Path of Honor

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Chapter 32

  Soka jogged back and forth in his cell, the rough stone frigid beneath his bare feet. His wounds were all but healed. His skin showed pink scars, and beneath them the flesh ached, but he was a whole man. For now. Soka spat at the windowless wall. He hadn’t seen Aare in more than a week. It wasn’t like him. He enjoyed taunting Soka too much. The Verit had been in every few days since Soka’s capture to mock and threaten him, bringing bits of news, none of which Soka trusted. Even Aare’s revelation that Metyein still lived might have been a ruse, though Aare’s fury certainly seemed real. Hearing it, Soka couldn’t resist getting a bit of his own back.

  “Hard to find good help these days. Course, you don’t trade in loyalty. Who’d give it to the likes of you, after all? Did you forget to pay him? Bed his wife? Murder his children?”

  “Pelodra is a worm, and shall soon be returned to his native home,” Aare said malevolently. “As you may be. Though I could solve much of my aggravation by simply removing another useless part of your face. A shame for the women though,” he mused, tapping his finger against Soka’s lips and flicking out his tongue. The threat had silenced Soka. He could still hear Aare’s laugh, loud and hearty.

  Then Aare had ceased to come. Soka’s meager food continued to be delivered once a day, and his chamber pot had overflowed two days ago. His cell reeked, and he could hardly contain himself with the isolation and monotony.

  In an effort to warm himself and restore his wasted muscles, he’d begun a regimen of exercise. It helped. He no longer wheezed from two minutes of jogging, nor did his muscles scream protest when he performed various exercises. But he was still weak as a kitten and found himself pounding against the walls in frustration. He slept little, the nightmares circling, waiting to pounce. He had no sense of night or day, and the moments it took to take a breath seemed interminable.

  He squatted, waiting until his legs burned with the effort, then straightened with a lurch and repeated the motion. Next he lay facedown on the floor and pushed himself up until his arms screamed. Afterwards he began the warm-up motions Metyein had taught him for swordplay. His body was stiff and jerky, and he sank to the floor, propping himself up against the wall and striving to collect himself. Sooner or later Aare would be back. And sooner or later he’d finally get around to telling Soka what he had in mind. And then what? Soka knew as well as he knew his own name what Aare would demand. Betray Metyein. Spy on him. Spy on his father. Soka tipped his head back and glanced at the walls of his prison. He could take it here for months. Maybe years. But Aare wouldn’t wait. Torture would come next, and soon.

  The day they took his eye came back with a rush—the smell of sage sausage and stale ale on the healer’s breath, the dreadful itching, Aare’s cool instructions. And then afterwards, the appalling ache that bored through his head. Then Aare had been merciful, allowing Soka a measure of relief from the pain. Soka could still taste the drug: lemons and something akin to walnuts. He still couldn’t abide either. But this time Aare would not be so benevolent.

  Soka scrubbed his hands over his face, scratching at his filthy beard. Losing his eye would be a fond memory compared with what Aare would do next. The question was, could he take it? Could he withstand the pain and refuse Aare’s demands?

  Soka bounced his head against the wall, staring up at the heavy plank ceiling, tears tracking out of the corners of his eyes. He knew himself. Much as he loved Metyein, he would give in. He made an inarticulate sound. If that was the way of it, why not just cooperate? Why not just stay whole if there was nothing to be gained by fighting? He thought of Metyein, and his head fell forward onto his arms, and he sobbed in earnest.

  It was another two days before Aare returned. He walked in, his face contorting at the stench. He covered his mouth and nose with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  “Bring him,” he ordered the two guards.

  Soka struggled; he didn’t know why. He’d do anything to be out of that cell. One guard cuffed him on the side of the head. Soka sagged between them as they dragged him along.

  He was taken up several flights of stairs and down a long curving corridor. There were no decorations but for iron torch brackets spaced every twenty feet. At last they came to a wooden door. Aare pushed it open and motioned for Soka to enter. When he resisted, the two guards thrust him inside forcefully.

