Hers a little chiller I'm working on. 

The Halls of Ngor

  In the Halls of Ngor, where the statues of heroes stand, lies an underground chamber deep within its bowels. And in its hallowed confines a solitary shape crept. It floated through the doorway, blushing with the excitement of a child drawing near a longed for gift.  Fore there, in the middle of the damp chamber a young man dangled from chains bolted to the ceiling.  Drops of cool sweat ran down his arms and chest, wetting her lust with heavy exhales. His chains rattled with violent shakes and his young eyes watered when he realized who the woman was and why he was there.

She mused for a moment on price of her newest toy. A salacious hum vibrated from her throat as she eyed his stretched limbs. “Well, what a surprise”, she lied. “Have you been treated well, my pet?”

Aramata delighted in the grim sport of torture, as no other diversion or extravagance had ever held her in such bondage.  The Xaftaan empress was known to relish in the beatings of her servants, mostly male. She even went so far as escaping the confines of the palace to far off battlefields to bear witness to the torture of prisoners for the secrets to victory.  Her henchmen would purchase slaves from the various markets for one lucky man-child to supply her bloodthirsty pleasures, from all corners of the empire.  They bought supple Xargaas, and stoic Dens, to sturdy Daehans with long, smooth raven manes, to even the squat and stubborn nomads from the Battle Steppes when she was in an exotic humor.  So while the emperor dealt with matters of state, she busied herself with matters closer to her heart.  There was even a story that she had purchased of fallen Toukaran merchant drowning in debt, and when her thirst was quenched by the bloodied and broken debtor-slave she sent eight chests of gold xoors and a letter to his lenders simply stating, “Paid in full, courtesy of Empress Aramata.”

She glided into the chamber lit with the flames torch scones set throughout its interior; smooth grooved pillars slopping gracefully into the ceiling and floor.  It’s amber glow warmed with a disarming tranquility, which was randomly shattered by the rustling chains of her shackled playmate.  Her loosely fitted gown flowed and bellowed. She drifted in between the columns as a phantom, riding the air through intervals of orange and black, with her gaze always locked upon him.  Appraising him.  Judging him.  Delighting in every curve and roll of his elongated form.  Her eyes turned to slits of hunger as her lips became moist by her slowly caressing tongue.  She swore to herself that she would savour every cry and plea for mercy, and devour his pain with a longing relish.  “I promise to be delicate,” she would lie and slowly unhinged the hatch to a well-hidden cabinet carved within the recesses of the wall. She unhooked a serrated rod with the delicate tips of her fingers and stalked behind her prey, appraising the smoothness of his back.

He felt her presence.  The heat of her breath and burn of her eyes, but heard nothing; and with one savage swing… felt everything. His screams rose high within the Halls of Ngor; as carved and chiseled heroes of a dying kingdom shook with the horror of his pain.  And they swore this shame would be the last they endure.

*

Days after her majesty’s pleasures, the capitol of New Dakaaru began to experience odd calamities.  A ship transporting slaves from a Xargaa port was swept off-course and sent to Mbor’s western coast; and in the confusion the slaves broke free, killed all the crew, and escaped back into the interior of Mbor.  And in the celebrated city of Maangiyaa, well known for its fragranced mangroves and brightly colored flora, suffered the Plague of Wilting, turning their fields into death and decay; its touch browning the colorants of life into a dreadful foulness.  A plague of gnats arose from their rotting groves to be followed by the drying of lakebeds, and all this during an unexpected visit from the empress and her children to her royal highland bower.

Then during the Festival of Taanor Taal, when a hundred oxen were to be sacrificed to the deified warrior, but blades browned with rust leaving the sacred Hall of Ngor overrun by lumbering ndamas meant for slaughter and feast. It took them days to cleanse the halls of the smelly and belligerent oxen, which also caused many deaths, destroyed ancient rugs and tapestries, but yet left the statues unmolested.

These unexplained occurrences thickened the air within the royal city of New Dakaaru. No longer did the merchants come to the capitol to sell there their much sought after wares. Craftsmen replaced their devotion to their skills for pleas of mercy to their ancestors and gods for deliverance.

Orisons echoed through streets replacing the sounds of commerce and industry with the song of anger and desperation. Soon the well-paved streets roiled with discontent and rebellion, threatening the Emperor’s imperial authority. Mobs gathered in the Imperial Square. Men and women who were known for their pride in Xaftaan citizenship and patriotism attacked and tossed rocks at elected council members and the men of Imperial Justice marched. They entered into the heart of the empire and crushed the disturbances with iron-fisted efficiency. One could witness the sea of angry faces turn to screams of terror as peacock plumed helms surged into the crowd, blooding their spears on their fellow citizens. The Emperor felt little pain in the reestablishing of order and smaller still from his ever absent wife. And as chaos reigned within the city of New Dakaaru the Empress Aramata frolicked in the pain of her people.

In the days following Empress Aramata began to experience dreams of surreal horror. Clouds and skies swirled with violet and purple. Her body would drift in and out of violent sensations, enduring the chill of the salty seas and the heat of fever sweats. The air around her would fill with shadows of unseen shapes that sent such paralyzing rawness through her veins, that she refused to open her eyes when her mind was forced awake. She felt nauseous in her waking hours and vomited in her dreams, making her world a place of spoiling smells and rotting air. She no longer delighted in the pursuit of torture and brutal ecstasies. She only wanted to feel sane again -- to dream in peace.

