by Mike Truk
Eye-Patch nodded. Drew a dagger from his hip, stepped forward, and dealt Hugh a savage blow across the temple.
The blow was blinding, but Hugh shrugged it off. Suffused as he was with power, it felt negligible.
It was Eye-Patch’s turn to frown. To strike him again. And again. And again. Each blow harder, the pommel of his dagger cracking down on Hugh’s temple.
“Here, my lord,” said Baric, stepping up with a large rock in his fist. “Been wanting to do this since I saw the stuck-up prick.”
“Wait,” said Eye-Patch, “don’t kill -”
Baric’s grin widened as he swung his arm around, Morwyn’s scream still rising, rising. The rock closed on Hugh’s head, there was a flash of light, and then he and the other Lost Reavers fell tumbling into the abyss.
* * *
Hugh awoke inside a crude hut. The roof was made of leafy branches laid across a central spine, while the walls were little more than wattle and daub, the mud was sufficiently fresh that it hadn’t yet begun to crack.
He lay in a bed, still unable to move. That invisible force still constrained him. He expected his head to pound with pain but felt clearheaded. Rested.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he thought over those final moments back at the bridge. Baric and Morov’s betrayal. Luciv must have run back up the trail to warn Eye-Patch of their approach. Giving them plenty of time to set up their ambush. Move a contingent of men down the road and out of sight. Place another group up on the hidden trail - but where?
Hugh recalled the fork just before the bridge, the steep climb to that ledge overhead.
They’d never stood a chance. Especially with Katharzina on Aleksandr’s side.
A deep breath as panic and anger washed over him. Where were his friends? How badly had that bastard Boletin hurt Morwyn?
He closed his eyes. That much, at least, he could do. Lay in the dark, fighting to conquer his thoughts. To still his fear. To think. They’d spurned the chance to bribe him. That had simply been a lure, then. No counteroffer even made. Katharzina had been fishing for him. Trying to get him to climb up here with his friends.
Why? If they’d wanted to spur Annaro into attacking, it’d have been a simple matter to slit his throat there and then and leave his body to be discovered. Annaro would have reacted predictably, deprived of all intelligence, and raced up here with his army to be ambushed and slaughtered.
No. Aleksandr had changed his plans. He no longer simply wanted to provoke his brother into a foolish attack.
Then - what?
Though there was nothing to say Aleksandr couldn’t kill Hugh the moment he was done with him. Did he mean to interrogate him? Learn what he could of Annaro’s defenses, probably responses, and so forth? Perhaps. That would make sense. Interrogate him, learn all that could be learned, and then kill and dump his body.
Hugh tested his bonds. Sought to lift his hand. Nothing. It wasn’t even that he was struggling against the restraint; that glass wall between his will and his body was firmly in place. Only his eyelids remained under his control.
Where were the Lost Reavers he’d summoned? Had he been unconscious sufficiently long that they’d faded back into the realm of the spirits, or wherever else they dwelt when not called upon? Should he summon them now? He’d felt the glass wall begin to break at the very end there.
Foughtash, he called, reaching out into the darkness for the bear-like fighter.
There was no response.
Foughtash? Black Evec! Evassier!
Nothing.
Sweat prickled his brow. For three years he’d lived in fear of those shades. Had wished them gone, wished himself dead, anything to be free of his curse.
And now?
Now he’d give his right arm for their return.
He called out almost every member of the Lost Reaver’s company. None responded.
Magic. Katharzina had done something to him.
No chirography, this. She wasn’t working with mere physical properties. Oneirothélisi? Was she fae? She hadn’t seemed to be. Had seem incredibly human, instead. A foreign magic user, then?
Hugh couldn’t even grimace. He lay there in a state of forced relaxation as his thoughts spun and tossed out endless, fruitless questions.
