by Rob J. Hayes
The torturer moved in front of Belper and looked into his eyes. “The Arbiters call it a sleepless charm. It will prevent you from losing consciousness though, depending on your cooperation, I may remove it to give you some respite. Do you understand?”
“Fuck you!” Belper Froth spat a glob of spittle at the torturer but the tall man seemed to see it coming and glide out of the way.
The torturer selected a short set of pliers from the table and approached Belper Froth again. “I'm going to start on your fingers. If you are cooperative I hope I will not have to go any further but if I do I will move onto your feet next. Do you understand?”
Belper Froth let forth a stream of curses all of which the torturer ignored.
Pern watched with horror as the torturer set the pliers to Belper's right thumbnail and slowly began to pull. At first Belper gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut but before long he was screaming as flesh ripped and tore and the nail pulled free. The man whimpered and sobbed, his head resting against his shoulder. Blood welled up around the nail-less thumb and pooled in the void.
“Now you know what to expect,” the torturer said setting the pliers to the nail on Belper's right index finger. “It will get worse from here. Why is Drake Morrass in Chade?”
Belper shook his head from side to side and sobbed. His sobs turned back to screams as his second nail was pulled from his finger.
Pern gritted his teeth and tried his best to block out the sound of screaming.
By the time the torturer had a neat pile of ten little nails Belper Froth still had not said a word apart from the curses he threw around the room at anyone and everyone; even Pern who had nothing and wanted nothing to do with the entire situation. The torturer did not seem at all surprised at his subject's lack of cooperation. He returned to his selection of instruments and picked a small pouch of dust. He then sprinkled the dust on the open wounds where Belper's finger nails used to be and returned the pouch to its rightful place. Then he waited.
Pern glanced at Swift. His client did not look happy; his jaw was set, his mouth made a hard, thin line and his eyes were lowered in a full glare.
“Shouldn't be long now,” the torturer assured them.
“Good,” Swift forced out.
“You can wait outside if this sight disturbs you.”
Pern half expected his client to hold the torturer down and pull out a couple of his finger nails just to prove nothing disturbed him but instead Swift spat and kept up his silent glare.
“Wha...” Belper Froth said from the barrel, his eyes opening for the first time in a long time. “The pain...”
“It is gone?” the torturer asked.
Belper Froth nodded.
“Good. I find this next exercise is always more effective when the subject can see but not feel the damage.”
The torturer returned to his instruments and selected a small vice with a screw set on top. He then placed Belper Froth's right thumb in the vice and began to tighten the screw.
At first there seemed to be little effect; the torturer turned the screw slowly, half turn by half turn and Belper looked on with a bemused expression. Before long fresh blood started to drip down from between the two metal plates of the vice. Still Belper Froth didn't feel the pain. There was a loud pop and Belper's eyes went wide.
“What was that?” the captive's voice was high and panicky.
“The beginning,” said the torturer and put his shoulder into turning the screw.
What followed was a series of crunches, snaps, grates, scratches and fleshy squelches all of which made Pern want to throw up but he held fast. Belper Froth did not fare so well. First he tried to struggle, then he started whining a high-pitched wail. By the time the torturer loosened the screw and took away the vice Belper was a shaking, gibbering mess and his thumb was a flattened paste of flesh and blood and bone.
“I will need a fire,” the torturer said to Swift. “Something small. Hot coals will suffice.”
Swift nodded but he couldn't keep his eyes off of the flattened mess of thumb. “Aye.” He walked over to the cell door, opened it and called out for a servant to bring a bucket of hot coals.
Belper had screwed his eyes shut and was muttering to himself between sobbing. The torturer waited patiently, humming a tuneless little ditty to himself. He put his pliers in the small metal bowl of acrid liquid and noticed Pern staring at him.
“You don't approve, Haarin?” the torturer asked in a neutral tone.
Pern took a moment to compose himself. Some days it was harder than others to remember his vows. “I am Haarin. It is not my place to approve or disapprove.”
