Chapter Fifteen
Daellin never knew which was worse- the smell or the sounds that permeated throughout the dungeons. The distinct odor of feces, bile, and chemicals were just as bad as the pungent smell of burnt undead. Not even the lowly underbelly of Tyr's Hand could compare to the awful stench that polluted the halls. The sounds that echoed throughout the damp halls shook him to the core. Pained groans haunted the halls and served as a warning for any unfortunate soul that found themselves in these dark corners. Every few minutes or so, the sound of heavy metal clashing upon something thick would subsequently be followed by a sharp shriek. The rate of the inquisitors' machinations and their clients' responses was eerily rhythmic. Each verse of gruesome sounding torture was answered by a chorus of pain. In a way, these halls were holding a concert that appealed to only the musicians. The instruments were far less pleased with the performance.
"For Light's sake, will that man hurry up already? I despise this place," Saidan groaned as he leaned back on the grimy wall.
"You're telling me," Daellin said as he paced back and forth in the middle of the hall. He dared not touch the grimy walls. The first time he was down here, he heard a rumor that touching the walls would doom a man to terrible horrors. He wanted no part in risking fate.
"We've been down here for, what, two hours?" Saidan asked as he crossed his arms. His fingers impatiently tapped his tree trunk sized bicep. Each tap was responded with a blood curdled yelp deeper in the dungeon, as if answering his question.
Daellin shook his head. "Feels like an eternity, that's all I know." For the paladin, it was difficult to imagine that it was still the same day that started in the market square. Time had a way of slowing down in the dungeons. The temporal pause was a wonder for the inquisitors that called these chambers their workplace and home; the accused, apostates, and heretics sent down here found the eternity a sentence they would rather differ.
"You would think that being the Grand Crusader would provide the luxury of a speedy pressing," Saidan mused. Without warning, he slammed his clenched fist into the wooden door next to him. With no response, he returned his attention to Daellin, still pacing like a frantic madman. "I haven't seen you move this much since that tussle with that giant wight in Huntsville. Here I thought you had lost a step in your age," Saidan chuckled.
"You realize you are my senior in rank and age, right?" Daellin asked with a hint of sarcasm. He quickly added, "Apologies, Dathrohan."
Saidan chuckled and shook his head. "I thought we agreed that formalities are best saved for the common rabble and prayer service?"
"I guess my mind isn't all there right now," Daellin muttered. "The dungeons cloud my head more than Ahran's ale."
"I understand. You've had a hell of a day."
"Sir, about Valdelmar…"
Saidan chuckled, "Oh, I figured you-"
Suddenly, the door that Saidan slammed earlier swung open with a shrill creak. Holding a chisel in one hand and a hot iron in the other, Isillien stood in the doorway. The Grand Inquisitor grinned, revealing his rotten gums and lack of teeth, and cackled, "I believe we are getting somewhere!"
"Light bless it, about damn time! I thought the inquisitors prided themselves on their speed and efficiency?" Saidan asked as he pushed himself away from the cursed walls. A single strand of slime desperately clung to his back but slicked back to the grubby wall when Saidan turned to Isillien.
"Oh, sweetie, where is the fun if we don't savor our craft? I'm sure Sir Lightheart can understand the delectable concept of indulging in our pleasures," Isillien remarked as he winked at Daellin. The Grand Inquisitor lowered his hot iron down to his nether regions and swung it around in a questionable manner while licking his bottom lip.
"On with it," Daellin flatly replied.
Isillien shrugged. He haphazardly tossed his chisel back into the chamber. The simple act of tossing the utensil caused his back to crack several times. "As I said, our beautiful guests are close to the brink. I am confident they will reveal the information that the Grand Crusader desires." With each word, Isillien swung the hot iron like a conductor's baton. "They were a bit stubborn, but after some persuasion I know they are ready to spill the beans." The conductor flamboyantly ended his performance by signing his name in the dead air with the iron. Whatever document he signed off on, it was better left unknown.
"Good, we will take it from here," Saidan declared as he went for the door. The frail inquisitor did not budge.
"A splendid idea! I am sure the lass will enjoy a foursome! Or perhaps you mean the gentleman," Isillien excitedly remarked with glee in his beady eyes.
Saidan glared at the inquisitor. "Step aside and wait out here," he growled.