Finally, he calmed himself. Forced his mind to still, and to look at what few facts he knew. He was alive. They wanted something from him. That gave him leverage. From the utter lack of light showing through the branches interwoven into the ceiling, it looked to be night. He was able to conclude little more. Suppositions, theories, half guesses - but precious few facts.
Other than that he’d walked blindly into that ambush. Had thought himself so clever, Aleksandr so foolish, that he’d not even considered the very networks Aleksandr was famous for creating and which Hugh sought to destroy.
Did Branka betray us? Was she working with the woodsmen? Was this a neat way for her to get rid of me and win back Aleksandr’s favor?
No way to know until he faced her.
Time stretched. There was no way to measure its passage. His thoughts looped endlessly, repeating the same questions, pondering his mistakes, crying out his fury, until at last he forced himself to focus on the classic sword forms, working through each one slowly and with great exactitude in an attempt to keep his fears under control.
The door opened.
Katharzina entered, followed by Eye-Patch. Her hood was down, her raven hair held back by a diadem of delicate silver wire, and her expression was sober.
They moved to stand by his bed.
“Remarkable,” said Eye-Patch. “His wound’s healed over already.”
“There’s something inhuman about him,” said Katharzina softly, her fingertips tracing his brow. “I can’t pin what it is. Master Arasim would know.”
“In truth, it matters not,” said Eye-Patch. His voice was soft, reflective. “It will all be rendered moot. Are you ready?”
“I am.” Katharzina bent over Hugh to gaze into his eyes. “I’m sorry, my lord. You won’t believe me, but I am. Were that this were another world, another place, another time. That you were not so useful to Aleksandr. But alas.”
She caressed his cheek, and Hugh could do nothing but gaze up at her, thoughts roiling with fury. Let me speak! At least that! Ask me something, demand answers from me - but unhinge this jaw of mine, let me speak!
Hugh heard Eye-Patch lie next to him.
Katharzina placed her hand upon Hugh’s brow. Looked over to Eye-Patch. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes,” said Eye-Patch, voice warm with affection.
“Goodbye, Hugh,” said the witch. “I hope it’s been a good life. Sleep well.”
* * *
Hugh awoke once more and found himself chained to a metal chair. He was in a stone room, the air damp, the walls made of massive blocks of obsidian whose sharp edges were tinted green. A small chamber, but whose very air was oppressive, weighing down upon him as if he sat a hundred miles beneath the earth. Illumination came from a single torch. Hugh watched its flame leap and curl and give of a thin, slender wisp of black smoke that rose sinuously as if alive.
One door. Made of rusted metal, bolted into the stone frame, no handle or grill. Hugh realized that he was breathing deeply. Sweating already. He leaned forwards, yanked on his wrists. They were chained to the chair’s arms. Feet as well. He bucked his hips forward, more for a sense of movement than anything else.
“Morwyn!” His cry rang out against the walls. “Zarja?”
Drip.
A puddle against the far wall rippled and stilled. Hugh looked up. The ceiling was slick, moisture gathering to pucker and form another drop.
He couldn’t catch his breath. The walls felt as if they were closing in on him. He struggled against the chains that bound his arms. The links were wrapped so tight the rusted metal bit into his flesh.
There was no give.
“Katharzina!” His roar echoed off the brutal walls.
Hugh gru
nted as he forced himself under control. Inhaled deeply, chest expanding, and closed his eyes. Chavaun?
Nothing.
They were still denied to him, then.
Footsteps. Coming down the hall. Slow. Unhurried. Echoing. The rusted rasp of a key being inserted into a lock. The grind and give of the bolt sliding back.
The screech of the tortured hinges.
A brute of a man stepped into the room, ducking his head under the frame. A black sack was pulled down over his head. Eyeholes cut out.
Was he even human?
No shirt. Skin sallow and pale like the flesh of a mushroom. Massive muscles under a thick layer of fat. Narrow shoulders, simian arms, hands large enough to crush apples. Bandy legs. Trousers, poorly fit, stained beyond telling what color.
The reek of blood and iron.