  Soka’s mouth went dry, and his bladder clenched. The room was wide and spacious and brightly lit, dominated on one end by a fireplace large enough to stand a horse in. Stone tables formed regimented double lines down the middle. A few were occupied, groups of two and three brown-robed men leaning over each. There was an unearthly hush, as if the snip and grind of the metal tools made no impact on the pitiful victims strapped to the stone slabs. Someone whistled a merry tune.

  “You were expecting this, I should think.”

  Soka didn’t answer, unable to tear his gaze from a sudden spurt of crimson that fountained up above the heads of one group of torturers. The man on the table neither moved nor screamed.

  “They do good work. Reliable results,” Aare said, following his gaze.

  “Why doesn’t he scream?” Soka choked out, the pressure in his bladder growing.

  “I do not care much for the noise. This is my home, after all. No, there are ways to remove that annoyance, though it has its price. It is sometimes difficult for the subject to communicate his capitulation, and he suffers more than he ought. Still, a price I’m willing to pay for peace and quiet. Come, have a closer look.”

  Aare guided Soka around the room, walking slowly so that he could see the ready instruments in careful rows on trays, the bloodstained tables, the restraints, the forest of burning, biting and cutting devices hanging in orderly racks. And finally he came to the victims and their torturers.

  There was an easy, casual pace to the torturers’ movements. They spoke in muted voices, humming quiet tunes as they severed bones, dismantled feet, burned skin from flesh. In between they discussed what they were doing, how far they could push before their victims passed out, how to keep them on this side of life.

  Last Aare walked him down a line of cages along the far wall, beside the hearth. Soka hadn’t seen them before. The things inside were hardly to be recognized as human. Like those on the tables, they made few sounds, but their breathing was pained. They smelled of old blood, skraa, vomit and piss. A trickle of vile liquid wound from the cages and into a drain set in the floor nearby. Aare lifted his robes and stepped over it, peering inside a cage.

  “Not yet, Kedriles? I thought we’d have broken you sooner. But not long. Not long now.” Aare caught Soka’s eyes. “He wanted freedom—then he pleaded for death. But those never come. Now he will choose to submit.” He tsked. “In the end, everyone does. Imagine what a man could save himself if he just answered reason.”

  Soka swallowed, powerless to look away from the pulpy mass inside the cage.

  “How long?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “A month.”

  Soka turned and retched. A month to reduce a man to that.

  “You are a reasonable man, Soka. I have no doubt. And now we must talk.”

  Soka’s mouth tasted like rotted meat and spoiled eggs. His legs were rubbery, and he swayed and weaved as he followed Aare out of the chamber. The guards on either side said nothing, merely prodding him back to the middle of the passage when he stumbled too wide. They went up a steep flight of steps into a more inhabited part of the building. Suits of armor stood at attention down the corridor, and in between, arras depicted bloody battles. Swords, axes, maces and other weapons completed the decorations. Soka briefly thought of yanking a broadsword from its rack and thought the better of it. He wasn’t ready for suicide yet. Or he would instantly find himself back in the chamber they’d just left. The bloody, pulpy mass named Kedriles filled his vision, and he held his arms close at his sides.

  They stopped at another door. Again Aare opened it and motioned Soka to enter. He did so
slowly, suspicion stiffening his limbs. The room was dominated by an enormous bed. The bedclothes were made of velvet and silk and hung with swathes of gauze. A fire crackled cheerily in the hearth, and before it stood a copper tub, the water inside steaming. In the opposite corner stood a table laden with all variety of breads, meats, vegetables, sauces and sweets. An array of wines and liquors crowded a sideboard. Aare poured two glasses of a dry white wine, handing one to Soka.

  Soka gulped it down in one swallow, turning bemusedly in a circle.

