by RW Krpoun
“I’m fine,” she reassured him, knocking dust from her skirts. She was looking back up as the butt of the whip caught her smartly behind the ear, the brass ball filling the world with flashing colored lights and turning her knees to spring water, cold and flowing.
Someone caught her as she fell. “Darling, are you all right?” A strange man’s voice came to her from a distance. “She’s fainted, help me get her into our coach.” Strong hands seized her at the thighs and upper arms, lifted her, and a coach door closed behind her. Something not quite hard tapped her painfully on the temple, and things grew dim for a bit.
When her eyes cleared she found herself lying on the leather-covered back seat of a closed carriage, her wrists and ankles bound with the same sort of leather restraints she had used on van Feuchter, the cuffs clipped to stout iron rings set into the seat’s arm rests, holding her helpless. Her clothes were loose, and she could feel that the knife scabbard strapped to her thigh was gone. ‘Bound and searched,’ she thought through the thinning fog in her mind, her head throbbing every time the wheels struck an off-set cobblestone.
As her head cleared she saw that there was a olive-skinned man sitting across from her looking out the open widow that was the carriage’s only light; next to him Myra Soutar unwrapped the silken envelope of a Storm of Disruption Elonia had concealed in her bodice, the woman frowning as a spill of dust fell onto her dress, unaware she had just ruined the device.
“What is going on here?” she asked, wincing as her head was jolted when the carriage turned a corner.
“That is what we shall discuss shortly,” the dark man smiled at her. “In great detail, with careful explanations.”
“My husband will pay very well for my release unharmed.”
“Ah, this Maxim chap, yes, I imagine he would; shame we missed him, but I imagine we’ll be able to deal with him when we’ve finished with you. Please stop with the charade of being gem-sellers with an interest in the exotic, my lady, we know far better than that. Know that I truly despise you sanctimonious interlopers, always hunting around for some offender of your petty rules, and that I take great pleasure in expressing my feelings with sharp and silvery arguments should I feel even slightly balked in my questioning. Now, we are taking you to a nice little cottage outside Teasau which is a good mile from anyone else, a cottage we have established and furnished for the purpose that we find before us: to learn what someone knows. See the stonework? We’re going through the city gates even as I speak; any shouts or cries for help will only earn you pain; any stubbornness at the cottage will only earn you far greater pain in a place where screams can ring free and loud without drawing a bit of attention. Now, I would enjoy this lovely day and the pleasant ride, so you will be silent and ponder the fact that you are being taken to a place which your comrades cannot possibly find, and that the quality of the remainder of your existence relies directly upon your willingness to obey orders and answer truthfully.”
Maxmillian and Pug were to dump the body a quarter-mile outside of town; Pug would return the carriage while Maxmillian walked back to the rented suite; she had dawdled, so he ought to be getting there by now, but her abduction had been so swift and professional that she seriously doubted anyone had noticed. By the time the historian became concerned and went looking for her at least an hour would have passed, and in any case he had no idea what had happened or where cultists would take her. With a cold chill in the pit of her stomach, Elonia realized that she had very likely reached the last day of her life.
They brought her out of the coach using two stout sticks clipped to a collar they had fastened around her neck, the two coachmen thus having complete control of her movements. Her slender stock of magic-weaving was completely useless: hers was a subtle spellcasting rather than a combative art, allowing her some small abilities regarding defense, concealment, and movement, none of which could possibly help her at this point. They marched her across a neatly trimmed lawn and into a cottage of the sort wealthy people used as summer retreats. The entry room of the house was a sitting room that looked like just what you would expect in a summer holiday cabin; going through a door that should have led into a kitchen brought them into a plain room furnished with a bare bedframe, several racks of various instruments and devices designed to inflict pain or bodily harm, a table, several stools, and a small stove.
