by R J Hanson
“Did you think you could raise the ire of the Blue Tower and live free of consequence?” came to him in the midst of the storm. Then, all went black.
The sound of a crank and a tearing pain in his lower back shocked Silas from unconsciousness. It had not been sleep, and certainly had not been rest, but only blackness and loss of time.
His eyes opened to view a highly polished piece of steel hanging from the ceiling above him. He was on his back; his wrists and ankles manacled to the four corners of a sturdy wooden table. He was bound to a rack, an expanding table that could tear a man literally limb from limb. Silas had studied them, and their effects, in literature but had never actually seen one of the devices.
Another crank from the windlass to his right brought another sheering pain firing throughout his body and shaking him from his academic thoughts. He had developed a fever that caused a shiver to run along the surface of his flesh, and his eyes felt dry and hot in his head. He rolled them to the side to view the figure in hooded blue robes next to the table, his hands concealed within his sleeves. The mage had no need to manipulate the windlass of the rack with his hands; he let his magic perform that task for him.
“You will die here,” the mage said. “I know that question must be primary in your thoughts. However, the manner of your death is yet to be determined. You will tell us what we want to know. There is no question about that. Everyone breaks. Yet, you may decide how long you hold out against our efforts. My time, and the time of my brothers and sisters here, is valuable. Therefore, if you should decide to cooperate early on, we will make your death a quick and pleasant one.”
Silas’s lips were cracked with fever, split from some forgotten injury, and coated in drying vomit. They curled into a smile.
“You’re thinking your physical condition will cause your death long before we have our answers,” the mage said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I assure you that is not the case. We have the best healers in all Stratvs among our number. You will not die until we decide it.”
Silas closed his eyes and let the pain guide him to his mind-room. He’d discovered that pain, like peace, could focus the will. He used his pain now.
Silas had not viewed Shezmu in several weeks. The once-great demon had visibly withered and still spasmed from the effects the procedure Silas had performed on him. Silas backed one of the screws out of the fallen champion’s skull and, using a set of conjured tongs, removed the node of misfiring pathways from the creature’s mind. The seizing stopped immediately. Shezmu whimpered. Silas smiled.
Are you prepared to accept my rule now? Silas said/thought.
Shezmu had no way of knowing the terrible state of Silas’s health, and Silas intended to keep it that way, at least until this negotiation was completed and an accord reached.
Please, no more, Shezmu pleaded.
Are you prepared to accept my rule?
Yes, please, yes.
Tell me your true name.
Shezmupaulauk Erruk, the fallen champion said/thought.
“Shezmupaulauk Erruk,” Silas mumbled.
“Where is our slave?” the mage asked, ignoring what he assumed was Silas rambling.
“Who?” Silas managed to ask.
Within, Silas saw the effects of whispering the demon’s true name. He released Shezmu from his bonds and shackles. The fallen champion fell to the floor of the mind-room on all fours and groveled at Silas’s feet. Without the use of any conjured tool or device, Silas pulled Shezmu’s arms behind him, causing the creature to fall, face first, to the floor of the mind-room. Silas knew demons were masterful liars, yet he was convinced of his absolute control over the creature now.
Silas was sick and weak. Shezmu was sick and weak as well. He must somehow find a way to last long enough to regain his strength.
“Our slave, the Ussa you were seen with,” the mage clarified, still in that cool and controlled tone. “Where is she? You have been seen with her, Silas of House Morosse. We have many spies. Now tell me, where is she?”
Silas’s lips curled into a smile again. It wasn’t intentional, this time. He was genuinely amused. He had studied the art of interrogation in his preparations for the murder of Killian and Helena. This mage had not. In his questions, he revealed much.
“My ship?” Silas finally managed. “Ingshburn?”
Silas desperately wanted to converse with this wizard, afraid there might be a more skilled interrogator waiting in the wings. However, his health was too poor. His voice cracked over the desert terrain that was his dried throat. His mind burned with fever. He had used the last of his will to master Shezmu. Now he could not even form a simple sentence. Silas began to drift back toward the blackness lurking in the corners of his mind.
The loud clack of the windlass, and the fracturing pain it sent through his skeleton, brought him back from that dark place.
“Where is she?”
“Lady Evalynne?” Silas barely managed.
A large man clad in plate reinforced leather armor stepped from the shadows, cudgel in hand. Silas was battered into oblivion once again.
Silas awoke to the smell of his own filth. Only one eye would open, but there was nothing to see with it. He was in absolute darkness. He tested the other with delicate fingers to find it horribly swollen and caked in drying blood. His muscles and joints moved as though filled with slivers of glass and wood. Even the slightest movement shot pain throughout his body. There was a familiar taste of an herb on his lips, and he found that his fever had gone. They had given him medicine to clear his mind.
He had been crammed into a cell that could not have been more than three feet in width and depth, and perhaps four feet in height. There was a tin plate of bread and a wooden cup of water placed beneath his bent knees on the stone.
The small nature of the cell was designed to cause physical pain and a particular type of mental stress. Silas found it a huge benefit. If he had been placed in a large cell, he would not have been able to move quickly enough to catch the rat that came for his bread.
