“Enlistment is up, Your Eminence. We are seeing a fresh consignment of wielders coming in each month. The Black Watch has done an excellent job in sourcing out possible recruits. Those that join willingly have been growing in number. It seems the ven’ae are tired of being treated like criminals.”
Valtor let his fingers follow the contour of the wolf’s bared teeth on the top of his staff. “Excellent news. We can use their anger to our benefit. It’s not hard to convince a beaten animal to turn on those who are mistreating it.”
“There are still many however,” she said with a hesitant look, “who want nothing to do with our cause.”
Valtor nodded. He knew that to be all too true. Why couldn’t these people see that what he strived to do was in their best interest? He was going to reshape the world so that the ven’ae—those with true power—no longer feared the oppression of the jun’ri. How those without magical ability had managed to lord over those with it for so long was beyond him. The only thing the non-wielders had going for them was their numbers, but if he was to get his way, that would no longer matter.
There were always outliers, those that would continue to stand in the way of progress. He didn’t understand these wielders. They actually fought to protect the very people who wanted to destroy them. Their attempts at hiding potential wielders from the Tower’s grasp were becoming quite the nuisance. He needed to squash their resistance now before it grew into an all-out rebellion.
“And how are our dear brothers and sisters of the Inquisition handling these defiant wielders?” He shifted his gaze toward the white-robed delegation sitting at the far end. “Have you been able to motivate these rebels concerning the value of our cause?”
One of the inquisitors cleared his throat to speak. Valtor didn’t know his name, but then again, he didn’t know the names of half of those seated around the table.
“A few hours on the rack has convinced many to recant their ways, Your Grace. And those who haven’t have joined their fellow compatriots in the purging chamber.”
Valtor hated losing valuable resources to purging, but, at least with the guidance of Aerodyne’s grimoire, they were able to separate the non-compliant wielders from their abilities and store the magic for future use. The wielder, of course, never survived the process.
Valtor had managed to gather quite the collection of magical essence over the last couple of years as head of the White Tower, talents he would one day put to good use as he built his army and forged a new sect of magic wielders.
“We have one wielder, Arch Chancellor, which you might find of interest. He has managed to resist his inquisitors so far with remarkable force of will. His gift is unusually strong. Even more interesting is that he’s a metallurgist. Not only a metallurgist but a gifted weapon-smith to boot.”
Valtor raised his head. It had been years since they had found a true metallurgist. Evidently, a wielder who had the ability to manipulate metal ore was very uncommon. If this man was truly skilled in the art of crafting weapons, this could be a remarkable find for the White Tower.
“And who is in charge of his interrogations?”
The man glanced at his fellow inquisitors before replying. “Sylas, Your Eminence.”
Now that was a name Valtor was familiar with. “I hear he is quite talented in the art of persuasion.”
The inquisitor at the end of the table smiled. “He has a rather unique affinity for his work, Your Grace.”
“Yes, I’ve heard good things.”
“If anyone can get a man to talk, it’ll be him. I’ve never seen an inquisitor more dedicated to, or in love with, his job.”
Chapter 5 | Ferrin
THE SCREAMING HAD RETURNED.
They say the threat of pain is even more persuasive than the pain itself. Ferrin knew that whoever “they” were, they had clearly never spent an hour on an inquisitor’s rack!
“Ahhh!” Ferrin’s head slammed back against the metal rungs, flinging strands of red hair across his face. His eyes squeezed shut, tears swelling at the corners. He hated the sound of his own voice. He knew it offered his torturers a sense of undeserved satisfaction.
Snapping his mouth shut, teeth grinding against the pain, he watched in helpless wonder as the fat inquisitor worked the stone blade across the tender muscle of his upper left breast, spreading it wide like a loaf of soft bread from a hot oven. The blood was warm and thick as it ran down his muscular torso, saturating the top of his tattered trousers. “Urrrhg!” was the only reply he was willing to muster under the pain.
Ferrin had to say this for the White Tower—they were, if anything, proficient.
