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alquis6-1

The Witch
One - The Inquisitor

Solana stumbled across the Town Square, her wrists tightly bound
behind her back with thick rope. It was autumn, but she was barefoot,
her feet aching with cold, her naked arms coarse with goosebumps. In
her mouth was a gag, a leather ball between her teeth, secured with a
leather strap. H er lips formed a seal around its circumference, her
jaws ached.

Three guards. Two held her arms: the Sergeant followed. They hurried
their frightened prisoner towards the thirteen steps that rose to the
malevolent Justice H all. Grey stone columns, iron fittings in which
unlit torches rested, a black metal gibbet suspended above, the off-
white of old bone s w ithin its bars.

Solana wore nothing but a lace-up bodice and skirt. H er breasts,
plumped by the corset, were all but bared to the November chill. The
bodice's slim straps had slipped part-way down her bare muscled arms.
H er skirt s w ere torn, muddy. H er hair was loose, a thick black
mane tumbling to her shoulder-blades, partially obscuring her face.

H alf African by birth, her father descended from black slave s, her
mother Spanish, Solana had inherited the beauty of mixed races. The
slender nose and rich, curly black hair of her mother, the full
cheekbones, proud lips and perfect teeth of her father. H er eye s w
ere dark brown, lashes long, her brows bold. H er body was strong,
lithe, muscular, her skin smooth, the colour of coffee. A life tending
animals on her mother's small farm half a day from Pamplona had
blessed her with good health. But now her slim finger s w ere blue
with strangled circulation, the coarse rope s w earing ruts in her
wrists, tightly confining her hands behind her back. H er feet were
bruised from her journey through the city streets.

They reached Justice H all. Solana would have pleaded to turn back,
but for the gag. H er feet found the ascent, and she helplessly did as
the guards bade, entering the cavernous atrium. Perhaps a hundred
people stood within, most queuing to have petty grievances settled.
But all moved aside for the beautiful prisoner and her armoured
escort. A few pitied her: most simply felt relief that it was her, and
not themselves, being led inside.

The four stopped at the head of a queue. A Clerk, robed and sombre,
regarded the ragged girl. H e dipped his quill in ink, reached for a
heavy leather-bound book. Worn fingers leafed through thick pages,
filled with the names of hundred s w ho had come thi s w ay before.

�Name?� The Clerk's voice came in a monotone,
his disintere
st plain.

�Solana Degas,� grunted the sergeant on his
muted prisoner'
s behalf.
From beneath the rim of his iron helmet, deep-set eye s w atched the
quill scratch its path. �She is accused of
witchcraft.�

Solana tried to protest - stifled exclamations barely escaping the
heavy leather ball that packed her mouth. H er dark eyes burned with
rage as the Clerk wrote. H ow was it that such an injustice could be
committed before her? She knew only too well her accuser - Catalina
Lacrosse, her only rival in beauty, the blonde, lithe vixen from the
nearby village. Catalina, who had been jilted in her efforts to be
crowned H arvest Princess. To Solana, it had been a frivolous and
childish celebration, but accepting the crown had pleased her fellow
villagers and satisfied tradition, so she had borne the formalitie s w
ith grace.

But Catalina, jealous, had began causing trouble for her rival.
Culminating in this - Solana's arrest in her own mother's kitchen,
dragged bound into the cold and brought here, to Pamplona, and the
foreboding Justice H all.

The Clerk finished writing. H e looked briefly at Solana. � H ave h
er
examined.�

The guards propelled her forward, through a second chamber, finally
halting outside tall oak doors, trimmed in brass, with elegant
gargoyles as knockers, four guards outside. The Sergeant pounded once
with his gauntlet, and the door was opened from within.

Solana's expression resembled one agape with wonder, though her mouth
was merely held wide by the leather gag. They were in a cavernous
hall. At the far end, tall stained glas s w indows splashed coloured
light across a mosaic floor. Perhaps a dozen guards stood silently at
posts along the walls. A brazier glowed sullenly in a far corner.
Directly ahead, on a raised podium, three stern-looking men sat at a
huge oak table. All wore the robes of Clergy. Apparently they had been
in discussion, but all three now looked up.

A figure scurried to meet the four newcomers. A scribe in his forties,
ferret-like in appearance and manner. H e looked openly at Solana, his
eyes taking in her shapely form, the lush tangle of her hair, her
handsome face. Without breaking the stare, he listened to the
Sergeant's brief communication. Finally, as Solana was brought within
a dozen paces of the high table, the scribe turned to his superiors.

