Justan's determination evaporated as the torturer lifted his shirt and placed the burning coal in his navel. Justan howled in agony and arched his back. He had been wrong. There was pain. Too much pain. But it didn’t come from his belly. It came from his head.
Kenn’s eyebrows shot up and he smiled as Justan’s scream grew louder and louder. “I hadn’t expected this big of a reaction so soon. Justan, I’m a bit disappointed in you. Kyle is good, but not this good.”
Justan’s back arched and his scream hit a fever pitch. His vision blurred. He saw the ceiling above his head, but he also saw himself laying on the table with smoke rising from his belly as Kenn and Kyle looked at him in surprise.
Then his scream was echoed by an earsplitting roar from the corner of the room. Justan couldn’t move his head, but from the corner of his eye, he watched as a huge hairy form rose from the floor and strained until its restraints ripped from the wall in a shower of rock and mortar.
The huge creature rushed over and wrapped its huge hands around the torturer’s head. Its powerful muscles surged until, with a crunch, the half-orc’s head caved in. Justan saw the whole thing, but not through his own eyes. He saw it through the eyes of the beast.
The beast then leaned over the table and looked into Justan’s eyes. Justan saw the face of the beast with his own eyes and at the same time, he saw his own face through its eyes. No, this wasn’t just a beast. Not a beast at all. It, no . . . He was a person. Justan had seen him before in a vision, reflected in the waters of a mountain stream.
Justan instinctively felt a kindred spirit in this person. Looking up at his furrowed brow and sad blue eyes, Justan felt tears starting to well up. Sorrow leaked into his heart as if through a sieve. He had suffered a mighty loss. A name popped into his head.
Fist
His name was Fist? Why did he know . . .? Justan gasped as he understood what had happened.
He had bonded with an ogre.
Chapter Thirty Five
Fist looked down at the man strapped on the table, confused by the protective feeling he had. That feeling brought back the sorrow he felt for the members of his tribe that were now lost. The blue-green eyes of the human on the table below him swelled with tears in response and Fist pulled back in a mix of fascination and distrust. He parted his full cracked lips and used his voice for the first time in days.
“Who are you?” he asked. The man thought his voice sounded deep and gravelly. Fist frowned. How did he know what the man thought?
The man’s eyes darted to the side and Fist heard a voice echo through his mind, Fist! Behind you!
He turned in surprise and the tip of a sword scraped along his side before sticking into the wood of the large table. That evil little man, the dungeon keeper had been aiming for his back. Fist didn’t give the man the chance to try again. He swung his arm in a heavy backhand that caught the dungeon keeper on the jaw and spun the wiry man around. The man dropped to the floor, unconscious.
Fist looked down at the dungeon keeper for a moment before leaning back over the man on the table. “How did you do that? How you know my name?”
“We are bonded,” the man said. “Can you get me off of this table?”
Fist frowned. He felt a strong pull towards this man. He sensed a strange kind of kinship with him. But he had recently learned that not all humans were as good as the family he had accepted into his tribe at Jack's rest. For a moment he was tempted to leave the man strapped there, but then again the man had warned him of the dungeon keeper’s attack.
Fist reached for the chains connecting to the man's wrists, but stopped. As tight as they were, if he pulled on the chains, he could hurt the man.
Justan.
The voice echoed oddly in his head and Fist's eyes darted around the room. “What?”
“My name is Justan,” the man said. “The man you knocked down has the keys.”
Fist hesitated. He wasn't familiar with the word 'keys'. Suddenly a mental picture of what the man was talking about came unbidden into his mind.
“The keys will open up the locks on my wrists and ankles,” the man Justan said.
Fist bent down and found a key ring on Kenn's belt. As he picked it up, he looked at the jumble of keys and shook his head.
Justan looked surprised when Fist dropped the keys onto the table beside his head and moved out of his range of vision. “Hey, what are you doing?”
Fist moved to the mechanism at the end of the table. He had seen the half-orc torturer use this on several men in the last day. He pulled the handle out until it clicked into place and turned the crank, loosening the chains until Justan was able to reach up and loosen the strap immobilizing his head.
The man turned back and Fist gestured at the crank.
“Oh,” Justan said.
Fist watched Justan fumble with the keys, trying to find the correct one to fit his restraints. He finally found the correct key and freed himself. As he sat up, he winced in pain. Fist could tell that his joints hurt from being stretched out. Strangely, his stomach didn’t seem hurt from the coal the torturer had placed on him.
Now that the man was free, Fist’s sense of purpose withered again. He slowly sat down on the rough floor beside the crank. His mind fell back into the pit of sorrow it had been in since his capture.
“Hey,” Justan moved over to Fist and crouched down beside him. “We are free now. We need to escape this place.”
Fist turned his head towards Justan. The determined eyes met his. “Why?”
