A/N: The mode of torture and death used in this chapter was inspired by a horrifying historical anecdote I learned on my tour of Great Britain. I wish I could forget the story, and yet here I am incorporating it into a fanfic now. WARNING: If reading about rape bothers you, do not proceed.

Chapter 3

Entreri tested his bonds one more time, but the magical shackles that secured his wrists and ankles to the wall did not budge. Added to his discomfort was a gash across his back which he'd taken in his attempt to break free. The wizard's spell had kept Entreri motionless for most of the trip to the chamber, but the man still had managed one failed attempt to escape.

The entire situation deeply disgusted the assassin. Obviously, he was in a private torture chamber that this Waylein figure had had custom built. The massive chamber was apparently connected to the man's bedchamber, and Entreri didn't allow himself to even consider the many, varied implications of that. Waylein himself was nowhere in sight. Merrick was hanging on the wall beside him, but the fellow assassin was unconscious and badly bloodied and bruised. With nothing else to do, Entreri studied the twenty-foot circular room. Chains hung from the ceiling to Entreri's right, a fireplace burned brightly to his left, and a torture table graced the middle of the floor. Long counters wrapped around the table on three sides, and Entreri identified several of the gleaming instruments there. Several he did not. There were many whips and riding crops, as well as a few muzzles, obviously meant for people. The scent of sweat, blood, and urine hung in the air despite the two barred, open windows across the room from him.

A line of blood trailed from the now-clean torture table to the man hanging beside him, but Entreri had long since tuned out his sense of compassion.

The door to the chamber opened, and a tall, slender man entered, followed by two stone-faced soldiers, who took up positions on either side of the door. The man looked to be in his early to mid-fifties, his short hair a grey helmet on his skull. The man's green eyes danced with mirth as he considered Entreri, and the assassin realized with further disgust that the man was humming an aimless, happy tune under his breath. As the man neared, Entreri recognized that he was fit and strong despite his age, his gait surely one that bespoke of a warrior, and when he stopped before him, Entreri found himself staring up at a man a full foot taller than he.

"Welcome to my humble fortress, Artemis Entreri," the man sing-songed. Entreri held back a scowl at the way the man purposefully stressed the wrong syllables in both of his names. "I am Brok Waylein, your host for this evening. Please rest assured that there is a great deal of joy to be had this night," Waylein grinned a self-satisfied and predatory grin, "although the greatest bulk of that pleasure will be mine!"

He's mad, Entreri decided in short order. Madness lit the depths of this one's eyes, along with an abundance of cruelty and perversion. Not since Menzoberranzan have I been in so much danger. But the confident assassin did not panic; he focused his thoughts on searching for an opening.

"I was most surprised to find such a famous assassin in my territory," Waylein continued, the lilt still in his voice. "And, yes, my dear man, a few of my associates over the years have mentioned your name. And more surprised still was I to find a dark elf as well!" His grin threatened to split his face. "What fun shall I have over the next few days! Perhaps I will even heal the drow repeatedly so that he can supply me with a few months' pleasure instead!"

That would be the last, worst mistake you could ever make, Entreri mused.

"But obviously I cannot allow such dangerous creatures as yourselves near to my beautiful woodland home," Waylein sighed dramatically. "So let us begin our evening together! The first course is poor Merrick here. He shall be your appetizer, so that you may better understand the great meal I have laid out before you." He twirled away like a dancer.

The soldiers came forward and removed the unconscious Merrick from the wall. The assassin kept a perfectly expressionless face as the soldiers poured a healing potion down Merrick's throat, then strapped him on the table. Entreri watched as the lesser cuts on the man's arms and neck faded and the larger gashes turned pink and started to pull inward. Merrick regained consciousness after a minute and spat curses at his torturer.

Maintaining an unwavering, almost absent grin, Waylein ignored the name-calling and reached out, ripping down Merrick's pants. "Let me know how much you like this," Waylein said as he unbuckled his belt.

With a sudden, brutal realization, Entreri understood what was getting ready to happen, and his objectivity began to slip. Waylein's song-like chatter receded into a mumble of meaningless noise to Entreri as he watched the madman force Merrick into position. Entreri averted his eyes from the assault, tried to close his ears against the sounds, but his mind showed him all too clearly what he did not want to see. It was too familiar.

When Merrick's screams quieted to whimpers, Artemis Entreri wasn't sure at all what his clash of emotions suggested. Disgust at the rape? Concern for his own fate? Hatred of Waylein? Perhaps. He had spent a lifetime hating men such as this one.

But Brok Waylein wasn't finished. He twirled in circles like a man dancing over to the fireplace and picked up the poker. He held it in the flames until the tip glowed red-hot.

Not wishing to acknowledge to himself where the madman was headed with the instrument, Entreri tore his gaze from the poker as Waylein headed back for his victim, and this time the assassin closed his eyes against the sight even as the screams of the dying Merrick seemed to puncture his eardrums. The weight of his anger and other nameless emotions were too much for the man, and just like many, many times before in the nightmare that was his childhood, Artemis Entreri felt the almost tangible click as his emotions disconnected from his mind. He sank into the comfortable coldness of apathy with a nearly vocal sigh of relief.

The soldiers cleared the dead body from the room, and Waylein spent several minutes obsessively cleaning his table. He sang a bawdy drinking song as he washed away the blood and urine. Entreri watched with clinical interest, his mind formulating multiple plans, strategies and scenarios.

He would not become the man on the table.

But Waylein did not proceed immediately with Entreri's torture. Rather, he left, saying he was hungry and it was time for his dinner. The assassin knew he was meant to contemplate his fate. Instead, he used the time to try and free himself, but he had nothing with which to defeat the magic of his shackles. I'll just attack when the soldiers take me down, he reasoned.

Yet even after an hour had passed, Waylein did not return. From the next room came the sound of several voices, followed by the sound of a child crying, likely a boy. Entreri could hear Waylein shouting, could hear the child pleading with the shrieks of "No, Father, please!"

No, Father . . .

With these words, Entreri's mind jumped straight to the inevitable conclusion, and with this not-so-psychic prediction came a powerful sensation Entreri wasn't certain what to call: it seemed that a nightmare or a memory beat against his brain, trying to tear free. A resounding whack announced that Waylein had slapped the child, who yelped, and moments later the assassin heard the sound of tearing cloth.

Artemis Entreri, having witnessed the sadism and sickness of many, many men, tried to maintain his stoicism, his apathy, but failed. A visceral disgust swelled in his chest with such power he felt unable to breathe. He closed his eyes again, but his revulsion seemed to lodge in his throat long before the first screams of the child came through the wall.