He could remember his first induction into the Chamber of Inquisition. They had marched all the new convicts in and made them watch while, one by one, the inquisitors questioned their fellow inmates. It was an experience not easily forgotten.
First, a light whimper could be heard, and from there, uncontrolled sobbing as the Tower guards fastened one unfortunate soul after another to the large wire-bound racks. The arrival of an inquisitor triggered the next phase in this ongoing cycle, leaving the victim to fall into one of two categories: beggar or spitter.
Wrists and ankles were spread and securely fastened by heavy iron clamps, allowing for easy access to the soft inner muscles, which were readily pricked, punched, sliced, or stabbed, or in some cases, ripped from the White Tower’s many occupants. At this juncture, true fear had not yet manifested itself. That was saved for later, and with it, the only guarantee was that “later” was undoubtedly coming.
The sound of endless screaming and the smell of urine, vomit, and blood was enough to frighten even the strongest of men, dissolving every last bit of courage and replacing it with a sense of helpless abandonment. Once hope had been destroyed, the only thing left was a complete willingness to capitulate to any of the White Tower’s demands.
From what Ferrin could gather, the Inquisition was comprised of two halves, which formed a sort of symbiotic whole: the Legate and the Inquisition. The inquisitor’s sole responsibility was to glean viable information concerning magic, and the wielders of it, from the countless victims apprehended by the Black Watch. The legates, on the other hand, were nothing more than glorified bookkeepers, accumulating the record of all practical information collected by the inquisitors.
Ferrin spat a colorful mosaic of red across the front of the inquisitor’s white robe, earning him a heavy backhand to the face. It’s the little victories that keep us going, he thought. His lips curled into a defiant smile, red teeth bared, and the salty taste of blood building at the front of his mouth.
“Why do you test me, sword-smith?” The inquisitor rubbed at his stained overcoat, further smearing the blood into the pristine garments before eventually giving up the attempt. “Just tell me what I want to know, and all these . . . pleasantries,” he said with a satisfied smirk, “will cease.”
At first, Ferrin had questioned the reasoning behind the Inquisition’s use of white robes. Surely the amount of work that must go in to keeping them clean would be a strong deterrent to using them in the first place, but after having an inquisitor step through the door for his first round of questioning, wearing a white robe spattered with sprays of blood from his previous interrogation, there was no longer any doubt in Ferrin’s mind as to the horrific effectiveness of their choice in garment.
The fat inquisitor, or Cheeks, as Ferrin so fondly liked to refer to him—since the ones on his face were as padded as the ones below—stared at him through his dark, swollen eyes. The man looked as though he hadn’t seen the sun in three or four decades. The skin around his hands and bald head held a rather pasty complexion, even against the warm light of the room’s torches.
There were thirteen torture chambers within the Hall of Inquisition. If you’d seen one, you’d seen them all. Ferrin would know. The rooms were small and circular. A man could stand in the center and walk no more than eight paces before hitting a wall in any direction. As it was, the metal r
ack took up the central spot, with a small table and stool for the inquisitors to display their tools of choice.
Cheeks paced in front of the rack, waving his blade around like a conductor with a baton, encouraging his musicians to give him more. “How many other wielders are there in your city? What are their names? What can they do? Where do they live?” The questions were endless and always seemed to work their way back around to one in particular, “What can you do for the White Tower?”
Like so many others before him, Ferrin fought to safeguard the identity of the wielders within his acquaintance. He was determined not to be the mouthpiece ensuring their future imprisonment and torture. Above all else, he knew he had to keep his mouth shut in hopes of protecting the one good thing left in his life: his twin sister, Myriah.
She was the only member of his family left to him, and he was determined to bear it for her. He also knew the body and the mind could only endure so much before giving in.
In the two weeks since his arrest and subsequent imprisonment within the White Tower, Ferrin had been questioned by every single interrogator within the Inquisition. He wasn’t sure why they had singled him out for such a privilege, but after just one session with Cheeks, he was sure they had saved the best for last.