"But-" Isillien stopped when he saw the fire in his superior's eyes. They burned brighter than the fire that decorated the Crusade's tabard. "Oh, poo. Well, enjoy yourselves. Give me the juicy details later," he muttered as he shuffled into the hall.
Daellin eyed Isillien, making sure the inquisitor got the message that his presence was not desired. The rotten man responded in kind with a gummy smirk and a sly wink. Disturbed by the living skeleton showing emotion, Daellin turned for the entryway into the dungeon. While Saidan had already plunged himself into the vile room, Daellin hesitated. The combination of the stench and anxiety stopped his feet. Light, give me strength. Also, purify this place of this damn smell. That'd be great, too.
The short prayer gave the paladin just enough courage to step into the dungeon. Isillien suggestively gyrating against the wall beside him gave him all the more motivation to leave the inquisitor. Just as he anticipated, the stench of vile and forceful coercion penetrated his nostrils as he entered, making him recoil. He instinctively held up his arm to shield his nose from the pungent smell. The protective act did little. Through the unsettling aura of countless pressings that had occurred in this room, Daellin could see Saidan stopped in his tracks, looking over Isillien's handiwork.
The chamber was hardly bigger than his own room. A few lit candles and sconces provided dim lighting, creating devilish shadows that flickered in the corners of the chamber. Several tools and utensils, some akin to gardening tools and others of unknown purpose, still dripping with blood and viscera, decorated the walls. A single high top table pushed to the corner with beakers and vials scattered on top was the only furniture in the room. Some of the vials had hazy smoke linger around the lips of the containers, creating a fog of noxious gas. The main centerpiece of this particular chamber were the two guests dangling in the middle of the room.
Two individuals, one man and one woman, were strung up by their ankles and wrists in rusty iron bonds that squeaked with any subtle movement. They were stripped of all clothing, leaving them completely exposed to the intense pressings the Grand Inquisitor had conducted for hours. Both had severe burn marks from Dawncrier's flames from the earlier battle, the man more so than the woman. Strands of hair lazily fell down their faces with most of it on the ground by their feet. A serrated tool on top of an end table off to the side still had clumps of hair. As was expected for any pressing, blood dripped from their bodies like a leaky faucet. The most chilling aspect of their condition was how deathly silent they were. If it were not for the occasional labored breath, Daellin would have sworn they were as dead as the mindless legions they aligned with.
"I see the Grand Inquisitor did a number on you," Saidan muttered as he looked over the man first. That was an understatement. The captured man, paler than the moon and riddled with still-hot burns, was bruised and beaten to a pulp. His face was swollen to the point that it looked like a colony of bees had their way with him. One of his eye sockets was completely burned, leaving only withered skin where an eye should be. Open gashes oozing with crimson blood spiderwebbed around his loins and down his thighs. Six toenails, three on each foot, were ripped off. In a sick sense of symmetry, six fingernails were also detached. The flesh on his back showed signs of several hot iron presses- the burns mimicking an I.
The man could only respond with a quiver. The shackles that bound him were more lively than he was. Frankly, it was a miracle that he could muster any sort of sign of life. Daellin had seen stronger men succumb to much less.
"The sooner we acquire the information we desire," Saidan began as he circled the strung man, taking in all of the gashes, "the sooner this torment will end. Who are you?" His words reflected a calm, yet mercurial, demeanor.
The man's bloodied mouth twitched but no sound except a dry breath escaped his lips. The exhale was just barely audible enough for Daellin to hear it. He wanted little to do with the continuing interrogation and instead chose to be a ways off. While Lightheart made sure to be as far from the captives as he could in the confined space, Saidan marched up to the captive. Never before had Saidan's imposing stature been so exemplified when the Grand Crusader stood next to a man clinging onto life. Dathrohan had more muscle in just one finger than the entirety of the emaciated prisoner.
"Speak," Saidan demanded. "Who are you? Are you Damned?"
Silence. The questioned man did not even look at Saidan, instead fixated on the dirty and bloodied floor below. His gashes only added to the rivers of dark crimson. Daellin, too, was fixated with the trails of blood that stained the ground. Each drop held unimaginable horrors. The fact that the blood, much of it years old, were the remnants of his fellow man inflicting harm to one another disturbed him. He was not a stranger to spilt blood but that was on the battlefield. This was in a forgotten little corner away from the ignorant eyes of the masses. Epics of heroic last stands and valiant victories did not take place here. Only terror and sorrow occurred.
