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Shadow Weapons of Doom
Brian S. Wheeler
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Copyright © 2013 by Brian S. Wheeler
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Shadow Weapons of Doom
"You've smashed his nose plenty enough, Tully. We've been told to be careful with this one."
"I don't like holding back on this one, Midge. He's a Shadow. He ain't a real soldier. He don't deserve any mercy."
"But this one here's a special case. This here's the first Shadow we've caught. And the warlock's told us he's a special one."
"I'll leave plenty enough blood in him, Midge. Pounding him with that blindfold and gag just isn't the same."
"The warlock warned us not to touch either."
"But I like seeing the despair in their eyes, Midge. I like to hear them cry when I beat them."
"You just do like the warlock says, Tully. We don't know hardly nothing about the Shadow sitting there."
The fools should have covered my ears. I am a Shadow, an agent of the Khy'Meir tribes and sworn enemy of the Alhambran Crown. I have trained all of my life to sharpen my senses into keen weaponry. My torturers are wise to fear what I might deliver through my eyes. My captors are intelligent to gag my mouth so that my tongue cannot form words for curses and spells. But they are not as smart as they believe themselves to be. Their words inspire me to consider designs for their undoing.
"I tell you, Midge, my hand doesn't hardly even hurt yet from beating on this one."
"You don't let you hand hurt too much. Warlock wants this one awake when he comes to fetch him."
"Oh, I know how to keep him awake, Midge."
My torturer delivers another punch to my nose, snapping my head back and shooting pain up my spine. Tully broke my nose with his first blow, and since then I have tasted blood as it seeps through the gag. I'm sure Tully has struck my nose so many times for the simple pleasure of feeling cartilage shift beneath his knuckles. I might be unable to breath through my nostrils, but Tully will have to strike me many times more before I forget revenge's sweet smell.
My head swoons, but I do not fail to hear the footsteps descending the stone stairs to my chamber.
"Stop the beating, Tully. The warlock's coming."
I focus to slow my breathing as Tully's hands cease dealing me punishment. Midge and Tully don't share another word as the footsteps grow louder. I hear the door swing upon and a swirl of fresh wind refreshes my throbbing face. Cloaks rustle around me, and I know the warlock circles me, gauging the damage the torturers have dealt to me, no doubt doing his best to filter reality from all the fantasy concerning the dangers possessed by a Shadow agent of the Khy'Meir tribes.
"How long have the two of you been beating him?" The warlock's voice hisses like air seeping out from a crypt.
Midge's voice cracks. "Oh, we were plenty careful with this one, sir."
The warlock grunts. "I doubt you were the one who did much of the hurt." The warlock turns towards Tully. "What's wrong with you? Can you not talk? There's plenty blood enough on your hands to tell me you did the beating."
"I made sure he stayed awake." Tully's voice stammers.
I can't help but grin beneath my bloody gag.
"That doesn't mean you did as I asked," responds the warlock. "That mess of a nose is going to swell, and I need our guest to see. Hope those eyes don't swell shut. I'll see you both beaten in our guest's current chair if they do."
My entire body throbs. Yet I still feel pleasure. I hear how quickly Midge and Tully breathe. My captors blind me and gag me, and still I bring them fear.
"At least you kept his hands tied," the warlock sighs.
Tully replies quickly. "I never touched his hand."
"Tully showed real discipline and did just as you asked," Midge squeaks. "Tully usually likes breaking all the fingers first."
"The two of you are finished for the night," explains the warlock, "but know that your lives hang in the balance. All of our lives hang in the balance."
I never looked upon Midge or Tully's face. But I think I could pick them out from a crowd by listening to the sound of their feet scampering up the stone steps. Midge's footfalls patter like a scurrying mouse. One of Tully's feet falls with a heavy thump, followed by the dragging scrape of a limp. Sound is enough for me to mark my enemies.
My spirit soars. I wield fear even as a captive. My land lacks stones with which to build fortresses. My land lacks the resources from which to fashion steel swords and spears. The Khy'Meir instead mine fear. The Khy'Meir instead master the weapons of dread.
The warlock's voice feels hot in my ear. "Before I unbind you, Shadow, know that I am Jeffre Wren, archmage of the great city of Rhone and Hand to the Alhambran crown. Your curses shall shatter against me, and your spells will fall silent at my feet."
I laugh and choke on my gag.
The warlock removes my gag, and I draw a long breath through my mouth because of my shattered nose. My front teeth are chipped, but a broken nose and several cracked teeth will heel well enough. The warlock unties my blindfold, and my eyes water in the chamber's dim light to look upon the world for the first time since I was taken upon the road two weeks ago.
"I wonder if other Shadows have ever infiltrated as far as Rhone," I say. "I thought the halls built by Alhambran masons would be more impressive."
"You will look upon our grandeur and weep." The warlock's smile twists crooked.
I consider the face staring at me. It is an unnaturally ugly face, twisted and tightened by burn scars. Not a single hair remains on the warlock's face or head. The eyebrows have been either burned or shaved clean. All of the warlock's eyelashes app
ear to have been plucked. Brown robes, singed at the cuffs, drape my captor, and the tight belt whispers of hunger.
"The Hand of the Alhambran Crown is thin." My smile widens "Perhaps your king's tyranny gives little coin for your service. Perhaps the war strains your stores and empties your belly."
"We remain strong."
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