�Your H onours, the prisoner is Solana Degas, an accused witch. She
comes this day from Sanguesa, where she live s w ith her mother.�

The central of the three figures glowered at the woman before him.
Solana's racing mind identified him as the Inquisitor, a deeply
religious man, whose role was seeking the truth from those accused of
witchcraft or heresy. H e, she hoped, would be kind.

�Free her hands.�

Solana looked back over her own bare shoulder as one of the guard s w
orked the rope at her wrists. The rope had shrunk with cold and damp,
and it took a time to loosen it, but eventually she was released, and
massaged deeply-grooved wrists gratefully.

�Now strip her.�

Solana's eyes bugged over her gag. Momentarily stunned, she failed to
react as one of the guards grasped her skirt and tugged. At once, she
fought back, swiping at him, but the Sergeant caught her arms.
�Steady, there, lass!�

Mute, Solana struggled, but the soldiers disrobed her quickly, then
stepped away, clutching their trophies proudly. Solana cupped her
hands over her breasts, more anxious to conceal her vulnerability than
her nudity.

But the Inquisitor would have none of it. �Place your hands upon yo
ur
head!�

�Do it!� The Sergeant butted Solana's shoulder.
Unable to s
peak for
herself, she reluctantly complied, feeling her nipples tighten in the
chill. She closed her eyes as the three Clergymen leaned forward.

They regarded a body truly spectacular. Five-seven in height, slim,
beautiful. Skin flawless. An oval face swathed by the rich black of
her hair. H er breast s w ere high, plump, topped by black-brown
nipples. H er belly was shaped by muscle, quartered by defined gullies
centred on a petite navel, smooth skin like velvet. Lower, her slender
hip s w ere the frame for a tidy triangle of tight black hair. H er
leg s w ere long, shapely, terminating in dainty feet, high arches,
perfect toes slightly curled on the cold tile floor. Under her lifted
arms, the black hair was fine and soft.

�What is that?� The Clergyman on the
Inquisitor's right poi
nted.

Solana flinched as the guard grasped the fine gold chain about her
throat. �I believe it is an adornment of some kind, your H onour.
�

� H uh.� The Clergyman sat back.
�Remove it. Then b
urn her clothes.�

Solana's heart sank as she was stripped of her jewellery; the
necklace, along with the rags that had been her clothing, were carried
from the room in the arms of a guard.

�Sergeant, bind her hands, then remove her gag.�
The Inquis
itor spoke.
�I wish to question her.�

�Aye, your H onour.�

Now was not the time to resist. Solana lowered her arms, and one of
the guards grasped her wrists, holding them behind her back while his
comrade twisted the rope tightly around-and-between, knotting it well,
securing her. She flexed her fingers against the bondage, tugging
experimentally, but her wrists may a s w ell have been locked in
stone.

Now, the Sergeant loosened the buckles of her gag. The oversized
leather ball was extracted carefully from between her teeth. Solana
slowly closed jaws strained by the cruel gag. She licked her dry lip s
w ith a numb tongue.

�Your name is Solana Degas?�

Solana straightened. Though she was naked, standing in full view of a
dozen men, with hands bound behind her back, she kept her composure,
dignity shining from her brown eyes. �It is.�

�Your age?�

�I am twenty-seven years, your H onour.� H er
voice was str
ong,
confident..

�And not married?�

�I have not yet found a man worthy.�

Amusement echoed around the hall. The Inquisitor seemed less inclined
to laugh. �And what say you to the charge of
witchcraft?�

Solana fixed him with cool eyes. �I say it is a lie, your H onour.
I
am innocent.�

� H m.� The Inquisitor sat back.
�The Court shall i
nvestigate further.
Take her away.�

H ands still bound, Solana was led to another door. It opened onto a
steep stairwell, and they descended to a small guardroom. There,
several soldiers sat idle. Their command, a weathered Jailer in his
forties, met the newcomer s w ith barely a glance.

Solana lost count of the doors that opened and closed to the keys on
the Jailer's belt. The five of them descended countless narrow
stairways, marched between wet and slimy walls. Guttering, oily
torches lit claustrophobic passageways lined with heavy, windowless
doors. It stank of human waste. Cries and groans echoed eerily from
distant rooms of torment.

Did the guards not feel anything? Solana looked to each in turn, but
they seemed distracted, perhaps intent on leaving this hell-below-
ground, this tight, intestinal nightmare of cells. The Jailer finally
stopped alongside a door, unlocked it, pushed it open.

Solana nearly choked. Black, putrid, the cell was ten feet square,
stone walls and a ten-foot ceiling. There was no bed, no pot, no
source of water or light. Only a huge iron ring set four feet from the
floor, in the rear wall. From it, on short, thick chains, dangled two
heavy iron manacles, rough with age, chipped with years of use.

