Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 4

Dráiden's love is missing! He's tried everything to get her back, but it is as if she's vanished into thin air. When she is dragged before him, beaten and bruised, he will stop at nothing to make the elves pay. Little does he know that not everything is as it seems.

Part I:  Luthandra Raikin
Part II:  Dráiden Kaldor
Part III: Elven Tidings

Part IV: The Sham

Three days. It had been three days since Luthandra had gone missing. Dráiden folded his arms across his chest as he leaned forward in his throne. He had no idea what the master of the Blacksmith’s Guild was meandering on and on about. Her maid, Braynia, claimed innocence and ignorance of the disappearance, but he had her locked up anyway.

His groom was interrogating her in the dungeon below at this very moment. I cannot lose the only one who ever treated me with respect. I just...I can’t. He wanted the family that was his birthright. He wanted at least seven children, and he wanted to live to see--

“My lord?” The blacksmith asked, clearing his throat as though he had just repeated himself.

“Yes, yes,” he replied. Dráiden rose and waved his hand. “Proceed.”

“The Blackmsith’s Guild thanks you.” Before the man could bow, Dráiden was already descending the steps of his dais and heading out the side door. The interrogation was more important. If anyone get get someone to talk, it was Preston.

The grey stone walls of his castle were a blur as he hurried down the dark steps that would take him to the place he was loathe to admit he had. The air felt cooler as he continued his descent. A shriek echoed against the stone walls when he snaked around a corner.

The warden posted at the dungeon’s black doors opened them when he saw his lord approaching.

“I saw an elf!” came a wild scream. “Before I went to bed! That’s the only-” Something wet thudded against something soft. Dráiden marched past the rows of cells leading to The Iron Door. The two prisoners locked inside cried out to him in desperation, groping at him with feeble arms.

He did not hear them.

Candlelight flickered through the tiny slit of a window in The Iron Door. No rose petals ever adorned the dreadful room which it guarded.

“I’d never hurt her! She’s my friend!” Dráiden pushed the heavy thing open. The woman was laying on a blood stained table. His groom was folding a soiled cloth with his back turned.

“Please. Help!” The woman arched her back, struggling against the iron bands that secured her limbs to the table. “I swear it. I would never hurt her! It wasn’t me! I SWEAR!” Bruises adorned her otherwise homely face. Splotches of blood marred her not-so-white chemise.

“She speaks the truth,” he hissed. “Release her.” He knew a lie when he heard one. No one could stand Preston’s games for long.

“I was just about to finish up with the same conclusion,” Preston purred, wiping his hands on his cloth. “The elf...that’s the bit that makes me nervous,”  he licked his lips with a twitchy frown.

“We live no where near Avanduil’s kingdom,” Dráiden sighed. “King Ciallmhar of Alainn is many things, but,” he muttered and suppressed the urge to shiver. “I will send a bird.”  Dráiden paced the space between the table and his groom. He wiggled his nose at the stale stench wafting throughout the room. “It would behoove him to look into the matter, as we are neighbors.”

“Yes, sir. I shall have one sent at once.” He flopped the rag onto the table as Braynia whimpered.

“Get that cleaned up and send her to my beloved quarters first,” Dráiden scowled.

…

Five days.

Five days had passed, and not a word, a sign, or a bird...Nothing.

Sleep had escaped him, and he was gripping Arrowheart’s hilt, tempted to slide her out and destroy the balcony in front of him. It’s as if she’s vanished by some wizard’s trick. It all screamed elf magic to him, but Ciallmhar was not the type to instigate trouble. The elves kept to themselves when they weren’t trading with the neighboring lands.

A door swung open behind him, slamming against something hard.

“My Lord!” Preston cried. “Your betrothed! She has returned!” Dráiden spun around and ran past his groom. “Dark tidings...dark tidings are ahead.” Presten scurried in front of him, leading him to the throne room.

Luthandra trembled on her knees as two wardens struggled to grab her arms and stand her upright. Sobs escaped his beautiful bride’s face. When the wardens managed to get the woman to her feet, Dráiden froze.

The blood burning beneath his skin churned, and it was as if Winter had come screaming at him in a violent whirlwind of ice and snow. Purple bruises lined her skin. Dried blood caked her mouth and nose. Her chemise was nothing but brown rags, barely providing any modesty. Dráiden tore his cloak off.

Preston grabbed it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She shrank away from him, whimpering like her maid.

“My love,” Dráiden croaked, shooing Preston away with a wave of his hand. He neared her in three gentle strides, cupping her chin. A grotesque bruise marred her left eye. “My love,” he rasped again.

“The...the…” she wheezed, lowering her face. Shame dripped from the sorrowful expression in her eyes. Dráiden winced and scooped the light thing up in his arms.

“Get my healer!” he cried. “No one enters her quarters except Preston!”

…

Preston hovered over her with a mug of hot tea in his right hand. Dráiden had kicked the healer out as soon as Luthandra’s wounds had been tended to.

“My sweet,” he croaked, holding her weak hand. A bandage had been placed over her left eye. “Your wounds, as fate has blessed you, will heal. You will be beautiful in a few weeks time.”

His eyes washed over her face, and he leaned over her to stroke her cheek with his other hand. She shied away from him with a grunt, turning her face away.

“They...they,” she whispered. “I was taken. Raped,” she shuddered. “Beaten.” Preston arched an eyebrow and set the mug on the table beside her bed.

“Who?” Dráiden asked. “Who did this to you? How?”

“Elves. They took me with their magic in the night and...and.” The woman shuddered again and sat up. She buried her face into her hands. Sobs raked her form. Preston neared him.

“King Ciallmhar won’t know what hit him,” Draidon hissed, rising.

“My lord,” Preston whispered. “Perhaps we should wait a few days. Traumatic experiences warp one’s view-”

“CIALLMHAR’S ELVES DID THIS!” He clenched his fists. “And for that, the Kingdom of Alainn will know what it means to waken a Kaldor.” he thrust his arm out and pointed at the window. “Summon the wardens.”

“My lord if I may protest. We need more information. Perhaps her maid can question her about-”

“She is to be the Lady of Westridge! Undermine me again, Preston, and you’ll be the subject of one of your interrogations.”

The groom blanched, but he bowed. “I’ll summon them.”

“We ride tonight.”