled trees spotted the landscape, leafless and best suited to the décor of a Halloween set. I saw no sign of life or civilization, and I had to wonder if Ulseere lied about his land. He’d mentioned it having lush areas. The arid desert we crossed seemed to belie that claim.

“How much longer?” I whined for the zillionth time. While my athletic suit handled the hike well, the shit-kicking boots I’d donned what seemed like ages ago killed my poor feet.

“Would you stop asking?” Gryvak snapped.

“No.”

The cuff, while expected, still hurt.

“Keep smacking me and I’ll end up a useless drooling idiot. Then again, come to think of it, go ahead. Without me, your king is going to ream your ass hard.”

My dare led to Gryvak clenching his fists, but he stopped punching me. When we did finally reach the edge of Hell, I’ll admit to being surprised, because what do you know? Not everywhere looked like it had been sucked dry of moisture and life.

We came across trees with actual foliage first, the shadows under the boughs laden with grayish-mauve leaves soothing my sweat-drenched and scorched skin. The creek we ended up crossing provided refreshment—especially once I threw myself down in it for a good soak. I would have lain on the smooth pebbled bottom while the water—surprisingly the same color as on Earth—flowed over me forever, but Gryvak hauled me to my feet and demanded I march.

Now that we’d left the arid desert, I spotted animals and birds, the latter coasting overhead, uttering shrill cries, their flowing tails undulating behind them. Furry critters ran across our path, similar to squirrels but with saber teeth and spiked tails.

Every so often, I would test my magic because I wasn’t about to take Gryvak at his word when he said I’d used it all up. I attempted small things like wishing he’d trip or that a branch would fall on his head. Alas, nothing happened. Not surprising, given how leaden my body felt.

The journey itself proved boring but ended up lasting only a few days. I won’t bore you with the whining details, other than to say the place could have really used some cars or even horses. The smelly creature—a cross between an ox, a lizard and ugly—that yanked the wagon Gryvak acquired—AKA confiscated with threats of death—had only one plodding pace, and it farted almost constantly. The burn in my nostrils had me worried I’d never smell properly again. That would be traumatizing, as I did love that whiff of coffee first thing in the morning. The anticipation and mouth watering that came from the scent of baking bread.

When we arrived at the city, I was asleep, leaned against Gryvak’s shoulder, drooling all over his sleeve. The din of people going about their business woke me. I opened my eyes to see carriages and wagons hauled by more of the smelly animals, but amongst them, I also spotted creatures more graceful in appearance that people rode like a horse—their six legs moving swiftly, the frothy plumes on their heads bobbing.

As we approached a massive gate set in a wall that towered several stories high, I noticed guards questioning folks before they allowed them to pass through the gate. I expected them to arrest Gryvak when our turn arrived. Surely, he’d be recognized. If he wasn’t, I planned to rat him out as the traitor the king sought, only, when I would have spoken, not a word emerged.

Gryvak murmured, “I’ve encased you in a bubble of silence, as I suspect you’re plotting trouble.”

He wouldn’t be wrong.

“Also, fair warning, if you so much as twitch, I will stab you.” Having seen his dagger, and having experienced his cold callousness, I had no doubts he would. When our turn came for questioning, I did my best to convey my panic with my eyes. To my chagrin, the guards waved us through, likely because of Gryvak’s magical guise that turned him into an old man. Did they not see the glow surrounding us both?

The bubble of silence—the worst form of torture after the lack of good food—kept me quiet. The threat he’d poke me with his sharp knife kept me rooted in my seat. Then again, where would I run off to? We’d entered the city, more massive than I could have imagined, spreading out in all directions, encircled by that massive wall. For all its size, though, the citadel—the same one Ulseere had shown me—dwarfed it atop the mountain the city encircled.

The place had a medieval feel to it with none of the buildings taller than two stories, three if you counted the attics. Rock comprised most of the outer walls, a mishmash of stone mortared together with stained wooden doors and glazed windows framed with working shutters. Kind of quaint, and had I been vacationing on Earth, I’d have been taking a zillion selfies.

I saw shops selling goods—bakeries with their wares in the windows, boutiques featuring dummies in their main window wearing samples of clothing, even a bookstore. I smelled the restaurants before I spotted them, the wafting fragrances torturing my poor, abused belly. We’d not eaten much on our trip, and what Gryvak did provide proved almost unpalatable. A thin stew with fatty meat chunks that tasted rancid. A bread that he’d stolen that almost cracked the teeth it had gotten so stale. He even had me munch on some kind of bitter root. It was a wonder I’d not keeled over from starvation.