�What is this place?� she demanded in horror.

�This i s w here you stay,� the Sergeant
sneered. �
You will quickly
become used to it!�

�Are you mad?� Solana looked wildly about as her
wrist s w
ere again
untied. The moment she was freed, she tried to bolt, dodging from the
grip of first one guard, then the other. There were shouts of alarm;
Solana was faster and stronger than any expected, but as she threw
herself towards the open door, the Jailer blocked her way, grasping
her shoulders, flinging her backwards. With a shriek, she tumbled,
naked, to the cell floor.

�Restrain her!� the Jailer bellowed.

Solana tried to struggle up again, but this time the two soldiers
seized her arms, the sergeant catching her right leg, and she was
dumped against the rear wall of the cell. With her back to the stone,
they lifted her hands over her head to the open manacles. Solana
fought in rage and disbelief as the heavy shackle s w ere clamped
about her wrists. The Jailer quickly locked each with a key. The cold,
hard iron snugly enclosed each wrist, trapping her hands. She felt
vulnerable, exposed, her breasts and belly, loins and underarms naked
to her captors.

�Stupid wench!� The Sergeant's boot thudded hard
into Solan
a's
unprotected ribs. She shrieked, jack-knifing and wrenching her hands
in the manacles, then half-slumped, gasping, unable to lower her arms
and hug herself against the pain. On the Sergeant's command, all four
men turned to leave.

�Wait - please!� Solana shouted breathlessly
after them, bu
t the
wooden door boomed shut. Despite the pain in her side, she found her
feet, twisting to face the wall, and jerked against her restraints.
But the shackles jarred painfully on her wrist-bones, not
relinquishing their hold for a moment.

The cell door's lock was turned, a restraining bar clanked home.

Solana gave a wail of despair. �Listen to me! I am
innocent!ï¿
½ She
closed her fists, tugged again and again on her chains, twisting her
hands, trying everything in her power to free herself. She braced a
bare foot against the wall and hauled with all of her might, her
muscles taut. H er teeth were gritted in rage and determination. �Y
ou
bastards! Set me free!�

Solana was strong, but the chains did not so much as shift.
Regardless, she fought their restraint for almost an hour, until her
body shone with sweat and her breasts heaved. At last, exhausted,
sobbing in frustration, she dropped to the wet floor, letting the
chains pull her arms over her head again, with her naked back against
the wall.

Nausea and weakness swelled from the pit of her belly. H er will was
strong, her face rarely giving way to grief, but now it overwhelmed
her, and she burst into tears, her head against one lifted arm, hands
drooping from the metal cuffs. The shackles' cold bite seemed to burn
into her wrists, a bitter reminder that she was now a captive, a
prisoner, deep in the dungeons of Justice H all.

Two - The Cell

Time passed in the tiny cell.

At first, Solana wept. Naked, her hands confined in the fetters
overhead, she quickly discovered the cruelty of her restraint. Even
after nine or ten hours, when she guessed night wa s w ell advanced,
she could not lie down to rest. The best she could do was an awkward
slump, legs stretched across the floor, her arms held over her head.

H ow had the word of a jealous she-goat led to this? That callous
blonde whore, Catalina, had simply whispered into the right ear, and
here Solana was. Chained, deep underground, in a dank and lightless
cell. As the hours crawled, she sometimes lost all self-control, and
shrieked curses to Catalina into the darkness. At times, she struggled
to her feet, fighting the shackles that held her hands confined. But
inevitably, sobbing and frustrated, she would sink down again,
returning to slump against the wall, arms lifted and head lolling
against them. H er dark eyes stared into the blackness.

Endless hours.

Solana was aware of her growing thirst and hunger. At first, no more
than a minor discomfort, but as ten hours became twenty, twenty slowly
wore into forty, the need swelled and grew to the intensity of
torture. Solana found herself calling weakly towards the door.

But there was no sound. No water. No relief.

A thousand days passed. An entire lifetime.

Daylight and fresh air seemed distant memories. The freedom to move
her own arms seemed no more than an imagined luxury. Numb with
despair, Solana slumped against the cell wall, chained, naked,
insensible to the cold, the silence, the slow passage of time. She
barely registered the rattling of the cell door being unlocked. As it
creaked open, she turned her face, hiding her eyes behind her uplifted
arm against the glare of a torch - but glimpsed, briefly, a small
figure padding into the tiny enclosure, guards standing in the
corridor beyond.