Ferrin had also been surprised that he still retained all his digits. His only reasoning was that the inquisitor must be saving that particular pleasure for later, and that maybe his method was to start smaller and work his way up. Whatever the reason, Ferrin was thankful that nothing had been severed, at least not yet.
Most prisoners lasted a day or two before breaking, a week at most. Others were confessing their own mothers were the spawn of the Defiler before the manacles had even had a chance to click shut. Everyone has a different threshold for what they can endure. Ferrin figured his might have been set a little too high. Thankfully, though, the pain had begun to dull as it did after each of his cuttings, bringing with it the barest of respite and allowing his mind to work its way back to a semblance of coherence before being subjugated to another round.
Cheeks held out the small dagger. A drop of fresh blood fell from its tip and landed on his forefinger. He turned it around with his thumb. “So, what shall we cut today? Hmm?”
“How about my beard?”
Cheeks leaned back and roared with laughter, clapping his hands together in succession. He struggled to catch his breath, quite difficult apparently for a man of his size. “I see your sense of humor is in full force today, smith. Good, good. I have rather enjoyed our time together.”
He wiped the wetness from his eyes. Cheeks’ vibrant blue irises contrasted sharply with the decorative markings that had been tattooed across the majority of his face and bald head, signifying his upper rank in the Inquisition. Ferrin had no idea what the symbols meant, but one thing was for certain, at that moment he couldn’t have cared less.
The inquisitor’s blue eyes scanned Ferrin’s body. Like a map, it revealed the many afflictions Ferrin had already endured. Patches of white, hardened skin intersected his chest, arms, stomach, and legs, giving clear indication as to the previously explored territories.
Stepping from the rack, the inquisitor relaxed on a nearby stool. It groaned in protest. Ferrin wondered how much more pain and suffering the poor seat could endure before its legs finally buckled. “You have no idea how insufferable it can be to attempt to cut on someone who doesn’t quite have the . . . How do I put it?” Cheeks chewed on his lower lip in thought. “The proper constitution, if you know what I mean.”
“I completely understand,” Ferrin said through gritted teeth, “and you have my deepest sympathies.” He fought to hold back the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him.
“Yes.” The inquisitor grinned. “I believe you do understand.”
Swiveling in his seat, Cheeks unrolled a leather satchel across a short wooden table on his left. His fingers slid affectionately over each of the implements inside, much like a new husband admiring his wife’s curvature during their bonding ceremony—excited and nervous all at the same time.
Ferrin’s eyes hopped from one instrument to the next: a small poker, a short single-edged blade, two pairs of iron tongs, a ball-peen hammer, a heavy clipper, whipping straps, a sturdy saw, and an assortment of wooden wedges ranging in both size and girth. Quite the impressive selection, he thought.
And to think, only a short time ago he would have been going about his own daily routine of igniting the coals to his forge, arranging the hammers and tongs, collecting the strips of iron that needed smelting and the lengths of steel ready for shaping. He loved the blistering heat generated from his quaint smithy in the heart of Rhowynn. Now, here he was, nothing more than fodder for another type of forge, one in which they heated, hammered, and shaped human beings.
Cheeks pushed back from his doting, his seat squeaking nervously underneath him. “I have a surprise for you today, my proud smith.” He reached inside one of the inner pockets of his white garments and pulled forth, with an exuberant amount of theatrical flair, a new instrument. “I call it . . . the wiggler.” He waved it around in a taunting fashion for the benefit of Ferrin’s inspection.
Ferrin had to admit, it was indeed a work of beautiful craftsmanship. It had a robust iron handle with finger grooves for comfort, and soft leather gripping. But in place of a blade, it held a uniquely designed steel poker that curved in a circular fashion along its stem.
“I call it the wiggler, because once I punch it through the gut,” he said with a sharp thrusting motion, “I can wiggle it to the left and wiggle it to the right, and play with all kinds of fun things in there.” He giggled as if it were all a good joke.
“Your happiness brings tears to my eyes, Inquisitor.”
Cheeks’ smile was childlike. “Yes, I thought you’d enjoy that.”