He listened carefully for the small creature, noting the scratches of its claws on the stone surfaces of the dungeon. The moment the tin plate grated against the stone under the weight of the rat, Silas snatched the little beast in his trembling hands.
The fresh taste of blood and guts still warm with life were like drops of purest water on parched soil. He consumed every bit of the rat, although he did have to shift his throat to accommodate the skull and rib cage whole. He wanted to sleep again, but he must begin to plan. He considered preparing in his mind-room but decided against it. He needed to keep his mind present and survey his surroundings.
There were wails and murmurs from time to time coming from above and to the side of him. Other prisoners or slaves Silas supposed. He put the number to be at least twelve more. Twelve was a number of power. Although, his presence made their number thirteen in total. Silas chuckled to himself at that realization. He was thirteen.
Silas soon learned that his suite was likely the least favorite among the set of apartments. It seemed that the waste from the other prisoners drained down to the small hole in which he had been deposited. To his dismay, he discovered it was not only his own filth in which he lay.
Over the next three hours, he was able to catch and consume two more rats. If he could last long enough, and if the supply of vermin was not exhausted, he would have a chance. He tore the bread into small crumbs and had to slowly work them around his torso into the back portion of the small chamber.
He heard the keys rattle on the belt of one of his jailors and could see the glow of a magic lantern’s light on the deep blue stone wall. The iron gate to his hole was thrown open. Silas was hauled up and out of his small chamber with sudden violence.
With his one good eye, Silas saw a man in the unusual plate and leather armor standing above him and heard the voice of the mage from behind him.
“His fever has gone,” the mage observed. “Now, we will have some answers.”
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Silas braced himself to be hauled to his feet, but the jailor unceremoniously grabbed him by his leg irons and dragged him along the floor of the dungeon. He was hauled up a slight ramp, perhaps four or five feet, to the level of the rest of the cells. Silas noted the cells were iron bars and not walled in by stone. He did see, however, runes and wards carved into many of the iron bars. He also observed some of the cells were barren while others were furnished with table, chair, and bedding.
He tried to keep track of the distance and pathway from his cell to the torture chamber but became lost after the third or fourth turn. The door to the chamber opened on its own before them to reveal a wall set with an array of tools and devices designed for specific procedures meant to elicit a variety of injuries and pain. Silas recognized most of the instruments but was rather intrigued to see a few tools the designs of which were alien to him.
He heard the mage quietly chanting. Then he was lifted by means of a levitation spell from the floor and dropped onto the rack. The jailor worked with a practiced efficiency to remove his shackles and, each, in turn, secured his wrists and ankles to the table.
Silas knew he would need to hold out for a while before he began with his plan. He thought this situation would make an interesting play and would certainly entertain those who often attended the operas of Moras. The Theatre of Torture perhaps, or maybe The Jailor’s Folly. It would be gruesome enough to be popular among the lower classes. Of that, he had no doubt.
“Where is she?” the mage asked.
“Who?” Silas said, feinting a weakened voice.
“You have been seen with her in the city of Moras,” the mage continued. “Where is the Ussa woman?”
The windlass cranked, and the iron of the manacles dug into Silas’s pasty flesh.
“Ussa woman?” Silas asked. “Disputed Isles?”
“You know very well to whom I refer,” the mage said, and the windlass clicked again.
Silas allowed himself to gently shift his body, working slowly to conserve as much energy as possible. Then Silas curled his battered and cracked lips into a smile.
“You don’t know that you’re running out of time, do you?” Silas managed.
“What?” the mage demanded. “What do you mean by that?”
The windlass clicked twice more, and blood flowed from Silas’s ankles and wrists. A loud pop sounded in the room as Silas’s knee twisted, and his patella lolled to the side of the stretched flesh.
Silas screamed. The scream was twisted over the next several moments into a terrible laugh.
“How can your spies be so ill-informed?” Silas asked.
“Enough of this,” the mage huffed. Then, to the guard, “prepare a scroll and quill. Note down anything he or I say. I’m going to enter his mind. We will have our answers.”
Silas smiled.
Chapter VIII
Visions in Moonlight
Dunewell stirred from his sleep and looked across the dying campfire to find Jonas reading a letter during his watch. Dunewell tested the spring air with his nose and discovered what had caused him to wake. The odor of teleportation was heavy in the ether around him. The smell was imperceptible by humans, of course, but Whitburn could detect it as easy as Dunewell’s own nose could smell a wet dog.
Dunewell scanned their surroundings carefully.
“Relax,” Jonas said. “It is just a letter.”
“If it teleported here, it is not just a letter,” Dunewell countered.
Dunewell rolled up on his elbow and stared across the embers at his traveling companion. It felt good to roll up from the ground without a groan or the wound in his back aching. They were three weeks out from Ivantis, and Dunewell had enjoyed the slow pace and quiet of the wild and unpopulated lands. His wounds, at least those of the flesh, had healed completely. They had diverted from the road south entirely and had, instead, traveled southeast toward great a swamp where the Vessen River bled out into numerous canyons, washes, and gullies.
