Kingdom of Lies

Chapter 1

Kathleen

I used to love the dawn. As a child, I’d slip out while everyone else was asleep and watch as it slowly washed away the black, bringing light back into the world and chasing away all the monsters that stalk the dark corners of the night. I’d feel safe, and that hope had returned. 

Now I fear it. The monsters are real, you see, and the dawn only draws them out. The dawn light now illuminates the horror that is my life.

Every morning I wake, I wait. For the sound of the steps, the ringing of the bell. Each day, I hope they might forget about me if I lie still enough, quiet enough. But they never do. 

Just like now, I’m still, each breath muted and slow. I pull the damp blanket over my head, hoping they don’t call my name. 

“Kathleen!” I hear the voice of the Village Chief from the yard call out. 

I better not keep them waiting, and I don’t want Grandma to wake, so I pull myself out from under the blanket. Apart from grabbing my cloak from the stool, there's no need to change. It smelled. It was damp as usual. I have no other clothes than those I work in. I’ll maybe remove my shirt on warm nights, but it was as cold today as it was last night.  

I stumble out of the hut, glad to be free of the damp air that chokes me in the place Grandma and I call home. I drink  in the fresh air like a glass of cold, pure water.

“You’re late!” he barks at me, his pinhole eyes penetrating my soul. 

“Sorry, sir,” I say. I only know him as sir. I don’t care to know him at all, but what I care about doesn’t matter here. 

He walks toward me; his movements are awkward and lazy, and I can smell his breath long before he reaches me. 

He stops close to me, and I watch his eyes as they scan across my breasts and feel a coldness run down my spine. I pull my cloak tight across my chest. “Dripir,” he says with a grin that exposes his rotten teeth. 

Of course, it is the dripir. When is it not the dripir? Even slaves have a hierarchy, and I am at the bottom of that shit pile. 

“Again?” I ask before I can help myself. I really shouldn’t question it, but sometimes my emotions get the better of me. 

He moves closer, “We is a democracy here, all is fair and voted, and you were voted dripir.”

I can see him take pleasure in his statement. He smiles and sniffs. 

“You should grow your hair out,” his tongue snakes out from between his tight lips. “Gives a guy something to grab on to.”

I instinctively raise my hand and run it through my short hair as if protecting it from the disgusting thing in front of me. 

“Now, go,” he says, and I notice his hand rising, expecting to slap my ass like some mule that refuses to work. Before he can, I hurry off. I feel him watch me as I go.

“Nice tits, though,” he hisses after me. 

I discard the words as soon as they reach my ears and make my way through the village toward the dripir pen. 

The village looks as ugly as ever today. It’s all rotten huts and the stink of urine and shit. I notice the others at their work already, mending weapons for the dark elves, patching up their clothes, and cooking underway for lunch. 

“Dripir again?” I hear a shout from the cook house. I turn and watch as the others snigger. How could other humans relish such a thing as this? It is beyond me now. I think they are beyond human now, subhuman. The elves have made sure of that and take great pleasure in it.   

“Watch, you don’t turn your back. They’ll eat a little thing like you in one gulp!” Another voice adds much to the amusement of the others. 

“Or hump you,” another adds. 

“Leave the girl alone. Works twice as hard as you fat assed lumps,” a lone voice of an older woman scolds them. 

And I do because I must. My bones ache, and I smell worse than the dripir they force upon me. But, for Grandma, I must keep going. If I don’t, we starve, she starves, and I can’t ever let that happen, so I accept the metaphorical shit they throw at me, wipe it off, and keep going. 

And there they are. I stand looking into the dripir pen and the muck that will be my day, another day. It's best to feed them first. Hungry dripir are angry dripir, but dripir busy with eating give me the time and peace to clean out their shit. 

The smell is godawful, and it sticks to you like tar. I long one day to be out of these clothes. I dream of a dress, clean and white. Lying on crisp fresh grass, the sun warming my body. The smell of wildflowers scenting my hair. 

I have a secret, a place where I can go. I have found this spot by the river that no one knows, where I can feel free and, most importantly, clean.   