A girl. �What is your name?�

The voice was soft, sweet. As the cell door was closed and locked,
Solana dared to look. The girl was not even twenty: thin, petite,
naked but for two metal cuffs - bolted, not locked - about her wrists,
connected by a foot-and-a-half of iron chain. She paused to secure her
torch in a bracket on the wall. In the flame's light, her skin was
given a golden sheen. H er breast s w ere tiny buds, brown nipples. H
er ribcage was stark, her belly hollow, jutting hip-bones. Long black
hair hung about her pale shoulders, a wispy thatch between her slender
thighs. H er lip s w ere a puffy rosebud, her eyes dark. She held a
basket, which she brought to Solana's side.

�My ... name?� Solana found the strength to move
her head,
her raised
arms shifting slightly to the rattle of chains. She tried to sit up.
�Solana Degas.�

�I am Maria,� the girl offered.
�It is my job to te
nd the women
imprisoned here.�

�You are in chains,� Solana observed.

�I am a prisoner, too,� Maria admitted.
�I have bee
n for two years. My
mother was a witch, and salvation for me can only come through a
lifetime serving the Church.�

�That is terrible,� Solana breathed, for a
moment forgettin
g her own
situation.

Maria shrugged. She reached into her basket, lifted a carafe of dirty
terracotta. �I am used to it, now. It is a life.
Drink.� Sh
e held the
vessel to Solana's dry lips, and the latter drank gratefully, though
the water was brackish. Soon she was at least partially slaked, and
let her head rest against the stone again.

�Thank you. God, thank you. I do not know how long it has been sinc
e I
last drank.�

�You were brought here two days ago.�

Only two days? Could it really have been so short a time? To Solana it
seemed forever. H er wrists hurt within the fetters' hard grip, her
lifted arms ached, her fingers and toe s w ere frozen. Only two days?

�You are beautiful,� Maria said quietly, peering
at Solana'
s face as
she retrieved a crust of stale bread from the basket. �It is a sham
e.�

� H ow is it a shame?� Solana frowned.

Maria smiled sadly. �You must know, surely, that your time is as go
od
as done? God has finished sporting with you. It is over.�

�What?� Solana was so shocked that she
completely ignored t
he food
offered in Maria's small fingers. She raised herself in the chains. ï¿
½
H ow can you say that? I am innocent!�

�Please!� There was already a shine of tears in
the young w
oman's
eyes. �Do not say that! When they send for you, confess all. Just
confess, or there will be much suffering. At least if you confess, you
will go to the stake with your beauty intact.�

�The stake?� Solana's voice carried the horror
her eyes sho
wed. � H ow
dare you! I am a free woman, wrongly imprisoned! Justice must, and
will, be done!�

Maria shrank from the outburst, fear on her young face. She fumbled
for her basket, found her feet with wrist-chain jingling. �Speak no
more to me! I beg you to confess, or you will lose your mind upon the
rack! Do not be a fool, I implore!�

�Maria, wait!� Solana tugged on her chains as
the girl poun
ded on the
cell door. It opened, and she grabbed the torch, taking light and hope
with her. Darkness closed in, the door was locked.

For perhaps an hour, Solana's anger slowly cooled, and doubts began to
creep from the edges of her mind. Chained, locked away from daylight
and humanity, a horrible realisation grew. H ow many witches had she
seen arrested in her twenty-seven years? A dozen? All had returned to
the village square, pale and weary, to be bound upon the tall wooden
stake while their confession s w ere read aloud to all. Solana had
never cared for these executions, the long screams, the hissing
flames, the rolls of oily smoke as flesh caught lazily alight. But it
had never occurred to her that these might be innocent women, forced
by torture into confessing false sins!

Solana's hands closed about her chains at the thought of such
injustice. Surely not! And surely they would not try to make her,
Solana Degas, confess to witchcraft, when she was guilty of none? She
tipped her head back, stared blindly towards her shackled hands in
growing despair.

Three - The Threat

The bar was lifted, the heavy key turned in its lock, and the door
swung open, but Solana did not stir as light splashed across her
grubby face. H er eyes, though partly open, saw nothing, her lips
parted for the wisps of frost that illustrated slow breath.

The two guards entered cautiously. �Is she
awake?�

�I believe so.�

The cell stank. A river of old urine ran from between Solana's legs to
cracks in the flagstones. H er black mane was grimy, lank about her
drawn face. H er skin shone with old sweat and grease. H er hands
drooped from the fetters.

Sixteen days had passed, and Solana had not been freed for even a
moment, the iron shackles fast about her wrists, in her cell. Anger
had become self-pity, despair, and finally numbness. Solana barely
stirred as one guard fitted a key into her fetters, unlocked each in
turn. H er bruised wrist s w ere lifted out, and she was rolled onto
her belly, her hands instead bound behind her back.