“I see. The anaesthetic should wear off soon.”
The torturer was not wrong. By the time the servant arrived, and threw up at the sight of the crushed thumb, with the bucket of hot coals Belper Froth was screaming again. The noise was so loud it made Pern's ears pop and if it weren't for the deadly severity in his client's eyes Pern would have put an end to the poor man right there and then.
“I'm payin' fer answers not ta listen ta this fuck scream,” Swift shouted at the torturer.
The torturer nodded and raised his own voice to be heard over Belper Froth. “It's all part of the process. If you would like you can wait outside. Some people...”
“Get on with it!” Swift raised his voice to be heard over the screaming.
“Of course,” the torturer said and promptly sprinkled some more dust on his victim's wounds. It took a few minutes for Belper Froth's screaming to stop and the torturer was wearing a thin sheen of nervous sweat and glancing at Swift.
“Belper Froth,” said the torturer. “That was only one thumb. Tell me what I want to know or I shall do this to each of your fingers and your toes. From there I will move on to new parts of your body and create a symphony of pain from your screams. I will keep you alive not for hours or days but for weeks and each moment will be filled with agony. Do you understand, Belper Froth?”
There was a weak nod from the man strapped to the barrel followed by a sob.
“Belper Froth, if you understand me, say so otherwise the pain will return.”
“Yes,” Belper Froth managed in a raw voice. His head hung limp and a thin strand of spittle hung from his bottom lip. “I do.”
“Good. I'm going to cauterize your wound now.” The torturer was not gentle. In one quick motion with a sharp scalpel he sliced away the crushed, mangled flesh of Belper's thumb and then took another blade from the bucket of hot coals and pressed it to the open wound. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and Pern again fought the urge to gag. The torturer sprinkled more dust onto Belper's hands.
“Now, Belper Froth. Why is Drake Morrass in Chade?”
Thorn
“Ya da's a cunt,” Betrim said to Anders.
Anders nodded. “We have an interesting relationship.”
Betrim snorted. “He's having ya executed. An' us too.”
Again Anders nodded. “I probably deserve it.”
“Well I don't!”
This time Henry snorted. “Reckon ya deserve it more than any other fucker here.”
Betrim decided he wished he hadn't started the conversation in the first place. Problem was out here there was a whole lot of nothing and the silent walk to their deaths was starting to pluck at his very last nerve.
The bastard holding his rope gave it a tug and Betrim stumbled, his knee hitting the packed dirt, and pushed back to his feet. He could feel a limp coming on; it did nothing to brighten his mood.
“Says the crazy bitch who murdered half of Chade an' then fuckin' got herself pardoned.”
Henry laughed as she placed one foot in front of the other. She still had her hat, the guards had been too kind or too afraid to take it from her, and it obscured her face. “Weren't half o' Chade. Twenty folk at most, I reckon, an' only a few o' those were anyone important.”
“How did you get a pardon?” Anders asked.
Henry growled from beneath her h
at.
Betrim stumbled again but he kept his feet beneath him this time. Seemed they were in a piss poor situation; tied up and dragged along behind horses to their own executions. Lord Brekovich had decided the best way to be rid of them was to let the wilds have them. They were headed to the Boneyard and, while Betrim had never heard of it, it did not sound like a pleasant place. He reckoned they needed a bit of spirit raising and telling stories was always a good way to do so.
“Go on, Henry. Tell the man,” he said with a grin.
“You jus' wanna know yaself.”
“You know how I did fer all them Arbiters,” Betrim said and for the most part it was the truth.
Henry looked up at the Black Thorn and grinned. “Aye. Even that third one.”
Betrim winced. He didn't really like being reminded of the third one and Henry knew it. “What's it matter anyways, Henry? We're all 'bout ta die.”
The little murderess sighed. “It were Xho who let me go.”
“Lord Xho?” Betrim asked. “The same fuck we killed a year back?”