He had purchased a new rider’s pike in Ivantis along with a new shortsword to accompany his war hammer and now, out in the wild and far from cities or towns, wore them openly. The weight of the weapons felt good on his belt.
“It’s from an informant in Split Town,” Jonas said without looking up from the letter. “I gave him several of these pages so we might stay informed of activities there.”
“Several of those pages?” Dunewell asked. “I hope your informant is trustworthy. A single slip of that enchanted paper would bring enough gold for a simple man to retire and live a comfortable life.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in Ivantis?” Jonas asked.
It was a habit of Jonas’s to answer a question with a question or ignore a question altogether and continue on an entirely different train of thought. It was a habit that was beginning to irritate Dunewell.
“I’ve never been to Ivantis before so, how would I know if anything was unusual about it?” Dunewell said as much as asked.
“That paladin you traveled with; did she say anything about how many templars were massing at the churches there?” Jonas asked.
“No, she didn’t,” Dunewell said flatly. “It didn’t come up in conversation. I thought you said we would leave the churches’ suspicious behavior for others to investigate?”
Jonas grunted, turned back to his letter, and continued to read. Dunewell saw that Jonas seemed to have no intention of elaborating.
“So, we are bound for Split Town instead?” Dunewell asked. “What in Split Town requires our attention?”
“No,” Jonas said absently. “The swamps south of here first. There was a skinshifter killed there not long ago.”
“If the creature was killed, why do we continue to the swamps?” Dunewell asked, beginning to get even more irritated with Jonas’s lack of attention to the conversation.
“It wasn’t the only one,” Jonas said, finally looking up from the letter again. “There is never only one. You should know that. There are always at least two. They always travel and congregate in even numbers.”
“So, we’re going to the swamp to hunt this skinshifter, and then on to Split Town?”
“Yes,” Jonas said, expressing some irritation of his own in his tone.
“Then, I repeat, what in Split Town requires our attention?” Dunewell asked, his irritation becoming anger.
“Shadow blades,” Jonas said as he turned his attention back to the magical paper.
“There’s a shadow blade in Split Town?”
“Shadow blades, plural,” Jonas said. “There’s also some activity in the local church of Fate we need to investigate.”
Dunewell waited, but again Jonas seemed done with his explanation.
“Are you going to let me in on any of the details?” Dunewell asked. “Or am I to ride along as your squire, fetching grain for the horses and oiling your armor?”
Jonas huffed and looked up from the letter again.
“If you will shut that hole in your head that you shove food through, I will finish reading this letter,” Jonas barked. “Then, and only then, I will think about the situation in Split Town. After giving it due consideration, I may enlighten you!”
Dunewell leapt to his feet, grinding his teeth as Jonas also rose, his hand unconsciously drifting toward the sword on his side.
“I am no lackey!” Dunewell roared. “I am no weapon you can keep in the dark of a scabbard and pull into the sunlight only when you want it to kill!”
“You will…” Jonas began, but then let his words fall.
They each took a few quick steps to bring them within punching distance of one another. Several tense moments passed while the two glared at each other over the fading embers of their fire.
“It has been a long time since I rode with anyone,” Jonas finally said, his voice much calmer as he took a few steps back from Dunewell. “The few times I did, I was in command. I am not accustomed to discussing my thoughts and plans.”
“Perhaps you s
hould consider changing what you are accustomed to,” Dunewell said, his teeth still clenched.
It was not like Dunewell to anger easily. He had suffered the command of fools before, as well as that of pretentious loudmouths, with a professional soldier’s stoic attitude. Yet, he was angry now. Angry at the world, angry at a set of oaths that would separate him from his child and the woman he loved, and angry at Jonas. He also felt something else, some desire to punish or to discipline. Deep inside, he felt a disappointment in Jonas for those harsh words and an impulse to strike his mouth as he had when Jonas was a child. What did that mean? Dunewell thought. I couldn’t have known Jonas when he was a child. Whitburn was silent.
“It is my shame that I am my father’s son,” Jonas said. “I will endeavor to correct my behavior in the future.”
Dunewell thought Jonas’s sudden change of heart odd. He also noticed a flicker in his eyes, some blue light. It was only then that Dunewell noticed the wings that had sprouted from his shoulders. The great and deadly wings of a champion. Wings that blazed with a powerful blue fire as did his clenched fists.
Dunewell closed his eyes and took several calming breaths. After a long moment, he opened them again to see Jonas standing easy, but noticed that Jonas’s hand still hovered near the sword at his waist.
“I did not intend… that,” Dunewell said.
“I understand,” Jonas said. “I have a…”
Jonas cut himself short, and Dunewell looked into his eyes. It was Jonas’s turn to breathe deeply for a moment or two.
“I have a daughter as well,” Jonas finally said. “I can’t imagine what I would do if someone were to move against her or take her from me.”
“You know?” Dunewell asked.
“I guessed,” Jonas said. “I decided if you wanted to tell me about it, you would.”
“Your daughter?”
“She just turned six years old,” Jonas said. “She’s hidden, of course, and doesn’t know the name Jonas nor the name Ruble of House De’Char.”