The two coachmen forced her down onto the bed; she resisted until the dark-skinned man stepped in and pressed the point of a long and very sharp dirk to the base of her spine. Her wrists and ankles were strapped to the stout posts at the corners of the head and foot boards, and then the two coachmen left. Myra busied herself with starting a charcoal fire in the stove while the dark man removed his coat and seated himself on a stool, carefully rolling up his sleeves. Elonia lay on the smoothly varnished boards and waited while her captors got comfortable, happy to let as much time pass as possible.
“You know Myra; I am Zari Wiali, formerly of the Sultanate of Opatia in the Suflands. Have you ever been there?”
“I lived there for several years.” She had the blade-ring, but the manacles were double-ply straps nearly two inches wide; the tiny blade would be blunt long before she did them any real damage, although she intended to try if the opportunity arose.
“Ah, you are fortunate then, a truly wondrous country for the enlightened, not like this place of bitter winters and oppressive laws. Still, Teasau serves as a place to wait until certain acts fade from memory in my homeland, and even here we have our little entertainments. Now, we will discuss many topics as the day progresses, but the main topics shall have to wait until we have a good bed of coals going; cauterization is the only remedy for bleeding available to us at this point, more’s the pity. It is best to have a Healer present during this sort of work, but one does as best as one can with what is to hand.” Zari shrugged. “Still, we can entertain ourselves with light conversation while we wait. Did you really think you were going to successfully infiltrate our gathering?”
“No.” There was no point is suffering needlessly, and every reason to play for time. There was no real chance that Maxmillian could find her, but if the cultists had made a mistake, or if Gerhard knew where this cabin was, her lover would need all the time he could get.
“Good, at least you were not complete fools. I suppose locating and destroy the Orbheart during a Summoning was your plan?”
“Yes.”
“Of course it was. Still, you were very foolish not to do your research better: there are certain of the Dark Arts which allow us to know exactly who has set foot at our special places. How did you find it, anyway?”
Years of Pargaie service surfaced; the cultists had picked up her aura, but apparently her spellcasting and Sight, however slight her abilities, had allowed her traces to cover those of Gerhard, Tonya, and the whore. How much of an advantage it was could be debated, but you never let anything slip that might possibly help you later. “I found it by patching together bits I overheard at the parties I was invited to, and sheer legwork.”
“Ah, a lie. You wouldn’t have heard it at your first party, and the second was completely controlled. You did kill the Duchess.”
“Yes.”
“Clever; you duped our very best recruiter, a man with a very good nose for subterfuge, and cost us a very useful tool. Still, there are plenty of people who would be glad to ‘host’ parties for us. You are with the Phantom Badgers, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Not a bad approach, for a band of mercenaries that is; still, you have fallen far short of the goal. We will kill your ‘husband’, and van Feuchter will have to take an extended leave of Teasau, perhaps Myra as well, but that is hardly an unknown exercise in our lives. Other groupings can make good use of their skills until the fickle writing of memory fails.”
So they did not know that their best recruiter was dead, another point of very faint hope; nor were they aware that there was another team of Badgers in the city.
“Only o
ne line of approach, how primitive. Now, I know they would not have sent merely two sell-swords on this task, so where are the rest, four or five warriors swilling ale somewhere awaiting a call to arms?”
“We two were scouts, assigned to locate the site and get the date of the next summoning; an assault team would be sent into Teasau at the last minute.”
“Ah, another lie. What a shame, we were doing so well. Is the fire drawing properly, Myra?”
“Twenty minutes and it will be ready.”
“Good. Why don’t you prepare her while I put my things in order.” It was not a suggestion.
“Gladly.” With deft, careful movements, Myra used a knife with a short, curved blade to cut away Elonia’s dress and undergarments, taking her time, making little clicking noises of approval as she trailed her fingertips across the Seeress’ legs, buttocks, and back. “Have you ever been with a woman, before today I mean?” she purred into the Badger’s ear.
Elonia, chin tucked into her shoulder facing away from the woman, muttered something inaudible as she braced her toes against the foot bedposts.