The door clanged shut behind him.
Hugh pressed back into his chair. The brute filled the room. Seemed to suck all the air out of it. Simply stood there and stared at him.
Simple eyes within the slits. Brown, plain, without cunning or the gleam of intelligence.
Hugh forced himself to swallow. “Who are you?”
No answer.
“My name is Hugh of Stasiek. Free me and you will be - fuck it. Who are you? Where is Katharzina?”
No answer.
The brute just stared at him.
Hugh pressed his head back against the metal chair. “Can you talk? Can you even understand me?”
The brute moved, but out to the side, past Hugh’s chair to reach down and grasp hold of something. A case. He pulled it easily into view, along the smooth stone floor, leaving a smear of grime behind it.
No, not grime. Blood.
There was blood leaking out of the case.
Hugh’s heart was pounding in his chest, powerful and vital. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow.
“What is that?” he asked, expecting no answer.
The brute opened the case.
Inside was a mess of rusted metal.
No body.
Dirty, bloody metal.
The brute rummaged about the detritus, selected something, pulled it free.
A small knife. Blade rusted and filthy.
Filthy with blood and hair.
“What do you want?” Hugh tried to sound reasonable. “You’ve got to ask me something before you can make me talk, right?”
The brute held the small blade up to the torchlight. Turned it back and forth. Was it sharp? Hugh couldn’t tell. Too gummed up with blood. Whose blood? Why the fuck was their hair on it? Had somebody been scalped?
“Where is Katharzina? Aleksandr?”
The brute turned to consider him, lowered the blade.
“Yes, Aleksandr, good, good. You know the name. Can I speak to him?”
The brute stepped forward and placed a hand on Hugh’s knee. His grip was like iron. Unbreakable. Pressed Hugh’s leg down, trapped it.
“Listen to me. Aleksandr! Where is he? He here? He - Fortuna fuck you blind, will you just -”
The brute pressed the blade into Hugh’s thigh. Pushed it down an inch into the thick muscle.
Hugh cried out, not so much in pain but rage. “Ah, fuck! Fuck you, fuck you, you piece of -”
But the brute wasn’t done. He pulled the blade down toward Hugh’s knee, opening the wound, a deep incision, four inches long.
Hugh screamed. Banged his head back against the chair and thrashed against the chains.
The brute released his knee, stepped back, cocked his head to one side as if considering his handiwork.
Hugh bit down on his scream. Hissed violently through his clenched teeth, spittle flecking his lips. Looked down at his leg. Blood was pouring into the fabric of his breeches, welling up thickly, dark and crimson, the color of night.
Hugh swallowed. Forced his voice down to reasonable levels. “What is it you want? Tell me that. What is it you fucking want?”
The brute looked at the blade, as if confused as to its presence in his hand, then tossed it down into the case. Stepped forward.
“Talk to me, please. Just - can you talk? You mute? What do you want? What do you fucking -”
The mute leaned down and pressed the fingers of both hands into the wound. Pushed them in to the second knuckle, then tore the wound open wider.
Hugh screamed again, slammed his head back against the chair, seeing red, the pain washing over him like the end of the world, the whole thigh muscle being split in two, and over his screams he could finally hear the brute, hear the sound the man was making, and it only fueled his horror, fueled his pain, because the brute was chuckling, a wet, coughing noise of pleasure, a mindless, idiotic sound utterly devoid of reason.
Blood was everywhere.
The brute closed his fingers around the bone of Hugh’s upper leg. Gripped the femur tight.
And then began to pull.
* * *
Hugh awoke and found himself still chained to the metal chair. Within the same stone room, the air yet damp, the walls of the same massive blocks of obsidian whose sharp edges were tinted with green. He awoke with a gasp, lurching forward, pulse pounding in his ears, the gasp tearing at his throat, to stare down at his leg -
And see it whole. Untouched.
Unwounded.
He sagged back. A dream? A nightmare? No. His mind wasn’t sufficiently twisted to dream that up.