�Come, Princess. Your time has arrived.�

�Where are you taking me?� Solana's voice wa s w
eak, husky
with lack
of use. H er leg s w ould scarcely move as the guards hauled her to
her feet, and she staggered with them. Far from being a relief, her
release from the false security of her cell was an unwelcome
disturbance.

�We have someone who wants to meet you,� the
second guard s
aid.

At the end of a long passage, a heavy door swung open, yet another
guard holding it while the trio entered a room of gothi c d imensions.
Torches threw orange light onto stone walls that glistened with slime,
trickling water. Stone pillars support ed a vaulted ceiling. The
chamber felt huge, its depths foreboding. Solana could make out
shapes: huge frames, odd-looking tables, devices of which she had only
heard tale.

H er fear grew. �What is this place?�

From the darkness, a woman's voice. �Bring her.�

Solana stumbled forward, to an open well in the chamber, a winch and
pail astride its black maw. From the shadows beyond, a figure stepped.

The woman was Solana's height, in her forties: powerful, beautiful. An
oval face, blue eyes, a mass of black hair tumbling loose about her
broad shoulders. H igh cheekbones, a slim nose, dark lips. H er arms
strong with worked muscle, her legs long and powerful. She wore a
simple grey tunic that ended at her thighs, belted at the waist.

H er voice was rich, deep. �Welcome to the Torture Chamber. I am Ma
ria
Luisa Consuela.�

�Why am I here?� Imagination had given Solana
answers enoug
h, and fear
tainted her voice. Luisa gave a slow smile.

�You know why. You are accused of witchcraft. It is my task to extr
act
the truth.�

Extract? The beautiful torturer turned away, but paused to glance over
her own muscled shoulder at Solana, eyebrows pitched in disapproval.
�The girl is filthy.�

The guards thrust Solana towards the well, then made her kneel, hands
bound behind her back, while they retrieved a pail-full of water. It
was flung full over Solana's body, icy rivulets coiling down her
thighs. She shrieked with the shock of cold.

The pail was filled twice more, the filth sloughed from Solana's skin.
When it was over, she crouched low, arms twisted behind her, shivering
violently. Water dripped from her bedraggled hair. Gooseflesh peppered
her bare skin, her nipple s w ere stones, her muscled belly heaved.

A hand closed in her hair, twisting her head back, until she was
looking up into the glacial eyes of Luisa Consuela. The woman spoke
coldly: �Confess that you are a witch, and save yourself a lot of
pain.�

It was the first direct reference to torture, and it prompted Solana
to twist her hands in the ropes. She was afraid, but gave her reply
regardless: �I am not a witch, and nothing you can do will change
that.�

Luisa Consuela gave a thin smile. � H ow naive.�
She releas
ed Solana's
hair. �Pain alone will soon reveal the truth.�

�If it the truth you must hear,� Solana spat,
�then
do your worst!�

�My worst is something you do not wish to
experience.� To t
he guards:
�bring her!�

Solana was led through the chamber. It was a madman's labyrinth: pits
and alcoves, narrow stairways through the rock, passageways, rooms.
There were places it was so dark, Solana could barely see to walk.
Their first stop was a shallow fireplace, dead embers piled within.
Immediately alongside were stocks, so that a prisoner's feet could be
locked in place above the flames to roast.

Solana regarded it grimly, before Luisa led on. In a low alcove, a
wooden bench to which a victim might be tied, her arms stretched to a
thumb screw: tightened, the studded vice would crack and shatter her
finger-bones. Deeper, a broad oak table, shackles at each corner,
alongside which were irons, pokers, pincers, the Spider: a clawed
instrument for the tearing and twisting and burning of female flesh. A
brazier shimmered nearby, ready to heat the cruel instruments. A
�pear' was shown to Solana: a bulb-shaped device, which, once inser
ted
into the vagina or anus, would be opened by means of a screw-handle.
Its expansion would cause, first, unimaginable pain, then irreparable
damage. Luisa cranked the device open, slowly, to demonstrate.

Nearby, Solana saw, a girl hung from shackles against the wall, her
toes twelve inches above the floor. Alive or dead, Solana could not
discern.

Through a low passageway, to a small, rough-hewn cell, central to
which was a huge object, a vile machine that Solana recognised from
tales in the local taverns: like a bed, with a massive wooden winch at
its head, around which thick rope s w ere wound.