“I didn’t hear...” Myra leaned an inch or so closer, and then screamed as Elonia arched her back and snapped her head back with all the force she could muster, the back of her skull crashing into the cultist’s face.
“Bitch!” Myra howled through muffling fingers. “I’ll...”
“You’ll do as you are told.” Zari finished for her, stepping up to the cultist’s side.
“She hurt my nose,” Myra’s voice was indistinct, the sound of someone speaking around a handkerchief held to a nose bleed.
“Yes, I can see that. When you’ve stopped the bleeding you may play with this for a bit.” Elonia couldn’t see what item was handed to the woman. Zari went back to sorting items from the racks and lining them up on the table, which he had positioned close to the bed, whistling softly to himself, while Myra left the room.
To distract herself Elonia counted measured finger-taps; four hundred sixty-three taps later, about eight minutes she guessed, Myra came back into the room and stood by the bed. “You must apologize.”
“I’m sorry.” There was no point in provoking the woman any further: she had hoped that the attack would have caused Myra to lash out with the knife, hopefully inflicting a mortal wound. Something hard, and flexible slashed across her upper thighs, making her entire body buck and an involuntary cry escape at the sudden, savage flash of pain that coursed through her body like sheet-lighting crossing the evening sky.
“I don’t think you meant that. Try again.”
“I’m really very sorry for hurting your nose.” She was better set for the blow this time; she was looking over her shoulder, and while she couldn’t see Myra clearly, she could see the hem of her dress sway as the woman raised her arm. She bucked, of course, but she made no outcry.
“Hold your head still,” the cultist ordered peevishly, stepping over to the nearest rack. She fastened a leather blindfold over Elonia’s eyes and buckled it on securely. Elonia began counting taps again.
She could hear the slight scuff of Myra’s slippers as she walked around the bed, but Zari was making enough noise to throw her off a bit; the stroke across the sole of her left foot caught her unprepared and she nearly screamed at the burning pain. One hundred seventy-two taps later, a length of time that built the tension sufficiently so that her muscles began to tighten in anticipation (and thus ensuring that the next blow would hurt worse) a stroke came down at an angle across the welts the first two had left on her legs, the pain sending tears of agony coursing down her cheeks.
Two hundred three taps later the rod came down across the back of her left hand, flattening it against the bedpost. “Quit tapping your finger,” Myra instructed in the same tone of voice she would use to order a glass of wine. “Really, you mustn’t try to think in terms of time, as time is a prerogative of those of us who still have a future. What you should think in terms of is how to please myself and Master Wiali so that your suffering will be so much less. Do you understand?”
“Yes. What is the best course open to me?”
Myra knelt at the head of the bed, the cool leather of the riding crop she had been using lying in the sweaty hollow between the Badger’s shoulder blades, her breath warm on Elonia’s cheek, one fingertip gently tracing the outline of her pointed left ear. “If you tell Master Wiali what he wants to know, in full and precise detail, leaving out not a crumb of detail, and if you pleasure me until I’ve had quite enough, and satisfy both the coachmen outside who have certainly earned the service, then you will die cleanly and without pain. Otherwise, you will suffer until your spirit is broken and you tell all, which we both know that you will, and then you will be used for my pleasure and the coachmen’s, and then you will die, perhaps not all that quickly and certainly a great deal more painfully.” The woman gently kissed the tip of Elonia’s nose.
It was true enough: if Wiali knew what he was about, there was no way she could hold out; Elonia had seen torture sessions while growing up in Alantarn, and knew that an expert with patience and a selection of needles and small knives could get anyone to talk. Delay or provoking a sudden, violent death seemed to be her only two options at this point. “I understand.”
“Good.” Myra was about to say something else when Zari interrupted.
“Check the coals.”
Elonia heard the grate open a moment later. “They’re ready, I’ll fill the brazier.”
“Put six number-two irons on to heat, and these six rods, please.” Zari moved the table a foot closer, adjusted the positions of an instrument or two that had shifted, and seated himself on his stool close to Elonia’s side, absently running a hand across her rear. “So, are we going to continue to lie, or shall we play for a bit first?”