If there was one distinction to be made about Cheeks, as opposed to his fellow brothers of the white cloth and tattooed faces, it would be that he not only took great pride in his work, but enormous pleasure as well. “I want to introduce you to someone, smith.” The inquisitor hefted himself from the now wobbling stool and shuffled his way to the single wooden door at the front of the small stone room. Tugging on the latch, he yanked it open.
A young girl stood in the doorway. At least from where Ferrin lay prostrate on the iron rack she appeared to be a young girl. Her hands were clutched at the waist and her head bowed in an almost reverent manner. Her clothes were all but falling off. She appeared to be half-starved and there was some large bruising around her left eye. “Come in, come in.” Cheeks held out his arm, beckoning her forward.
With hesitant steps, she slid into the room, never once raising her gaze above the placement of her feet. She was definitely a sad sight to behold. “This is Rae.” The inquisitor put a sweaty hand on her shoulder and shoved her forward, practically forcing her on top of the rack. “She’s here for you.”
Ferrin raised his head, which at the time was about the only motion the rack would allow. “Well, I would give you my hand in proper welcome,” he said with a forced smile, “but, uh . . .” He wiggled his bound arms inside their shackles. “As you can see, I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”
Cheeks jabbed Rae in the shoulder. “See, I told you he had a sharp wit.” The girl’s head rose in sluggish fashion, allowing the warm light from the walled torches to wash across her face. She wasn’t quite as young as Ferrin had first believed, maybe early twenties. Her malnourished condition had given her thinning frame the impression of a teenage girl. He didn’t figure she had much longer for this world.
Her skin was the color of warm caramel, much the way Ferrin wished his would get during the hot summer months when he went without his shirt, but instead, his fair skin only seemed to redden and freckle. He figured she was Cylmaran, or at least had come from one of the southern islands, Delga perhaps. Granted, he hadn’t had the privilege of being acquainted with any islanders before, but from what he had seen in passing, most ha
d the same dark hair with eyes to match.
This girl’s hair, unlike his own red mop, looked as though someone had cut it with a dull knife after taking a dip in a barrel of hard ale. It hung at varying lengths. The longest strand nearly reached her shoulder.
Her face held no emotion, but her unusual pale green eyes screamed of loathing.
Ferrin’s forehead creased as the inquisitor’s words sank in. “Wait. What do you mean she’s here for me?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. She’s not here for that,” he said with a dirty wink. “At least not for you. No, she’s here to help me with my work.”
Ferrin sneered. “You’re going to make her watch?” He couldn’t believe the gall of this pig. It was bad enough to be doing what he was, but to take a helpless woman and destroy her innocence with his dark sadism was more than Ferrin could bear. “Does that make you feel more like a man? Is that the only kind of satisfaction you can get, you sick spawn of a faerie?” As soon as he had said it, he regretted it. He wasn’t supposed to let them get to him, or at least show it if they had. Keep your mouth shut, Ferrin! He bit his tongue.
“Now, now,” Cheeks said with a smile, “no need for name calling.” He waved his plump forefinger back and forth. “Even if she was a sorry excuse for a human being, she was still my mother.” The inquisitor stared at the far wall, obviously contemplating some distant memory. “Anyway,” he said, turning back around. “Where were we? Oh, yes. We were deciding where to cut.”
Stepping to the right of where Ferrin was bound, Cheeks grabbed hold of the large spiked wheel which operated the rack’s mechanisms and cranked it to the right. The bed shifted forward, raising Ferrin into an upright position. “Ah, that’s better.”
Roping off the wheel, the inquisitor turned back to the table and his array of finely assorted instruments. “My young friend here has quite a remarkable gift.” He pointed the wiggler in her direction. “Don’t you, my dear?” Rae stood in silence on the far side of the rack, watching as the rotund torturer shifted his attention back to Ferrin. “But unlike you, we have allowed her the use of a transferal. I would hate to think of the havoc you could wreak in here if you had been allowed to keep yours, what with all this metal for you to play with.” Cheeks slid his fingers down the long, thin shaft of the wiggler and around its double coils, coming to a final rest at its pointed tip.
The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 5