“Aye. Seems he weren't too pleased with one o' his fellow council members; a lass called Lellith Chambers was sitting the council at that time. Somethin' ta do with her opposin' him, I reckon. Rich folk always got some reason or other fer wantin' people dead, jus' don't like bloodyin' their own hands ta do it.”
“Appropriate point given our current situation, I reckon,” Betrim agreed. Both he and Henry looked over to Anders, the blooded fool just sweated back at them.
“Well Xho didn't want this Lellith Chambers killin', he wanted a message sent. A don't fuck with me message. So he freed me on the promise I would murder her son. Little brat weren't even off the tit.”
Betrim gave a sombre nod to that. He'd put down children before, never quite that young though. The youngest he'd done for was maybe six years old; the little shit had come at him with a knife, he hadn't meant to kill her though. It was an unfortunate affair that one.
“They still bleed jus' like everyone else. No matter how small they are…” Henry said her voice trailing off. Betrim didn’t think it were possible but she actually sounded a bit ashamed.
“Not that I mean to intrude upon you bearing your soul, my love,” Anders said. “But given our current situation I'd much prefer it if we could change the subject to something of a lighter nature. Not that murdering babes isn't a fun topic.”
Henry tilted her head so that her eyes could be seen underneath her hat and gave Anders one of her best glares. Anders somehow managed to pale even further and took a hasty side step to put a little distance between them.
The rest of the march towards their deaths was a lot quieter. Anders seemed to think better of speaking again and Henry had done all the talking of her past she was like to do for a couple of lifetimes. Betrim thought about bringing up some of his own exploits but sometimes a situation called for silence and this was looking like one of those times.
The strange thing about being so far north in the wilds was that, though the sun was high and bright and shining down on them with not a cloud in sight, there was a chill in the air. He was warm and sweaty from his forced march but his skin felt clammy in the cold. The light breeze was a particular comfort as it blew across his face, occasionally whipping away a bead of sweat.
Anders stumbled, dropped to one knee and almost collapsed onto the grassy dirt. The fool was still suffering from a distinct lack of alcohol and three days of being dragged behind horses with only a couple of scraps of old leather to keep them going was taking its toll on all of them but him most of all. Betrim quickly moved next to Anders, bending down to put a shoulder underneath the other man's arm and then stood back up, lifting Anders back to his feet.
“Thanks boss,” the blooded drunk mumbled.
“Jus' keep it up, Anders,” Betrim said in a quiet voice. “We'll find a way out o' this soon enough.”
To that Anders just nodded. He stayed close to Betrim after that, occasionally leaning on the bigger man for support. There might have been a time when the Black Thorn would have pushed him away and kicked his legs out from under him but these days it seemed as though friends were a rare commodity and he wasn't about to rid himself of any, even one as useless as Anders.
The animals so far north tended to be of a different kind than in the southern wilds. Apart from the giant land lizards there were huge herds of shaggy-coated beasts with long, curled horns that chewed on the short grass and let out the occasional bleating noise. Many of the herds were tended by shepherds; young lads for the most part who watched the criminals and their escort pass through pitiless eyes. There were other animals about to be sure, Betrim spotted a small group of northern elephants at one point; they were half again as tall as the southern kind and with much smaller ears. More than once he saw a shadow pass over head as one of the giant Carrok birds trailed them. The winged nightmares wouldn't attack a group so large as this but a man or two on their own could make easy prey for the flying beasts.
The Boneyard snuck up on Betrim. One moment they were trudging along staring at a land bleached of colours that seemed to stretch on for just short of forever and the next they were descending down into a dry, dusty valley full of bones.
The Boneyard was, Betrim had to admit, an apt name. The valley was full of the things. Some old and half buried, others a lot fresher and just lying discarded on the ground, some even had the tell-tale red stain of blood left on them while most were bleached white by age and the weather. Some rose up out of the ground to end in curved, jagged spikes and others curled back on themselves and clashed with yet more bones to form strange sculptures in the dust.
