by Greg Curtis
“What?” Iros stood there, dumbfounded, as the black robed advisor calmly told him why he was smiling, and that was all it took. Three of Y’aris’ watchmen suddenly reached in to the hall and grabbed him, dragged him out of the mission and knocked him to the ground. Heartbeats later he was lying on the ground in front of the door, being bound hand and foot as more watchmen jumped on him holding him down.
It took everything Iros had not to struggle, but he knew it would only make things worse. This was not a time for fighting. He would have to talk his way out.
“I am the envoy for this mission. The agent for King Herrick the Third, and any attack on my person is an attack upon my king. You know this.” Y’aris knew it too, but he didn’t care. Iros realised that when he saw the smirking elf’s leather clad foot streaking for his face. After that he knew only pain as the rest started kicking him as well. It was some sort of sport for them, and without his armour the only protection he had was his skin and their smaller stature. Their kicks hurt. A lot.
Eventually though, they stopped. They were tired, out of breath, their legs aching, and he was probably battered and bruised enough for their liking. Several of them grabbed him by his shoulders and started hoisting him to his feet.
“This is an outrage Y’aris. A violation of the high law. And I demand to speak with High Lord Finell at once.”
“You demand utra?” Y’aris stepped in close, apparently feeling secure enough when Iros was bound and unarmed. “You demand nothing!” He shrieked it at him like a small child, angry for some reason. More than angry, infuriated, and he kicked him again with all the strength he had. But still he eventually controlled himself.
“And who do you think ordered your arrest utra?”
“High Lord Finell himself demanded your arrest. He knows of your plots. He knows that you conspire with your armies in Elaris.” Y’aris didn’t simply tell it to him, he shouted it to the city, and Iros realised that he was speaking to an audience. All the neighbours who were now surely wide awake and watching from their windows. He was making sure that they knew who had ordered his arrest and why. But why?
Did he fear that things could go wrong? That he would be blamed? Or was he boasting of his hold over the high lord? Letting one and all know that he ruled Finell?
“What lies have you told him black blood?” If Y’aris could yell then so could he, and even standing there bound like a criminal, his body battered, he could make himself heard.
“You play the high lord like a puppet. This is your doing.”
Of course that was as far as he got in his prosecution. Y’aris gestured to one of his soldiers and something hard and heavy came crashing down on the back of his head. After that Iros didn’t feel a thing.
Chapter Seventeen.
Iros awoke to find he was completely naked and lying on a cold stone floor. It was something that just shouldn’t be. But it was.
He had just enough presence of mind to realise that he was in the prison. The same one that Elder Yossirion had decried endlessly, and for good reason since it seemed more like a dungeon than a prison. But he didn’t have time to worry about that just then as he realised he was once more under attack. There were elves sitting on him, holding him down, while more were pulling at his arms, pulling so hard that it seemed they were almost trying to tear them out of their sockets.
“Have you breathed the mist elves?” Iros couldn’t believe that they were doing what they were doing, and yet still they did it. It felt like at least a dozen guards were sitting on him, making sure he couldn’t fight back, while the others working on his arms were busy manacling up his wrists. Why? He didn’t know but it worried him. It smacked of all sorts of lawlessness. Of Sandara’s dark handiwork.
First being abducted in the middle of the night, stripped and thrown in this cold dark prison without cause let alone a trial. Then being chained like a wild animal, surely no more than a couple of hours later. It seemed dark of purpose. More than dark. And he still had only his words to defend him.
“I am the envoy to King Herrick the Third. Even to touch me is a violation of the most ancient of codes!” But they didn’t answer, and he knew they wouldn’t. They had already touched him. They had abducted him in the middle of the night, torn his clothes from him and beaten him. Who was he fooling? They simply didn’t care. They didn’t even laugh at him. They just continued with their work, bolting the iron manacles tight around his wrists.
And then when they were done they attached long chains to the end of them. Very long chains that travelled along the floor out of his cell and to somewhere beyond.
Iros didn’t understand that at first. They weren’t bindings holding him to a wall. But a moment later when the chains tightened and started dragging him along the floor, still with plenty of guards sitting on his back, he understood. The chains were attached to some sort of winch. He could hear the creak of its cogs in the distance as they wound it. He was being dragged somewhere.
Out of his cell for the first time, Iros should have been curious. But he just wasn’t. Not when he could hear the cries of so many others. Men and women in pain. Suffering through the long night. Not when he could see other cells and other dark figures in them, lying on the ground, broken. And not when he could smell blood and decay. These weren’t things to be curious about. They were things to be horrified by. This wasn’t just a prison. It was a place of torture. A true dungeon. Elder Yossirion had been right.
Iros gave up on reason when he saw the others, and instead tried to resist, to not go wherever they were pulling him. He tried to rip the manacles off. But they were iron and he was flesh and blood. It was an uneven match. And even if he had somehow succeeded, there were still elves on top of him, pressing him down into the cold damp stone floor, clubbing him every so often to keep him still. And even if he did somehow get free, there were more behind them, all armed.