The silence did not please Saidan. In a flash, the Grand Crusader's giant hand wrapped around the captive's neck like a python. As the snake's grasp grew tighter, the captive's remaining eye bulged. Both of their bodies shook, sending tremors throughout the chamber. Daellin could only stand there, deeply disgruntled that the interrogation took such a drastic turn quickly. This was different from Saidan barking orders at hapless initiates.
"He won't talk."
Both of the paladins turned their gaze to the other captive as she tried her best to keep her head up. Her eyes lazily dragged from one corner of the chamber to the next while her hands loosely opened and closed, as if grasping for something. All the while, her lower half dangled, completely limp. The damage done to her body from the abomination collapsing on her legs was evident; her feet were mangled and her femurs clearly shattered. If it were not for the metal chains stringing her up by her limbs, she would no doubt be a miserable, immovable mess on the ground.
Saidan, with a smirk, released his grasp on the male captive. As the python retreated from its prize, the prey weakly wheezed for any air it could get into its charred lungs. It sounded like a baby, thought to be stillborn, gasping for any air. "But you will?" Saidan inquired as he paced to the woman.
"Yes," she murmured, her voice weaker than a baby lamb's. A terrible coughing fit followed as her frail body trembled. While her body was not as burned as the other prisoner, it was riddled with marks of Isillien's work. Lines of deep cuts trailed from her chest to her wrists, all still seeping with blood. Her neck was marked with several bruises and superficial punctures. The punctures were too tiny and shallow for any tool; they were bitemarks.
With a raised brow, Saidan asked, "You are Damned, correct? Those that sold their own humanity to the Scourge?"
She nodded.
"Seduced by walking corpses with promises of immortality?"
She nodded.
"Apostates and heretics that work in the shadows to cowardly kill us?"
She nodded.
Saidan turned back to Daellin, still hiding in the rear of the chamber. "Well," the Grand Crusader began, "looks like we are finally getting somewhere!"
Daellin slowly nodded. He told his superior, "She only speaks what we already know. We don't know if and how the Cult of the Damned is involved in the ongoing conspiracy in Tyr's." Lightheart took two confident steps forwards, perhaps his words gave his feet the inspiration to press ahead. We've long known of the Cult and their actions against their fellow man. What we need is evidence that they are behind the growing restlessness in Tyr's and the assassination attempt.
Saidan shook his head as if he had received disappointing news but nodded. He turned back to the prisoner, cracked his fingers, and continued, "Is the Cult present here in Tyr's Hand?" His tone was no longer as calm as they were before. A sense of desperate urgency was growing with each word.
She nodded.
"Are they actively working to seduce more to its unholy congregation and undermine our righteous cause?"
She paused. Her eyes were still for the first time, resting her gaze at Daellin. The paladin was perturbed by her sorry eyes. Her black pupils were dilated to the point that they were no bigger than a speck. Then, for the first time since they were in the chamber, the prisoner showed some emotion; a single tear erupted from her swollen eye and trailed down her cheek. It rested there for a moment before crashing down to the ground, joining the rivers of bodily fluids, both fresh and aged.
Saidan sighed, "And you were doing so well." Before Daellin realized it, the Grand Crusader was palming the woman's skull in his powerful hand, his digits digging deep into her skin. She did not yell, her voice was too broken for that. She could only grimace from the impressment. Like before, both Saidan and the captive quaked from the paladin's tremendous strength. All the while, Daellin only watched, fixated on the pain emanating from the woman.
"Yes," she whispered after a few moments of Saidan's touch. "Yes."
Saidan relented, pleased with the answer. "See, you just needed some help finding the right words," he gloated. The moment he released his grasp, the captive's head sunk down to her chin, as limp as her shattered legs. Saidan turned back to his fellow paladin once more and said, "I can tell that this one will be useful. I sense there's more to be discovered. We will soon find the root cause of the heretical ongoings in Tyr's thanks to this one."
Daellin shyly nodded and replied, "The sooner, the better, right?"
"You're damn right." Saidan turned his attention back to the male prisoner, still mute save for the audible oozing his boils made when they popped. "This one, while deadweight, can still serve a purpose. We need to send a message to the heretics, cultists or otherwise." He stepped away from the two strung prisoners and pointed at the man. "Daellin, in the name of the Holy Light, execute him. We will string his body in the city square for all to see where the road of damnation leads to."