  Aare chuckled unpleasantly and sat. “And now you see your choices, my dear Soka. This, and the naked beauties waiting in the boudoir to wash and serve you. Or Kedriles. You must decide quickly. I am made Regent this afternoon, and I mean to be Iisand before long. Kodu Riik can no longer bobble idly in the waves, uncaptained. We verge on disaster, and without a strong hand at the helm, we will surely be destroyed. The Lord Marshal must be brought to heel. I had meant to use his son, but you will serve as well.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A spy, my dear Soka. A spy. Surely you’ve sorted that out already. The Lord Marshal and I shall soon share equal power. We are in a governing deadlock—he has as much support in the tiers as I. But I do not wish to kill him. He is the best strategist and tactician in Kodu Riik. Once I am Iisand, he will serve me as loyally as he served my father. I know this. He knows this, which is why he will fight me every inch of the way. I want you to discover his plots, his weaknesses. It should be easy. Metyein trusts you. He’s searched all of Koduteel for you since you disappeared and has not yet given up.”

  “And if I do not?”

  He lifted a pale hand, palm up. “Kedriles.” He smiled at the revulsion Soka couldn’t hide. “And I shall be forced to pursue Metyein as I originally planned. He is not so pragmatic as you, however. I can’t imagine he will cooperate.”

  Soka covered his mouth with a shaking hand. Now the vision of Kedriles’s ruined body held Metyein’s face.

  “I shall give you time to consider,” Aare said with a knowing smile. He pointed to a door next to the bed. “Your companions will perhaps ease the difficulty of your decision.” And with that he departed.

  The door beside the bed now swung open, and Soka stared as three voluptuous young women wiggled into view. They wore little but scarves held on by sparkling, gem-crusted chains. The thin material hid nothing. They crowded around him, wrinkling their noses at his ripe odor. Quickly they stripped away his rags and urged him into the bathtub.

  After that, Soka hardly had a coherent moment. They washed him, shaved him, and fed him, kissing and fondling him all the while. Their lips were soft and hungry, their bodies warm and wet. He rolled on the bed with them, now on top, now below, now between, clutching plump, ripe flesh, ecstasy taking him over the edge again and again.

  He was driven by a demanding sense of urgency. He didn’t know how long it could last, how long before Aare dragged him back to his cell, or back to the torture chambers. He rose to every occasion, the women marveling at his stamina. But it wasn’t stamina. It was desperation. With every passing moment, he was more sure of what he had to do.

  At last the door was flung open, his idyll over. Soka was lying beneath the mound of squirming women, his mouth clamped to a breast, his manhood sheathed in silky wet flesh. He pumped his hips, unwilling to let Aare interrupt, and felt himself release. He sat up, tongue tangling in the redhead’s mouth, watching Aare as he poured himself another drink, lifting it in Soka’s direction.

  Soka reluctantly let go and slid off the bed, panting, sweat shining on his face and chest. The three young women disappeared into the room beyond, and he fought the urge to follow, to find a place to hide.

  Aare handed him a drink. When Soka had swallowed it, Aare fixed him with a sharp stare. “Now you have had a taste of freedom. What is your choice?”

  Soka’s throat closed. He opened his mouth and then clamped it shut.

  “I told you, I have no time to delay. I’ll ask you once more. What is your choice?”

  Soka licked his lips and closed his eyes. He jerked his head. “I’ll do it.”

  “You are a sensible man.” Aare’s voice was thick with triumph. His next words chilled Soka. “But I would have you remember the consequences of betrayal.” He motioned toward the corridor. A brown-robed figure entered, carrying a leather case. Soka made a choking sound and took a step back. Aare smiled knowingly.

  They laid him faceup on the bed. The air seemed cold, and gooseflesh prickled Soka from head to toe.

  “We can’t leave scars or Metyein will have questions. But there are other ways to make my point. Obey Elas, or it shall go the worse for you. I shall return for you after the Regency ceremony.”

  Aare left then. The brown-robed man smiled disarmingly and dribbled a few drops of something on Soka’s lips. It tasted sweet, and he swallowed uneasily. In only a few seconds, he found he couldn’t move. He made a sound in the back of his throat, a sound that should have been a scream but was merely a creaking whuffle.

  “Don’t worry. You can’t move, but you will feel everything I do. It will wear off in a few hours. A toxin. Comes from a tiny sea snail,” Elas explained. “You ought to be able to breathe well enough, and your heart should hold up.”

  Soka tried to move, to struggle. His breathing sped up, and he felt himself beginning to black out.