The man sighed. Fist sensed Justan’s thoughts at the edge of his mind. Despite his despair, he listened in. Justan knew it was only a matter of time before someone came by and saw that they were freed. If he was going to escape, he needed to move quickly. But he felt that Fist was now a part of him. Justan would not leave him in this place.
“Tell me,” Justan said.
Fist's eyes lowered. He did not think he could put what had happened into words.
Then show me. The man’s voice echoed in Fist’s mind again and he placed a comforting hand on Fist’s shoulder. Please, what happened to you?
The ogre sighed and opened his mind, sending a flood of memories pouring through the bond. Justan opened up his mind to receive them. The communication came with surprising ease. They both thought in similar patterns, though Justan’s thoughts were more complex. As Fist showed him what happened, Justan felt these events as if he was experiencing them himself.
Justan was with him as Fist fought with his father and was cast out of his tribe. He wandered with him through the wilderness and befriended Squirrel. He felt the love and affection for Tamboor's family, and shared the fond memories as Fist learned from them. Then came fear for their safety as the invading army attacked the village. He felt revulsion as Ewzad Vriil ordered the family killed.
“That monster . . .” Justan whimpered.
Fist shared the pain and horror that raked his soul. He sensed that Justan realized he was going to be forced to watch the slow torture and death of each beloved member of Fist’s tribe. Justan didn’t want to experience that part. He tried to pull away from the memories, tried to close his mind to them, but Fist couldn’t stop himself. The emotion and the images were too strong to be bottled up. He had no choice but to share them.
Justan was frozen in abject horror alongside Fist and Tamboor as first Efflina . . . and then the children . . . Cedric . . . Lina! Tamboor's family . . . Zambon's family . . . were killed before their unblinking eyes. Ewzad had immobilized them with a paralyzing spell and they were powerless to stop it.
Fist felt Justan throw his arms around his shoulders and sob. Fist held him close as he would a child. More experiences flew by. Weeks of journey in a cage, watching as Tamboor killed orcs with his bare hands through the bars. Then arrival in the evil wizard's dungeon. Most of all, there was despair. When the flood of memories ended, Justan pulled from Fist’s embrace and stood.
He felt Justan push new thoughts into his mind. Justan’s
thoughts of escape were secondary to another in his mind now.
Revenge.
The thought echoed in his skull and Fist's posture straightened.
“Together, Fist.” Justan stared down at him, eyes still red with tears and held out his hand. “This wizard will not break us.”
Fist clasped his hand and stood. Justan took the keys and removed the restraints that dangled from Fist’s arms and legs. Fist had forgotten they were even there.
“We go find Tamboor,” Fist said, his tone offering no room for disagreement.
“Agreed. He needs to know that his son, Zambon still lives.”
Justan reached through the bond and Fist understood that he was linked to another as well. She was close. Very close and happy to feel Justan’s presence. He told her of his situation and returned his attention to Fist.
“They are on their way. We have friends coming to help us.”
“Friends?” Fist asked.
Justan sent him feelings about his friends. Images and half memories flowed along with the feelings in his mind. There was the other one Justan was bonded to. Her name was Gwyrtha. There was also an elf named Qyxal and a dwarf named Lenny. Tamboor’s oldest son Zambon was alive and coming to their aid as well. The last one filled Fist with joy. By the time Justan was through, Fist felt like he knew them.
“Our tribe,” Justan said and Fist smiled. He now had something to live for.
Fist started for the torture chamber door, but Justan stopped him.
“Wait. First we're going to need weapons.” He watched Justan pull the dungeon keeper’s sword out of the wood of the table and test its weight before heading to the body of the torturer and claiming the short sword it carried around its waist. “These will have to do until I can find something better.”
Fist looked at the racks on the walls and lifted various torture implements. Nothing had the weight he needed. He finally reached down and with a grunt, ripped the leg off the corner of the large table. It was thick and ugly with a couple of nails protruding from one end, but Fist nodded as he tested its weight.
“One more thing.” Justan picked the dungeon keeper up off the floor and set him on the torture table. He quickly stripped the man down. “My filthy clothing would give me away as an escaped prisoner on sight. If I am dressed as the dungeon keeper, the guards might be distracted long enough for us to attack.”
“Too small,” Fist said, pointing at the man.
“Blast it, you’re right. I should have known that.” Justan discovered that only the overcoat and boots fit. He looked down at his tattered appearance and sighed. “It will have to do. Well at least I won’t have to fight my way out of here barefoot. Hey, what about you?”
Fist looked down at his feet and saw the tattered bits of leather that remained of his foot wraps and shrugged. Humans were always so worried about covering their bodies. I’ll be fine, he sent.
Justan quickly clamped the restraints on the dungeon keeper’s wrists and ankles. Fist tightened the chains until the man was stretched out as helplessly as Justan had been. The table wobbled and nearly fell over because of the leg Fist had taken off.
Through it all, the man remained unconscious. Justan looked behind the table and found a bucket filled with some noxious liquid. He dumped it over the dungeon keeper's head.