Then what? Magical healing?
Footsteps.
Footsteps coming down the hall. Slow. Unhurried. Echoing. The rusted rasp of a key being inserted into a lock. The clang of the bolt sliding back.
Hugh was breathing in short pants.
Please. Please be Katharzina. Anybody. Anybody else.
The brute bowed his head as he stepped in under the doorframe.
“No,” moaned Hugh. “Come on. No. No no no.”
Heart lurching in his chest, he twisted around violently to stare behind his chair.
The case lay in the shadows, blood leaking from his corners.
Hugh turned back. The brute had straightened up and was considering him.
“No,” said Hugh, but without conviction. “No.”
* * *
Hugh awoke with a scream. Sat there, every muscle clenched, shaking as the phantasm of pain faded away. Sweat bathed him. He stared down at the rusted chains and thrashed. Fought them with everything he had. The memory of his jaw being split in two, pulled apart, and his tongue torn out was so vivid, so fresh, he couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t work his mouth, even though it was healed. Just grunted and fought the chains, fought them until another sound impinged upon his mind: the sound of footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried. Echoing.
* * *
The eighth time the brute built a fire beneath his iron chair. It took Hugh over three hours to sear to death.
* * *
Hugh lost count. Hours bled into each other, became days, became weeks. The demarcations between wakings broke down. Collapsed into each other. Blood poured from the corners of the case. The torch light leaped. The footsteps echoed. Blood. Blood and screams. They were the only constant. The idiot eyes of the brute. The wet chuckling. The pain. The pain that went beyond anything he’d ever known.
* * *
“They’re breaking you,” came a voice. Familiar. Once-loved. Long lost. As soothing as a wet cloth over a fevered brow.
Hugh kept his eyes closed. If he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t see the chair. Wouldn’t see the room. Could delay the inevitable.
But he wasn’t bound.
“They’re breaking you, Hugh. There’s precious little of you left.”
Hugh opened his eyes. It was hard to process what he saw. He knew this place. Her study. He’d once thought it odd how much she loved books. Given as she’d been to violence and action. Had been unable to imagine her reading, an activity that required stillness. She’d been so energetic. So filled with life.
She watched him from across her desk. Reports neat
ly filed, as always, on one corner. A crossbow, partially dismantled, dominating the center. A book, small, the edges of its pages painted gold, balanced across one knee.
Jacinia, captain of the Lost Reavers, leaning back, one finger across her upper lip, regarding him with that fierce, terrifying gaze of hers.
No. No longer quite so terrifying.
“They’re not breaking me,” he rasped. “They’re killing me. Again and again and again.”
No emotion. No flicker of pity. She’d never had a shred of that. For anything, or anybody, including herself. He’d hated her for it, once. Before he’d learned better.
“They are. But that isn’t their goal. They’ll keep doing it till you break.”
“I don’t understand.” He shifted on the chair. How many times had he sat here, across from her, in this study in the Reaver’s Tower in the capital? A dozen times across all three years? Each and every one indelibly marked into his memory.
“That much is clear. They’re not giving you time to think. I can only imagine how much abuse it’s taken to drive you down here. Soon you will be broken, or dead, or both, and my Reavers and I shall be free.”
Hugh hung his head, anger and shame burning within him. “I can’t let that happen. I have to save my friends.”
Her tone considered, curious. “Were we not once more than friends? Where’s your drive to save us?”
“You’re dead,” he said, voice harsh. “There’s no saving you. My friends might still number amongst the living.”
“Without us you will die. I tell this to you true. Only our strength allows you to hang on.”
“Then why haven’t you withdrawn it? Allowed me to die? Why waste both our time with this conversation?”
Her smile was lazy. “There’s some fire in you still. Good. Why? Because they anger me, these people who have you. You are yet a Lost Reaver. It grates to see you so foully used.”
“Then give me more strength. Help me free myself.”