The request made the woman's head snap back up. Dread fell over her face as another tear formed and crashed to the floor. She tried to shake her head and utter something but the pain that swelled throughout her body prevented her. Her compatriot remained motionless, numb to the suggestion of his own execution.
Stunned by the request, Daellin could only stammer with a furrow brow, "Sir, he is still man. Even if he walks a fiendish path, he draws breath. He deserves inquiry and last rites. That would take at least a day-"
"Time we don't have, Lightheart," Saidan sternly interrupted. "Our city, nay, our nation is in more peril with each passing moment. Do I need to remind you how we were at death's door by their hands not too long ago?" His voice raised with each word, crescendoing with, "As your superior officer, I order you to kill this beast!"
Daellin shuddered at the request. He reluctantly dragged his feet to the strung-up man. With each step, he could feel the bodily fluids slosh around his boots as he wadded through the rivers of despair and blood. On its own, Daellin's hand found Dawncrier's sheath and freed the blade from its leather shelter. In the dim, damp dungeon, the sword gleamed as if the summer sun was shining above. The red-white glimmer from the blade revealed the extent of how much fluid the two paladins stood in. The sleepy shadow devils were now erratically dancing, pleased by the show they were about to witness. Daellin's fingers tensed around the grip as the sword grew hotter.
"Please."
The word, soft and pained, left the prisoner's burnt lips so lightly that only Daellin heard it. Caught off guard by the word, Daellin's eyes looked to the source of the pained plea. As Dawncrier illuminated the dungeon, so, too, did it reveal the strung-up man's face in detail. Most of it was charred with pieces of burnt skin hanging by a thread. Craters of flesh littered his face like a series of ravines. His remaining eye begged for mercy from the paladin. This was not the look of a soulless orc nor a mindless undead. It was the look of his fellow man.
Daellin stepped back and declared, "I will not." He lowered Dawncrier, its point dipping itself into the sea of blood. The taste did not satiate the blade as it remained red hot, eager for any sort of use. "The Holy Light guides my actions. As a pastor, I will not betray my tenets and oath. Either give me time for his last rites or have someone else do it."
Saidan loudly sighed. "That's how it is, huh? Fine then, Daellin, I will honor your request."
Relief fell over Daellin like a wave cascading upon a beach. Before sheathing his sword, he took another quick glance at the captive's face. While I wish your kind would disappear off the face of Lordaeron, I will stand by my faith. His single eye, moments ago begging for mercy, showed the same relief the paladin felt. Not wanting to linger on the captive's visage, Daellin sheathed Dawncrier, returning it to its leather-bound slumber. The blade was no longer red hot but rather as cold as the dungeon walls. Lightheart did not notice it before but the cold that emanated from these forgotten corners of Tyr's was slowly seeping its frigid claws into his bones like a witch's embrace.
A sudden warmth fell upon his face. The warmth did not rest in one place as it slid down his face, staining his skin. Daellin was well aware of what it was. He was swimming in it. Blood.
Where the prisoner was before, a corpse impaled by a broadsword through his chest remained. No signs of life remained besides the crimson lifeforce dripping from his mouth and wounds. His remaining eye no longer showed relief, but rather of blank nothingness. The sword poking out of his body, a most unwelcome guest, pulled away, taking a few bone fragments and organ viscera with it. Its owner, Saidan, flicked the blade to clean it of heretical blood, adding more blood for the pools below. The other prisoner whimpered as she lowered her head.
"You are dismissed, Lightheart. I will take it from here," Saidan grimly stated. He repeatedly flicked his blade, trying to purify his sword from any heathen blood that remained. Each swing of the sword made the still-living prisoner flinch, her arms shaking and her eyes darting until they rested on the door. Escape and salvation was so close, yet so far for the damned.
Daellin did not need another reminder. He did not want another reminder. He started slow, but after a few steps he was in a full sprint for the door. Every time his boot crashed against the ground, the liquids sloshed around like tidal waves. No doubt, his boots would need to be cleaned immediately lest they be stained for eternity like his memory. He was so quick to make his escape from the hellish dungeon that he did not notice the thick layer of slime that coated the door's latch.