Skulls of creatures lay everywhere, many Betrim could name but just as many he could not. He spied a pile of bleached skulls that looked as though they could have been human but as they moved closer he saw that they belonged to the giant monkey beasts that inhabited some of the southern forests. How so many of the skulls made it this far up north was a fair mystery but one he doubted he'd ever learn the truth of.
One of their escort, an ageing man with more wrinkles than hair, turned in his saddle to look at the captives. The man ignored Betrim and Henry and spoke to Anders. “Bringing back any memories yet, coward?”
Anders let out a weary sigh, glanced around and then up at the man who had spoken. “You know I do seem to recall bringing your wife here once, Semon. Such a dexterous thing was Selfy.”
Semon's face darkened. “Selfy is my daughter.”
Anders grinned. “Ooops.”
Semon gave the rope attached to Anders' wrists a violent tug and the blooded fool went down amidst the dust and the bones. Betrim hurried forward and hauled Anders back to his feet; a trickle of blood ran from his hairline down past his nose and dripped from his chin to be swallowed by the ground below.
“Is there anyone back in Crucible you didn't piss off?” Betrim asked Anders quietly.
“Umm... No. I don't believe so.”
They continued deeper into the Boneyard, trudging a winding path through the bones. Semon gave Anders' rope the occasional tug but after his second time face down in the dust Anders got wise and learned to cope with it much to Semon's annoyance. At some point the Carrok bird that had been trailing them for the past day disappeared and then a short time later two shadows appeared in the sky. Betrim looked up to see two of the birds circling, watching and waiting. It was a far from comforting sight.
They stopped amidst a small clearing of bones. A giant elephant skull stared at them from the left; the eye sockets two dark voids, and an even bigger skull mimicked it on their right though Betrim couldn't guess what animal it came from. In the centre of the clearing there was no cover or shade from the sun and eight large wooden stakes were set into the ground.
The soldiers from Crucible dismounted and set about readying the area. Before long Henry and Betrim were pushed off towards the centre and fastened with their hands tied firmly behind them and around the stakes. It was not a comfortable
position. After the soldier had finished tying Henry's hands he stepped in front of her and gave her a firm backhand to the face. Her head snapped to the side and her hat floated to the ground. The look she turned on the soldier made him take a step backwards. She spat out a mouthful of blood.
Next the soldier approached Betrim. He had a good set of teeth on him did that soldier. Betrim was just imagining knocking them out when the first fist connected with his gut. The thing about being tied to a stake is it makes it hard to double over. Instead Betrim just hung there with no air in his lungs, gaping like a fish.
“That...” he managed after a few more seconds of gaping followed by a quick gasp. “That it? Try again. Harder.”
The soldier obliged. Two more fists thundered into his gut and Betrim spent some more time trying to remind his body how to breathe.
“Go on,” he said to the soldier. “Once more fer luck.”
This time the man punched Betrim square in the face. There was a crack and Betrim tasted wet blood, felt it running down his face. Not to mention the intense pain that always accompanied a broken nose.
“Alright,” he coughed and sputtered. “I'm startin' ta see ya point.”
The soldier snorted out a laugh and walked away leaving Betrim bleeding and thankful that the rope around his wrists was tied tight. Otherwise he might have collapsed and that was not something the Black Thorn should ever be seen doing.
When Betrim looked up he saw that Anders was having an even worse time of it. The soldiers had obviously been instructed not to be gentle. He was down in the dust curled up in a ball and taking a kicking from two men almost twice his size.
Then the woman he had called Lisha swung down from her horse and approached with a small and particularly shiny knife in her hand. When she got close the other two soldiers stopped kicking and backed away a step.
“Anders,” the woman said staring down at the blooded drunk like he was something she'd just stepped in.
“Lish,” Anders managed through bloody lips. “It's always a pleasure, of course. I would bow but I fear the ground is just a little bit too comfortable at the moment. Perhaps you'd like to join me down here.”