�Ah. My favourite.� Luisa caressed the worn
wooden surface
tenderly.
�On this bed, I have broken many.� H er hand
closed around
a well-used
handle. �You see, the pain begin s w ithin just a few small turns.
But
it grows and grows, sometimes over the course of a day or longer. The
rack will surely and slowly dislocate every joint in a woman's body,
tear her belly and rip her back-bone into parts like a dismembered
fowl.� Luisa focused on her prisoner. �And you
challenge me
to do my
worst?�

Solana almost faltered, then straightened, her bound hands closing
into fists behind her back. �I am innocent of witchcraft
-�

A groan, so desperate it barely seemed human, echoed from somewhere
not too distant. Luisa Consuela gestured towards the sound. �Indulg
e
me.�

Borne by the guards, Solana stumbled from the rack, her eyes
discovering the source of the sound. A pregnant woman, perhaps in her
thirties, naked, was bowed backwards over the broad rim of a huge, six-
foot wheel. H er ankles, widely-spread, were secured by ropes to rings
in the floor: while her wrist s w ere fastened to the wheel itself.
Simply by ratcheting the wheel, she had been stretched to her body's
limit. Every muscle was stark, the skin drawn harshly across her
ribcage, her entire body shining with sweat.

H er head was secured by means of a broad leather strap across her
brow. About the lower half of her face, a brank had been fitted: by
way of its calipers, her mouth had been levered widely open, her jaws
evidently dislocated by the force. An iron funnel had been forced part-
way down her open throat, which Solana realised with horror was for
the introduction of liquid. The woman was not pregnant after all: her
belly was distended by gallons of water.

�In a few hours, I will listen to what Rosita, here, has to
say,ï
¿½
Luisa explained. She bent to a ceramic urn beside the torture wheel,
lifted out a pint-tankard of foul water. Coolly, the torturer poured
the liquid into the open funnel. Rosita was stretched so tightly that
she could not struggle, but her swollen belly heaved, and her eyes
bulged at the ceiling as the water sank down her throat with slow,
evil glugs. A long, low groan reverberated through the funnel
protruding from Rosita's mouth.

�She will confess soon enough,� Luisa promised.

�You are evil,� Solana hissed, stricken by what
she saw.

�This is nothing! Guard? Tighten the wheel, it is
loose.�

Though she was unable to speak, Rosita began making terrified shrieks
as a guard went to the geared lever that would turn the wheel. Firmly,
he cranked it over, and the huge wheel rolled around another inch.
Solana had never before heard a human body stretch; but as Rosita' s w
rist s w ere pulled further from her ankles, a terrible creaking came
from her limbs and torso, and a horrible scream of pain boomed up
through the funnel. Luisa laughed at the poor woman's agony.

�She will break soon! Let us move on!�

A wide-open space, a pit in the floor, a twenty-foot ceiling. There, a
woman hung by her wrists. The rope from which she was suspended ran
through a high pulley, and down to a simple winch and brake. H er slim
ankle s w ere weighted with iron anvils, perhaps a hundred pounds at a
glance, barely an inch off the ground. She must have been in terrible
pain: her whole, naked brown body shone with sweat.

�Ah, Esmerelda. Do you wish to confess yet?�
Luisa asked as
she
crossed to the winch.

The hanging woman slowly lifted her head: dark brown eyes, a beautiful
face, white teeth clenched against the pain.

�I am not a witch,� she hissed.

Luisa began to crank the winch: slowly, the rope wa s w ound in.
Solana watched as, by her wrists, Esmerelda was lifted higher and
higher, until her toe s w ere some twelve feet above the floor.
�This,� Luisa told Solana proudly,
�is the strappad
o.�

She released the brake. Dragged down by the weights at her feet,
Esmerelda plunged ten feet, the rope howling through the overhead
pulley - and then Luisa snapped on the brake. There was a tremendous
BANG! as Esmerelda was jarred to a terrible halt, both her shoulders
ripping out of joint, dust flying from the rope. Esmerelda gave a
terrible scream, pee spraying from between her thighs, twisting and
swaying like a sack of grain on the end of the rope, the weights
swinging from her ankles.

�And that,� Luisa said,
�hurt.�

Solana's knees felt weak. To her disbelief, Luisa turned the winch
again, began to crank Esmerelda again towards the ceiling. Esmerelda's
screams became high-pitched, as she implored Luisa for mercy. But when
Esmerelda reached the vaulted ceiling, Luisa again let her drop. BANG!
H er dislocated arm s w ere all but ripped from her body by the savage
halt, and Esmerelda let out another awful scream of pain. This time,
Luisa let Esmerelda hang, roaring in agony, and walked from the winch.