“Gah!” The man sputtered and coughed as he woke. His face froze as he saw Justan and Fist standing over him.
“Hello, Kenn. Circumstances have changed,” Justan said.
Fist grinned.
Chapter Thirty Six
The companions were getting close to the duke's stronghold. They had ridden hard over the last two days. The day before, Gwyrtha had been so antsy that they had continued through the night. Now they figured that they were only a few hours ride from the castle. Finally, with their goal in sight, they stopped for a bit of rest. Zambon and Lenny ate while Qyxal took the time to brush out his tangled hair.
“Elves.” Lenny shook his head. The dwarf checked his belongings to make sure that they were still securely tied to the horse, paying particular attention to the wrapping around his hammer.
“I don’t get it, Lenny. What’s with that hammer?” Zambon asked, picking a bit of mold off a crusty piece of bread. “You have been so careful with it, always keeping it wrapped up. If I didn't know better, I'd say you have a little dwarf-baby in there.”
“Bertha?” The dwarf looked at the package tied to his horse suspiciously. “Sometimes I wonder if bringin' her was a good idea.”
“What? Is it cursed or something?” Zambon asked.
“Might as well be. But no, she's just gal-durn dangerous. I'll show you.” The dwarf retrieved the package and unwrapped the leather that sheathed it. The head of the hammer was flat on both ends and covered in runes. “Bertha is a heat hammer. We use her in the forge when we need to keep the metal hot while hammerin' it. It’s lots faster than havin' to keep stickin' the metal in the coals.”
Lenny extended the hammer’s head out to Zambon. “Touch it. Don't rub it now. Just touch it. It'll feel cool.” After Zambon had done so, Lenny picked a twig up off of the ground and brushed it against one end of the hammer’s head. The twig burst into flames and Lenny dropped it quickly to stamp the fire out. “You see, she heats up whatever she rubs on.”
Zambon shrugged. “So why is it so dangerous to use? It sounds like a marvelous weapon to me.”
“Why is it dangerous?” The dwarf gestured wildly as he spoke. “When I'm swingin' her around, the durn thing's as likely to set me on fire as she is the things I'm fightin'! But the worst part is that Pappy Firegobbler didn't make her with a way to turn her off. If I didn't have her wrapped in firedrake leather, she'd set everything she rubs against on fire the whole trip! The first time I took her out on the road, she set my shirt, my hair, and my garl-friggin' horse ablaze!”
“There could be a solution to that.” Qyxal said as he finished combing out his long black hair. He started to braid it back into place “What if y-”
Gwyrtha interrupted the conversation with a roar. She rushed over to Qyxal and growled.
“We need to go. Justan needs us,” the elf said and spryly leapt onto her back.
Lenny and Zambon were quick to follow.
“Fist, cover his mouth.”
The ogre's giant hand engulfed the lower half of Kenn's face. The dungeon keeper's eyes were wide with fear. Justan stood on the opposite side of the table from Fist and looked down into Kenn's eyes.
“I need some information and if you want to live you are going to give it to me. In a moment, I'm going to tell Fist to let go of your mouth and I am going to ask you some questions. If you yell for the guards, my ogre friend here will snap your neck. If you cooperate, you live.” Justan nodded to Fist and the ogre removed his hand.
Kenn's eyes darted between his captors and he gulped nervously. “It doesn't matter you know. This dungeon is crawling with guards. Even if you were to get past them, my master would stop you.”
“Your master? The wizard?”
“He is more than any mere wizard.” Kenn said. Some of the fear left his eyes, as if the mention of his master emboldened him. “He will destroy you as easily as blowing out a candle!”
“That's fine, but for now I'm your master, understand?” Justan sent a mental message and Fist clamped his fingers around Kenn's scrawny neck. The Dungeon Keeper nodded. “Good. Then tell me, where are you keeping Tamboor the Fearless?”
“The Dead One?”
Fist knew what Kenn was talking about even though Justan didn't. The ogre nodded and his deep voice rumbled, “Yes. Where is he?”
The Dungeon Master hesitated and Fist began to squeeze.
“Wait, wait!” Kenn croaked. Fist eased up the pressure. “It's not far from here. The first corridor on the right. His cell's near the very end, but it doesn't matter. He'll just kill you. He kills any who walk by his cell. He doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep. He just lies in wait for anyone to pass his door and then
he strikes. He's gone mad.”
Justan's heart wrenched with the reminder of the death of Tamboor's family and his face turned red with anger. He lifted the key ring. “So would any good man, Kenn. Which key opens the cell doors?”
One look into Justan's gaze and Kenn became just as scared of Justan as he was of the ogre. “Th-that one. The long one with the double sided prong.”
“One more question. How can you do this, Kenn? I know you hate me for whatever reason, but how could you tend a dungeon this foul and still live with yourself? How can you work for a man so twisted and evil? Have you any idea what he has done?”
Messenger of the Dark Prophet (The Bowl of Souls: Book Two) Page 38