The fifth week into the Ascension of the First Satybuur of Xaftaan, Daagulen-Tam Dinga, she had had enough. And with an entourage of Imperial-Spears and handmaids, she made her way to the House of Jangakats in search for a cure. This was where the students and scholars of the empire toiled at the understanding of the mysteries of the gods, spirits and man, and the cosmic tornado of events, which enshrouded their world.

The House of Jangakats stood south of the Ngor Square, which was down a wide avenue only a spear cast from the Hall of Ngor. Great smooth, green pillars extended across and around the wide exterior, rising high into a flat plain roof were birds had once perched and cooed in harmonious melody. The usual crowd of animated student philosophers, and hawkers no longer loitered on its well-tiled steps, their absence leaving an eerie silence, which settled throughout square. Her imperial escorts tighten their grips along their tall-bladed spears. The eyes of her delicate entourage shifted back and forth as thieves stealing through the night. She regally walked up the flight of wide steps and into the tall portico of dark and ancient colonnades. A warrior, heralding her arrival, banged against one of the bronze-studded red doors with his moist palms and announced the visit of the most illustrious dignitary of the empire.

“Release your latches and unhinge your bolts, the great and powerful queen-eagle wishes an audience within,” he cried.

Immediately, the great red and bronze portals swung open to reveal a dark and dusty arcade of stone carved arches supported by square columns on either side. A dim glow from hanging earthenware torches lighted their way deep to the home of Xaftaan’s mystic aristocracy. A bearded sage appeared from behind one of the doors. His robe was that rough cotton worn by the farmers in the lowlands and his uncombed beard was peppered with the tale of fading youth.  He was the only visible sign of human occupation as the inner walls of learning bore the disquieting resemblance to the square without.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing low as Aramata and her entourage entered the hall. “We are struck by your visit, your majesty. You have taken use unawares. Whatever you seek, we shall do our utmost to reveal it to your eyes.”

The Aramata approached, parting the men assigned to her protection and bent low to whisper into the attendant’s ancient ear. “I must speak with Xerfi Daaro. He is the only one I dare speak with,” she said.

The attendant’s eyes lifted to meet hers and slowly straightened his bent form. “The grand jangakat is very busy with other matters…” he said, but was cut off by Aramata who shot him a look, which raised the hairs on the usher’s nape. “But I believe he will have time for you,” he answered. His feet shuffled down the arched passage passing each column with measured step. Aramata and her escort followed. The hallway reminded her of the sacred walkway of the Halls of Ngor. Instead of dun-colored square columns she saw the effigies of the Xaftaan’s heroes; fathers and mothers whose blood and toil built the empire, and were their children could honor them in the immortalized state of grey and white soapstone. She imagined their smooth, cold eye-slits sear into her as sunrays through reed blinds. But the sensation felt too real and a shiver tightened her supple back and neck.

They turned a corner down the end of the hallway where the arches opened into a wide stairway, matching its outside companion in grandeur and craftsmanship. Their footfalls marched through the scholastic tranquility of their surroundings as an army of interlopers shattering the fortress of focus and refinement. One of Aramata’s bodyguards shoved aside a student whose eyes where too deep into his parchment scroll to realize the presence of royalty. “Make way for her majesty, scrollmite,” he commanded.

The little student kneeled onto the steps and waited for the last of the armed escort before he continued on, without any change in speed; his crisp, yet gentle feet gliding to his command.

Aramata turned and watched him turn the corner from whence she had emerged. She then gestured to one of her handmaids to follow the focused student and report to her later within her chambers. And with a heavy hand on his shoulder, commanded her little usher to stop. “What is it about this place which fosters disregard for the nobility?” she asked.

“It is not disregard we foster, your eminence, but respect for knowledge,” he replied with his head bent low.

“I’ll wager he’ll learn to respect both before the last full moon of Ascension,” she replied and gestured the usher to continue their journey.

The bottom of the stairs opened up into a grand atrium. Large, clay urns of incense sat along the smooth walls, its smoldering embers climbing high into curving graceful wisps into a domed roof. The atrium floor lay covered in tiny pebbles packed so tight that the weight of the savannah elephants or the even larger gougouns would be at a loss to yield even the slightest crunch.

The royal guard did their best to appear unimpressed by the grandeur of this foreign abode, but ended up occasionally stumbling as the gentler members of the procession, accustomed to such things, glided behind the aged escort in the most dignified of posters.  They came upon a simple archway, very plain in contrast to the rest of the great hall. Its interior remained unlit and foreboding as the mouth of a cave discouraging any spark of discovery or exploration.

“Your highness” he said, gesturing the company to halt. “If you would be so gracious as to wait here. I shall present Grand Master Xerfi Daaro to your company.”  He then bent his aged frame in a low bow, turned and entered into the archway, its bleak mouth swallowing him whole.

Seconds later, he emerged with another ancient seer; his skin creased and sagged with age. A long tawny warambou draped his shoulders while his head remained bare, except for nappy crown of ivory hair.  The escort remained at the mouth of the arch, allowing his master to continue his journey through the guards to the presence of the empress.

“Welcome Empress Aramata,” he greeted as he struggled to bow and rise. Aramata allowed herself a quiet smirk as she imagined his bones cracking at his act of reverence.  “We are delighted by your unexpected attention.”

“Thank you Grand Master Daaro. It is good to see the courtesy of superiors is still maintained in such trying times,” she said, locking her fingers together and releasing them as if she were freeing a dove. “I would have your ear Master Daaro, but it is a matter I’d rather reveal to you unattended.”

“Yes, yes. Of course your majesty. Allow me to escort you to my chambers,” he said. He offered his forearm to her and she gently laid her hand on it. Aramata gestured for her entourage to stay behind. And a quick glance to her entourage was all she needed to convey her wishes.