She knew that they had been at this cottage for about forty minutes all told, plus around a half-hour to get here. Maxmillian would have returned to their lodgings and would be getting impatient by now; soon he would begin his search. She blinked away a tear of regret; she had hoped to have given him more time, but it was impossible; Zari, for all his outward disinterest, was obviously deeply concerned and would waste no time in dragging the truth out of her. Carefully, she raised her head a bit off the smooth, sweat-slick boards of the bed and steeled herself: by careful positioning and a series savage downward chin-strikes onto the boards she should be able to sever her tongue before Zari could stop her.
It was the only card she had left to play.
They had heard the cart before they had seen it; Diehl had stood up from the bench the two cultist guards had been resting on and walked up the drive a few feet, hand on his sword hilt, while Zadock laid his hat across his lap to hide the throwing axe he was holding ready. Both relaxed as the vehicle came into view, a low two-wheeled cart drawn by a badly blown horse and driven by a small man in a robe and turban.
“What does this idiot want?” Diehl called back to his friend as the cart, which he could see held stacks of new wicker baskets, turned up the drive leading to the cottage. Zadock shrugged.
The sweating, froth-dripping horse was reined to a stop alongside Diehl in a spectacular show of poor driving; angry now, the husky cult artificer stomped up to the driver. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m just in time, is what,” the driver stated calmly, if a little out of breath.
He was a haffer, Diehl realized, a tiny half-Goblin whose face looked like a map of the Thunderpeaks. Before he could demand an explanation, Zadock gave a weird, coughing cry behind him; turning sideways so he could keep an eye on the runt, Diehl looked back and was stunned to see his partner standing ashen faced, plucking at a crossbow quarrel jutting from his breastbone. Ripping his sword free, the artificer turned to see a balding man of solid build standing at the corner of the carriage, heard the sound of the crossbow release, and staggered as someone punched him in the chest. He looked down as the sword fell from his nerveless fingers and saw the notche
d butt of a crossbow bolt poking through a rent in his shirt with blood welling out all around it. Things were getting unsteady for him as he looked up, clutching at the blood, and saw the man trotting across the yard to the cottage’s door, shrugging a shield into place; the sunlight brought out the lines in the odd gray steel blade in the man’s right hand. Diehl opened his mouth to shout a warning when something caught him across the right knee and tumbled him to the ground, the savage icy pain that ripped through his chest when he struck the ground stripping him of speech.
Ending up on his side, Diehl looked up as a shadow fell over him; it was the wrinkled driver with a length of stove wood clutched two-handed, the source of the blow to his knee. The little half-Goblin met his gaze squarely and shrugged apologetically. “Freedom has certainly turned out to be a great deal different than I thought it might. Still, one does what one must.”
The entry room was empty of life, and Maxmillian darted around the furniture and headed for the door on the left; the odd little bastard had said that she would be to the left of a normal room when entering from the front. It could be a trap, the scholar knew, but he was willing to take the chance.
All doubt was removed when Myra Soutar opened the door just as he was charging up, a quizzical look on her face as if she was going to investigate an odd noise. Her eyes widened with recognition a split second before they flew open in shock as the Badger slipped the point of his sword into her belly and angled it upward, twisting as he jerked the blade free and smashing the iron-bound rim of his shield into the side of her head to knock her clear of the doorway.
Bulling through (Myra must have screamed, although Maxmillian often found that under the stress of combat he often didn’t hear everything), he found himself in a undecorated room equipped with a stove and racks holding various odd devices and items; Elonia was bound to a bed, nude, with angry red welts standing out from her thighs, and an olive-skinned man was jumping up from a stool as he drew a long-bladed dirk. Slowing his steps, the historian risked a wider glance of the room: besides Myra, who was curled in a ball and howling like a wolf near the door, the Suflander was the only other occupant on their feet.