Maybe a dozen cells further on, he reached the end of his journey. He knew it because he could see the huge round amphitheatre opening up before him, something that had surely never been part of the mine, and the chains lifting up off the ground, arching up to a great pulley maybe twenty feet above his head. So he wasn’t at all surprised when he started being lifted up after them, hoisted into the air by his wrists until only the tips of his toes could touch the ground. But at least there were no more elves sitting on him by then.
What there was instead was an inquisitor standing in front of him. Even in the dim light he recognised the hooded grey cloak and the mask covering his face, the leather gloves that made sure he never touched anything with his bare skin. And he recognised the coiled horsewhip in his hand. They carried them as a symbol of their profession.
“And what do you think you’re going to do with that, elf?” Even Iros realised he was blustering by then, they had already done so much that they simply couldn’t make things right. This was an act of war. Another one. They couldn’t stop any more, and there probably wasn’t any point anyway. But bluster was all he had left.
“If you are even an elf?” And under his robes the inquisitor could be anyone and of any people. But until just then, Iros hadn’t realised it. The mask could hide more than just the man’s face. And his voice, when he laughed at him. There was something wrong with it. Something inhuman. Maybe he should have asked when he’d seen them in the city.
“Where are your men?” The inquisitor had a calm, even voice, and his words were utterly free of any accent that could place his home, unless of course it was one of the nine hells.
“I have no men. I’m an envoy.” Iros spat it at him, guessing what would happen next. He was right of course, the whip uncoiled and with a delicate flick the inquisitor sent its tip flying towards him, far too fast for the eye to see. Iros grunted with pain as the leather tip sliced into the soft skin of his belly, leaving a great welt behind, but somehow he kept himself from crying out. It would have been undignified. And then from somewhere the anger flowed, and he let it loose. No one did that to
him.
“You will burn for that!” He spat at the inquisitor, though sadly his spittle didn’t reach. “I will have your head on a pole.”
If the inquisitor heard or cared about his words, he showed no sign of it. But then when he was covered from head to foot in grey linen, how could you know what he was thinking? Maybe that was the point.
“How do you communicate with them?” He carried on calmly with his questions as if what he had done was nothing.
“I have no men bastard!” Iros shouted it at him, and instantly felt the whip’s agonising answer as it etched another welt of broken flesh across his belly.
“Who’s orders do you give them?”
“No orders troll skin.” The whip cracked again and another piece of his skin was broken. And by then Iros knew it was only going to continue. He could not answer his questions as he wanted because they would be lies and the inquisitor would not accept the truth. But he was so angry that he couldn’t let the inquisitor see his pain. He couldn’t let him even imagine that he was winning.
“What is their next target?”
“Your neck!” Naturally the inquisitor didn’t like his answer and he let his whip crack. But Iros didn’t care. He was too angry to care.
“You’re losing this war. Soon my people will be here in Leafshade, and they will not be merciful! Not to you! Not to vermin!”
“When will they strike?”
“And you are vermin, aren’t you. Your mother lay with a toad didn’t she?” The whip cracked and Iros grunted with pain, but his rage wouldn’t let him cry out. Instead it took control of his tongue and he used it against the inquisitor.
“That’s why you wear the mask. Terrified that the others will see your toad skin.” The whip tore into him a little deeper and Iros could smell blood. But he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was striking at the inquisitor in any way he could. “All those warts! And that hideous little deformed body!”
“Do the women run screaming from you?” The whip flew again and Iros just laughed at the inquisitor. A strange almost hysterical laugh, but a laugh none the less, and from somewhere deep in the prison he heard others start laughing with him. Prisoners in pain, only a few, but still able to laugh when they heard their gaolers being mocked. It was a good sound to hear echoing through the darkness.
“Do the children laugh and point? And has the Mother denied you her presence? Of course she has! Poisoned heart, poisoned soul! You will never be with her!” It was the very worst fate an elf could know. Even those who had never visited the Grove or uttered a prayer in her name. Deep in their hearts, every elf believed that in the end he would return to her. So to accuse someone of being cast from her was the worst insult they knew. But not the grey cloaked elf with the whip. He showed no emotion at the charges. He just kept asking his questions and lashing out with the whip when he didn’t get the answers he wanted.
“You’re no elf are you?” The whip cut into his side causing him to wince with pain, but he didn’t care when he had something to use against him. “No elf would tolerate that accusation.”
“What are you, - demon spawn?” He shouted it at him, and only hoped that some of the others heard his accusation. Even if it was only the other prisoners, someone should hear. Someone should laugh.
“You don’t deny the charges then.” Of course the grey-cloaked inquisitor didn’t. He had only one purpose and that was to ask questions. Never to answer them. But it didn’t matter to Iros. His silence was a good answer.