As the door slammed behind him, Lightheart launched himself against the wall, heaving. He dragged himself against the wall, away from the chamber he just emerged from. In his panicked state, he did not know if he was delving deeper into the dungeons or towards salvation. Any composure he had was long gone, replaced by the image of the prisoner's chest devoured by his superior's blade. Every time he replayed the sight, the individual drops of blood that dripped from the sword grew in size. They grew and grew to the point that the entire blade was doused in crimson, sucking the very life from the man. As the life essence dissipated from the prisoner, so, too, was Daellin's. His breathing grew more erratic as he frantically traced his fingers over the cracks in the wall, desperate to find any leverage for support. With no sense of security provided, the paladin dragged his body down the damp wall, leaving a trail of grime.
"Light help me…Light help me…" he continually chanted. The Holy Light could not clear his vision; the swift execution continued to plague his mind. Not even Dawncrier, normally warm with reassurance, could provide any security. The sword bestowed to him by his mentor was as cold as the dungeons.
"Get out of my head!" Daellin weakly cried as he shoved his palms into his eyes, trying to remove the grizzly sight. Despite his best efforts, the bloodied sword and slain prisoner remained. But the image did change. As the memory played out, it morphed into another. This was not the first time Daellin had seen a man impaled by a fellow human in Tyr's. In a cruel sense of symmetry, the peasant rebellion during the Second War reenacted in his mind at the same time as Saidan's execution of the cultist. Like a mirror, the swords wielded by men found a temporary resting place in the breast of another. If they wanted to, Saidan and Valdelmar could reach out and touch each other, the same for the cultist and laborer.
"They were men, not orcs or undead. They deserved better…" he murmured. By now, his face was buried in his chest, hunched over like a slain soldier on the battlefield. They were wrong. But the Light dictates we provide compassion until the end. Are we any better if we just kill our brethren?
"Brethren? Those that have made pacts with cruel and unholy machinations? They all seek to wreak havoc unto others- those you swore to protect."
Daellin mumbled, "I swore to protect all."
"And where has that gotten you?"
Daellin slammed a fist against the wall, leaving a stinging pain resonating throughout his hand. From the impact of the blow, his pinky was surely broken. "Leave me! Leave!"
"A most abhorrent pupil."
The voices melded away as Daellin sat there, mute and quaking. His body ached from head to toe, but his heart experienced the worst of it. Even taking into account the countless souls that were doomed to rot away in the darkest corners of Tyr's, Daellin was the most ill. Perhaps he would shrivel into a ball and rot away like the rest of them. Perhaps his shortened and labored breaths would cease and he would leave this troubled mortal coil. Perhaps this is what he deserved.
A cool breeze picked him up from the ground. The softest silk touch brushed against his cheeks as he was lifted from shambles. Where there was darkness, light illuminated his vision and mind. A clarity he had not felt before cascaded down upon him like the waters of a baptism. Before him stood an angelic figure. Like the angels that decorated the church windows of Tyr's, she radiated with purity and light with such intensity that it was nearly blinding. Snowwhite feathers playfully danced around their bodies like spring rose petals caught in the wind. While her rosy lips moved, no sound besides the whooshing breeze emitted. Despite the lack of words, Daellin felt a serenity that he had never experienced before. His heart, moments ago on the brink of total failure, pumped proudly once again. His body, previously failing and aching, was rejuvenated.
She graced her hand upon his cheek then softly traced the outline of his jaw. Each finger sent pulses of warmth throughout his body. After a few moments, the angel's hand found its way to Daellin's forehead. With the gentle touch, any trace of worry and sorrow evaporated. For a moment, the paladin swore he saw her lips curl into a smile.
As quickly as she appeared, she was gone. The corridors were dark, the air was still, and only the sense of dread danced around him. But in that momentary glimpse into divinity, he found salvation. He pushed himself up to his feet, brushed off the dirt and grime from his body, and pressed forward. Where there was agony moments ago, a serene sense of calm filled him. Where there was pain, strength presided. Where there was damnation, there was preservation. The paladin traversed the halls that served as the final destination for so many before him. As he passed each closed door, he brushed off the feeling that unspeakable pressings, interrogations, and torture were being conducted. The only thing that mattered to him at that moment was to press forward.
He did not know how long it took but eventually weak rays of light indicated where he needed to go. As the rays grew brighter, so, too, did his resolution to free himself from these dungeons.
While his focus was entirely on those beams of light that serve as his guide to the welcoming arms of Tyr's Hand, one other thing did catch his attention. Deep in those catacombs, the unmistakable sound of Isillien's cackles echoed. The shrill and dry laughter sent a shiver down his spine. A shiver that would haunt him as the night stalks the day.