Tuesday Tales – Shoe

Hey everyone!  Welcome to another Tuesday Tales!  This week’s word prompt is “shoe”.  Once again we are with Thatcher and Miranda in The Thirteenth Knight.  And please make sure to check out the excerpts of the other incredible authors of Tuesday Tales!

The dungeon was dark, damp and smelled of rot.  Thatcher clenched his eyes closed as he fought the inferno of agony blazing through his muscles.  His arms were tightly shackled over his head.  The stone wall pressed against his broad back soaked his linen shirt with rancid mold.

He forced his head up as he heard the clack of boot steps outside the dungeon door.  The shoes stopped before the door, accompanied with the rattle of keys.  Thatcher forced his spine as straight as chains would allow.  The wood door squeaked as it was shoved open.

Brunon’s face was barely lit by the torch in his hand as he strode across the cold prison.  He studied the bound Thatcher, an icy chuckle coming from his throat.  He slipped the torch into an empty sconce.

“Where is Miranda?” Thatcher growled.

Brunon laughed, amused.  “Brave knight, I would think you would be more concerned about your beloved king.”

Thatcher glared at him silently, his sapphire blue eyes enraged.  Brunon continued.  “They are both alive.  For now.  If I were to execute Thaddeus now it could possibly incite rebellion among the citizens of the kingdom.  No, I will keep him alive until I secure the throne.”

“And you plan to do that how?” Thatcher demanded.

Brunon’s grin was evil.  “By making Miranda my bride of course.  The morning of my nuptials I will end Thaddeus’s life.  You, however, I will keep alive for a little longer.  I have use for you.”

“Miranda will never marry you.”

“I believe differently.”

Brunon slid a small dagger from its sheath at his hip and crossed the dungeon to Thatcher.   Thatcher hissed as Brunon dragged the tip of the blade against his rib cage.  A thin trail of blood began to flow.

Brunon dug in his pocket of his trousers until he pulled free a glass vial on a silver chain.  Silver snaked around the vial from the cap to the base holding it in a protective embrace.  He unlatched the cap then held the vial to the new wound, collecting Thatcher’s blood as it dripped free.

Thatcher struggled against the assault.  It was no use.  The shackles bound him too tightly.  After several minutes Brunon pulled the vial away and studied it in the dim light.

“Hmm…that should do, I think,” Brunon mused as he capped the vial again.  He slipped the silver chain around his neck and tucked the vial within his linen shirt.  With a nod, Brunon paced across the floor to the door, locking Thatcher inside the dungeon with a loud slam.  Thatcher watched the door helplessly as he hung from the wall.

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