“So if you’re foul blood, is your master as well?” He laughed at the inquisitor and when the whip cracked he kept laughing.
“Of course he is! Y’aris is demon spawn like you!” The inquisitor showed nothing as he kept lashing him, but surely he heard. He heard and he tried to make his questions heard in turn and Iros just laughed at him. The pain was terrible, each lash burning him like fire, but the knowledge that he was striking at his assailant in some way was pure exhilaration and somehow it seemed to help. If nothing else he heard the guards yelling at the other prisoners as they too started laughing louder at them, and he knew he was hurting them.
It was all he had.
For hours it seemed, Iros hung there and laughed at the inquisitor, and the inquisitor kept lashing him. He was being very careful to lash Iros just hard enough to hurt, not so terribly as to let him slip away in pain. Obviously he’d been well trained in torture. Iros’ blood dripped to the floor, his body burnt from head to foot but still Iros laughed and abused him, only stopping occasionally to spit at him. Probably it wasn’t the best thing to do, but as the darkness slowly swallowed him it seemed the only thing.
And then eventually when the world did go black, he didn’t care any more. There was no more pain, only peace. But as he slipped into the darkness he knew one thing above all else. That with his anger and refusal to break he had created a lot of worried guards and one very angry inquisitor. Elf or not, the man had to know that humans were strong. Stronger than him. Stronger than Y’aris. Stronger than Finell.
They had to know fear.
Chapter Eighteen.
“Yes.” Y’aris yelled at the door as someone knocked on it, on edge because he knew he needed something to give the high lord, and before the morning. And he also knew that the utra couldn’t provide it. He was a filthy savage guilty of surely a great many crimes, but not this one. Still he needed something for the morning.
The door swung open and one of his watchmen stepped inside, standing tall before him in his black armour. A true elf. The sight filled him with pride as it always did. These were the people he was fighting for.
“You have word?”
The watchman nodded respectfully, but there was something in the strange cast of his face that told Y’aris the word wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“And?”
“The envoy said nothing. The inquisitor spent hours with him, whipping him until he could hold the whip no longer, and the utra just hung there in his chains, laughing at him.”
“Laughing?” For a moment Y’aris thought he’d misheard. Because the watchman couldn’t really have said that. But he had said it and he looked completely serious. Y’aris didn’t understand it. At all. Who could laugh while being flayed alive? What sort of man could not only endure such pain but laugh at it? Certainly not that soft spoken fop. It didn’t make sense. Especially when his inquisitors were so well trained in the art of torture. His master had taught them well. Y’aris hadn’t expected a full confession when he was actually innocent, but this? Laughing in his watchmen’s faces? It could not be.
“And making the most terrible accusations High Commander. Accusations about the inquisitor and about you. Accusations that the entire prison heard. The men are upset.” By which Y’aris understood that they were starting to doubt, and that could not be allowed. Not for a heartbeat. Doubt was the one thing that would undo the power of the cursed water. And if that power was undone, he would be exposed. That could never be permitted.
“Bring them to me so that we can share the sacrament together again.” He hated doing it again so soon, but he had to. A second drink of the cursed water in so short a time would have effects on their bodies as well as their thoughts. It would allow his master to start eating away at their souls and their flesh a little early. But if they doubted him, then they weren’t his soldiers any longer. That would be even worse than them sickening. And he could always find new watchmen before the sickening became too noticeable. Besides his master would appreciate the extra food, and his priests could use their bodies as they raised their armies.
“Yes High Commander.” The watchman actually seemed happy at the idea, but then why wouldn’t he? The soldiers had no idea that the water was cursed, that it bent their thoughts to his will, that it was poison. They thought it was a great honour.
And after they had drunk of the water and their thoughts were once more his, he had another task for them to perform. Before the dawn. He had put it off for a few
hours, needing for messages to be sent from the mission to Tendarin, and hoping to have some sort of confession first, but that wasn’t to be, and the high lord wasn’t to be denied. Not in this.
Burn the mission, kill the staff, and then make up some tale about what the envoy had confessed. There was a lot of work to do before he visited with the high lord in the morning to tell him the good news.
Chapter Nineteen.
It was very late when the soldiers returned, closer to the cock’s crow than the sunset, and none of them had expected them.
Pita was sitting in the main room with the rest of the mission staff, all of them still reacting to what had happened. Still trying to believe that it actually had. No one was sleeping. No one was likely to.
The mood was grim. It seemed as if the reaper himself was sitting with them, keeping them company, and though he didn’t share it, Pita was certain that if the high lord was willing to go as far as he had, he would likely be willing to kill as well. The pigeons had been sent, three, just to make certain that the messages got through, and in a couple of days the king would know what had befallen his envoy. What he would do about it, Pita didn’t know. But when the elves were already attacking the realm, when they were killing innocents in their thousands and burning the border towns, it would likely be harsh. Finell would come to rue the day he had launched this terrible war.