�Let us move on,� Luisa said.
�We'll leave her like
that for a day,
and she'll think again about confessing to me!�

They walked deeper into the bowels of the torture chamber, the ongoing
screams of Esmerelda becoming oddly hollow and distant. By now, Solana
was shaking, and not just with the cold that invaded every inch of her
naked body. She was terrified. H er hands, roped securely behind her
back, were fisted with anxiety, her stomach tight.

Four - The Lash

�Secure the witch! I wish to begin!�

In the space between two pillars, Solana was made to stand, while her
hand s w ere untied. H er arm s w ere lifted up-and-out, her wrists
locked in fetter s w hose chain s w ere connected to high metal rings.
H er feet were also drawn apart and shackled, so she stood in a human
X, only her toes touching the floor.

�What are you going to do?� H er voice held
fear: she had s
een the
instruments of torture. Perhaps Maria had been right? Maybe it wa s w
iser to confess, and suffer only the flames? Luisa appeared in front
of her. In her hand s w as a whip, two yards of hard, braided
bullhide, tapering to a vicious knotted tip. Looping the lash, Luisa
trailed the leather down Solana's upstretched arm, following the
contours of taut muscle, drawing it through the feathers of hair in
her exposed armpit.

�I am going to give you a taste of the lash,�
Luisa said sm
oothly.
�Unless, of course, you wish to give your confession
now?�

�I am no witch,� Solana said, her voice shaking.

�I should warn you that I wield the lash like few
can.� Lui
sa circled
the pillar again, returning behind her spreadeagled victim. She
shifted Solana's lush mane, tucking it forward of her uplifted arm to
bare her back. �Think carefully.�

Solana bit her lip as the whip circled. It whistled, a low note like
wind through boughs. Then, with sudden savagery, it hissed through the
air and cracked across Solana's flesh with a sound like breaking wood.
Pain exploded across Solana's back, and she jolted violently in her
chains, shrieking out. She had never dreamed it would hurt this much!
A second lash, true and hard, crossed the first. Then a third. A
fourth. With each, Solana jolted, shouting in pain. Five. Six. Seven.
The thick leather bit her flesh, leaving a cris-cross of blood-
speckled welts across her smooth coffee skin. Eight. Nine.

The tenth lash cracked across her shoulders, the whip fell silent.
Solana hung in the chains. H er back was on fire. Sweat had broken out
over her body. H er stretched arms shook, her legs had no strength,
her heart pounded. H er fingers spread uselessly into the air in the
hope of finding some salvation from the shackles' imprisonment.

�Confess!� Luisa drew back her muscled arm,
slashed forward
with the
whip. It impacted so hard across Solana's bare back that the breath
was knocked out of her. More strokes, delivered with precision, laying
a cruel red cross-hatch down Solana's back. Ten lashes, punctuated by
Solana's screams.

Still the whip fell, biting ragged trails across Solana's back, sweat
flung from her naked body in a fine mist with every impact. H er mouth
wa s w ide, cry after cry of pain.

Thirty lashes. Luisa switched hands. Sweat had begun to glisten on her
shoulders and arms, but she did not pause, flinging the whip again. It
landed true across Solana's flesh, twenty more lashes.

Solana hung. Trembling. Tear s w et her face, her body wa s w et with
sweat. H er naked breasts heaved. H er hair was plastered to her
decolletage and shoulders. H er back was bloody.

She whimpered. �Please, stop ...�

�Not until you confess.�

H er sweat-wet face framed by her own tangled hair and upraised arms,
eyes half-open, mind swimming in and out of consciousness, Solana was
aware only of pain. But at Luisa's demand, she slowly shook her head.
At the same time, her long fingers spread in anticipation of what was
to follow.

It came harder than she had expected. As a young woman, Luisa had
learned the lash from her father: she had practised with a borrowed
whip on trees, stripping the bark with well-aimed blows. Now, she laid
into Solana with true expertise. The whip cracked hard across Solana's
taut back, each lash crossing the last, measured stripes. The tip
flicked under Solana's upstretched arms, hotly biting her armpits and
breasts, cutting into her ribs. Solana barked in pain at each.

Luisa appeared in front of her victim. The sides and front of her
crude dres s w ere soaked with sweat, her bare legs shining. She was
panting, blue eyes fixed on the heaving, sobbing woman before her. ï¿
½ H
ave you had enough?�

Solana slowly lifted a tear-streaked face. �You know I
have,ï¿
½ she
wept.

�Then say what I must hear.�

Solana's head fell forward between her lifted arms. �I cannot,ï
¿½ she
whispered.