I will go there this evening, far from the stench that is this place. 

I feel a nudge of a wet nose on my leg and turn to see the dripir I call Mister looking up at me. 

“Well, hello, Mister,” I tell it, and it grunts a reply and hobbles off. It's a pity this poor thing will soon end up in the belly of a dark elf. The soldiers love their dripir; it’s a disgusting sight to witness them eat. I don’t care much for dripir anymore, and even if I did, humans rarely see it in the merger rations they give us. 

“Girl.” I hear a shout from behind me. It is Will, one of the other slaves. Another pain in my backside. He knows my name but somehow refuses to call me by it. 

I ignore him. 

“Girl!” I sense the irritation in his voice, and I enjoy it. But I must be careful not to push too far, so I turn. 

“Yes?” I ask.

“You’re needed to help bring in the firewood,” he states. 

Really? I’m exhausted, hungry, and unsure if I have the strength. I stare at him and say nothing. I can’t risk telling him where to shove his firewood as much as I want to. More work is the chance of more food, and I have to make sure Grandma is fed. 

I have noticed her go downhill this last while, her cough has grown thicker and more violent, and I fear the worst, so her strength must be kept up. 

“Coming,” I say, biting my tongue yet again. 

“Quicker,” the wiry little shit demands, storming off. 

I climb over the fence. “Until tomorrow, little dripir. Don’t shit too much tonight, please.”

I follow Will to the woods and wish the day would end. I’m so tired.

“I can smell you from here, girl,” Will calls out without looking behind. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘dripir shit.’ Would you like that, girl?” he says, laughing at his shitty joke. 

“Maybe I should call you ‘little cock,’” I whisper to myself. I’ve heard the other girls talk.

He stops at the wood edge, and I catch up. 

“This needs filling,” he says, pointing at a large basket. “After that, you can take it down to the wood sheds,” he instructs me. “Don’t take too long. Light is fading, and you don’t want to be in these woods after dark. Bad things play here.” 

With that, he turns and heads back to the village whistling, pleased with himself.

It takes me about an hour to fill the basket. My back aches from bending over, and my eyes are heavy with exhaustion. One last push, I tell myself as I begin to drag the heavy basket down the hill to the woodshed.

It is evening now, a few hours until dark, so if I hurry, the river can still be mine. 

“Whore!” the coarse voice of Clara, the Village Chief’s wife calls out. The birds shake the branches as they flee her wrath. But I can not. 

“I told you before to stay away from him,” she spits the words at me. I have no idea what she is talking about. 

“I didn’t, I haven’t,” I plead to her. I see the anger in her fat red face and know there is no way out of this that will be good. 

“I’ve seen the way you act around my Oliver, sticking your tits in his face like some strumpet!” she yells at me. “I’ll teach you, you little taura, seize her!”

I stand dumbfounded as two slaves appear and grab me by my arms. I notice others appearing out of the woodwork, wondering what is happening.

Clara storms off back to the courtyard of her ample house, “Bring her here,” she orders the two slaves. One of them seizes the moment to grab at my breast. His nails, long and sharp, dig into my flesh as he gropes. 

There’s nothing I can do. I’m too weak to resist fighting back and long for someone to rescue me. As they drag me closer, I see Clara holding a large wooden paddle.

“Please, no,” I beg, “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Bend the little bitch over my knee,” Clara instructs them as she seats herself on a large black stool and slaps the paddle against the palm of her hand. 

The two slaves twist and bend me over her thick thighs. I can smell her rancid tights, and I catch a glimpse of the crowd that has gathered. The excitement in their eyes revolts me as Clara pulls my skirt up, bearing my ass to the hungry spectators.

“I’ve done nothing….” I feel the dirty rag pushed into my mouth before I get a chance to finish. 

“Little bitch, Clara is going teach you a lesson,” she hisses at me. 

I hear the dull sound of the paddle hitting my buttocks before I feel the pain that surges through my body. I scream into the dirty rag, and the tears swell in my eyes as the second hits. 

Then, the third and the fourth.