  “Easy now. Try to calm yourself. The Verit was quite specific. If you pass out, I must stop and begin again. It is in your best interests to stay awake.”

  And then began an ordeal like Soka had never before suffered. It would haunt him the rest of his life. The torturer applied an assortment of foul liquids and creams using brushes and sticks. Each one was worse the last. He moved from Soka’s feet to his thighs, from his shoulders to his waist, finishing with his genitals. By then the silent screams reverberated inside Soka’s skull, but he could do nothing but lie there and allow the torturer to minister his poisons to him. And feel.

  The first touch on his balls was a caress, cool and sweet. And then it began to grow hot until he thought the skin must be blistering and peeling away. Then another and another. Then Elas spread his legs and began to probe. Lastly Elas moved to Soka’s penis. He spread something around the tip, and an unmerciful itching began to gnaw, chewing up into his innards. And then jagged, ripping pain. Like steel screws twisting into his groin, to his bladder, to his bowels. Tears streamed from his eyes, and drool pooled in his mouth. He gagged and his stomach heaved. Elas turned Soka’s head to the side and stuck a bony finger between his teeth to open his jaws.

  “Happens. Too bad. You had a lovely meal. Shame to lose it so.”

  And then Elas continued his work. Soka wanted nothing more than to die, to slide into oblivion. But his mind wouldn’t let go of the world, of the agony.

  It went on and on and on. After a while, the pain grew so excruciating that Soka’s mind fragmented, the pieces drifting apart. He began to hallucinate, vicious monsters tearing out his entrails, women raking needle-sharp nails through his flesh, Aare licking him with a tongue of metal spikes. And then he drifted further from the pain, away and away. There was his father tossing Soka’s bloody eye in hand, up and down, up and down. And there was Metyein. Memories rolled over Soka. A childhood of shared pranks, of secrets and adventures. And then Metyein with his blood dripping into the snow, arrows pricking from his thigh and side.

  And then it all melted together, and there was nothing but glass-edged waves that rose and fell and shredded his flesh in between.

  “Ah, it begins to pass.”

  Soka blinked, his eyes dry and crusted. He licked his lips, faintly surprised that he could move. He told himself to sit up. After two or three tries, he managed to do so. He glanced down at himself, expecting to see horrendous damage, but his flesh was whole.

  “You’ll want another bath. And there are some fresh clothes. You will tell Metyein that you were held captive in the city. You never saw their faces; they wore m
asks. They spoke rarely and never to tell you what they wanted. They healed you, but kept you drugged and locked in a basement from which you just escaped. Today has been a good day to make escapes,” Aare added in a quiet, lethal tone, and Soka jerked his head up warily. But the Verit—no, the Regent, Soka remembered, seeing the chain of office around Aare’s neck—was not looking at him but at the swirling glass of brandy he held in his fingers. He wondered who had slipped the Regent’s leash.

  “You will make Metyein believe you. If you fail, you know the consequences.” He pointed to Elas’s black case still open on a table with its vials and jars. “Then you will begin spying on the Lord Marshal and report his activities to me. I will not give you a schedule. You must not take chances of getting caught. But do not overtask my patience.”

  Soka pulled a sheet across his thighs, reaching for a half-drunk glass of wine to moisten his parched throat and clear the foul taste from his tongue.

  “What is it I should be looking for?”

  “I want to know everything. I’ll decide what is important.” Aare stood. “Clean yourself of Elas’s ministrations, but I suggest you roll in a pile of manure before seeing Metyein. You wouldn’t want him to become suspicious. When you’re ready, a guard will show you the way out. Enjoy your freedom, Soka. Take care of yourself and your friend.”

  He closed the door, and Soka reached for the bottle of brandy, pouring it down his throat. His movements were stiff, ungainly. The drug had not yet worn off. He stepped into the chilled waters of the tub, still dirty from his previous bath, and scrubbed at his skin with a rough sponge. Then he dressed in clothes that were little better than rags. He checked himself in the polished metal mirror and nodded. It was time. Metyein was waiting. He went to the door.