Luisa nodded, then returned behind the prisoner. This time, she threw
the whip with all of her formidable strength. Blood flew in a fine
mist from the prisoner's back, hotly flecking Luisa's face. There was
blood on the pillars, on the floor, soaking the whip's braids. Solana
hung limp, now, but still jolted with each lash, the screams exploding
from her lungs. Blood-tainted sweat ran down the backs of her her
spread legs, sweat streaking her ribcage and hard-muscled abdomen.
Bile lurched up her throat, and dribbled to the floor while she gasped
and groaned in agony.

�Confess!� The lash punctuated Luisa's cry, and
Solana's sh
riek of
pain echoed it. She had long since lost count of the strokes. The whip
fell, Solana screamed.

The whip slithered back, then whistled through the air for one final
blow. Solana's shout echoed through the chamber. A hundred strokes.
Usually, a victim would faint after fifty. Solana was still conscious
after twice that number. But it was enough. Luisa threw the bloodied
whip aside, returned to face the loosely-hanging Solana.

�Do not think that because you held your confession today, it is
over,� she hissed. �Thi s w as but the first
torture. And c
ompared to
what I have planned, thi s w as mere sport.� With that, she turned
and
strode from the chamber. �Leave her here for the
night,� sh
e called
back to her guards, �then throw her back to her
cell.�

The next morning, barely conscious, Solana had been flung to the floor
of her cell, unbound, but too weak to move. Maria was quickly there
with a coarse blanket, poultices and water for the wounds, and a few
morsels of food: but for two days, Solana lay paralysed by the pain in
her bruised and torn back.

By the third day, her recovery aided by bread and cheese fed her by
Maria, Solana could move again. The cuts of the whip had not been
deep, and given time even the scar s w ould disappear. But the torture
had touched her mind, too. In the days immediately after, Solana lay
curled on the bare cell floor, weeping until her eye s w ere puffed.
Dreams seemed to interweave with her darkened reality, and the awful
instruments at Luisa's disposal haunted her.

Almost as disturbing were the images of poor Rosita lashed to the
wheel, her belly swollen, her limbs stretched and creaking; and
Esmerelda hanging, screaming like a madwoman on the end of the rope.
Solana wondered if she could have done more: perhaps fallen to her
knees and begged on the women's behalf, offering her own confession in
exchange for their freedom. Tormented by guilt, and a sickening terror
of the tortures that awaited her, Solana sobbed alone in her cell.

By the fourth day, she was strong enough to speak when Maria came.

�Tell me, Maria. What became of Rosita?�

Maria's eyes remained down. �I fear you do not want to
know.ï¿
½

�It matters to me,� Solana insisted.

Maria shrugged. �She was broken. She confessed.�

Solana drew breath, pity in her eyes. �Poor, poor girl. And Esmerel
da?
�

Maria smiled sadly. �She maintains her innocence, though the tortur
es
are growing worse, I fear.� Maria put a small hand upon Solana's
shoulder. �I beg you, when Mistress Luisa next puts you to question
,
confess. Perhaps then, when you are bound upon the stake, the
executioner will use the garrote to ease your suffering.�

�Confess?� Solana's voice shook with fear, but
there was pr
ide, also.
�I will not give that vixen the satisfaction of breaking me. I shou
ld
die before confessing false crimes.�

�No, Mistress. Do not say that. Confess now, lest she take you to t
he
Room.�

�The Room?�

In the half-light, Maria's face showed dismay. �Mistress Luisa is
bound by the Church's law - that torture must not maim the accused
witch, in case she be found innocent. H e or she must be able to live
a normal life. But the Room is Mistress Luisa's private torture
chamber - hidden from the Clergy, and thus hidden from God. It is
there she does her cruelest work.�

Solana's chest tightened with new fear. As if the devices she had
already seen were not terrible enough! But in her mind, she saw the
sky-blue eyes of Luisa Consuela, burning with triumph beyond a
shimmering wall of flame. If she confessed, she knew, she would die
begging and screaming in the hissing fire while her tormentor looked
on. �I cannot confess. I will not.�

The next day, the Jailer entered with a physician, who inspected
Solana, and pronounced her well. The Jailer promptly locked her wrists
in the shackles that still dangled against the wall.

Slumped against the cell wall with arms above her head, in darkness
and silence, Solana sometimes sang to herself, sometimes slept,
sometimes cried. She had forgotten what sunlight looked like,
forgotten the taste of fresh air and fresh water: forgotten the
feeling of clothes on her body. With no way to tell day from night,
she counted hours by instinct, waiting for the next visit of Maria, or
the weekly dousing with water to wash the filth from her body