20. Effluvium
A/N Quick word of warning – this chapter contains scenes of torture…
"How is the sickness this morning my love?" asked Uther as he strode across the room toward his wife, placing a chaste kiss upon her head where she lay in her plush bed in the private chambers that adjoined the King's own rooms.
"Much better today, thank you," Ygraine replied, lacing her hands lovingly in his as he sat by her on the bed, "Gaius has given me an infusion of hot lemon and ginger root to settle my stomach and it does seem finally to be easing."
"I'm glad," he said seriously, pushing her hair gently back from her face and placing one hand gently on her growing belly, "I feared for a time that you were suffering from the same sickness that ailed my Brother."
"It is quite normal Uther," laughed the Queen, "I suffer no more so than any other woman in Camelot carrying a child; I am simply to rest and take a little liver to keep up my strength."
"Then I shall leave you in peace my dear," Uther replied with a smile, fastening on his leather gloves as he rose from the bed.
"Urgent matters to attend to my Lord?" asked Ygraine through half closed eyes, her head sinking back onto her pillows.
"Nothing for you to concern yourself with," he answered softly, a look of regret passing over his eyes that he could not stay with her and shun his duties.
"Uther," she said suddenly, her voice causing him to stop in his tracts and look at his wife quizzically, "You are a good man and a fine King my love… the day will come when all of Albion will once again be united behind you."
The King sighed heavily, a look of sadness weighing heavily across his brow as he forced a smile for her, "Thank you my Queen," he replied gruffly as he exited the room and strode quickly down the long corridor and out of the royal quarters.
With long, determined steps, Uther made his way toward the dungeons, his skin turning to goose-flesh as he began his decent into the belly of Camelot. As he followed the winding steps he shook his head angrily to clear his mind of all thoughts but the task at hand and steel his heart to follow through with what he knew must be done. The feel of his wife's touch lingered on his skin and he raked his hands along the rough-hewn stone, welcoming the pain it brought. He could not be that man right now; Uther the loving husband and doting father-to-be… no, now he had to be Uther the King, unwavering and stoic in the face of treachery.
The further into the depths of the castle that he went, the clearer the sounds were that echoed off the walls around him, shrieks of agony and cries of abject terror mingled with the stench of fear, sweat and burning flesh. Passing two sets of guards, each saluting smartly to him, he finally reached the foot of the stairway and stepped into the dungeon's murky antechamber.
"Rathborne!" he hollered loudly into the dim room, "Where are you man?"
The strangled cries that had been floating through the air stopped abruptly and hurried footsteps shuffled hastily in his direction as the master gaoler rushed to answer his King's call.
"Your Majesty," he drawled obsequiously, executing an overly effected bow as he approached his sovereign, "You are just in time; he was tougher to break than we first anticipated but I believe we are almost there."
"He has revealed nothing so far?" demanded Uther impatiently as they marched together in the direction of the cells, Rathborne moving to lead the way.
"No Sire, he is as stubborn as an old goat - but mark my words, he will soon be singing from the rafters."
The smell of burning flesh grew stronger as the two men entered a large cell at the back of the dungeons. There, strapped tightly to a wooden frame was Torquil, now considerably worse for wear than he had been the previous day. The muscles in his arms strained painfully against their bindings, thin lines of blood running in rivulets down the contours of his flesh. A dark purple bruise spread across the left side of his face and a deep split in his lip was seeping blood and spittle across his quivering chin.
A small fire burned brightly in front of the hapless servant, throwing long and eerie shadows off the walls. Torquil's chest and stomach bore the marks of hours of torture, deep burns bubbling angrily along the length of his charred flesh. Two dungeon guards stood silently either side of the wooden frame, poised to continue the interrogation.
"My Liege," croaked Torquil in mock greeting, his voice sounding more weary than defiant as he spat a wad of blood-mingled saliva onto the dirt floor of the cell.
"So you still will not speak, you worthless gutter-snipe," growled the King furiously. Torquil made no reply, the pain of his ordeal glinting sharply in his eyes as he regarded Uther warily. "Continue with your work gaoler," commanded Uther quietly, not taking his eyes from the miserable wretch before him.
Stepping forward confidently, Rathborne nodding to the two guards on either side of the frame and with one swift move the entire apparatus was tipped forward on weighted hinges, lowering Torquil's already seared torso into the eagerly waiting tongues of fire.
An agonising howl of pain ripped itself from the young servant's throat, his body writhing uselessly within its confines. With a further nod from Rathborne the frame was lifted back upright and he was free from the flames once more, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to force more air into his burning lungs.
"Come my boy," crooned Rathborne soothingly, bringing his face in close to Torquil's, "All those evil plots and plans, those foul and fetid secrets that are eating up your soul… let them out lad, tell old Rathborne and you shall be free of this mistress of fire… what say you?"
Hot tears of fear and hysteria squeezed their way from Torquil's eyes, thick bubbles of mucus blowing wetly at his mouth and nose as he struggled to bring himself back in control of his faculties, unable to voice any response except the exhausted shake of his battered head.
"We know you had a part in murdering the late King," pressed Uther, his voice resonating off the walls of the confined cell, "The fact that Abraith has also fled the castle proves his guilt as the mastermind of your enterprise but I must know why," he demanded emphatically, "Tell me man, what was the purpose of his death?"
"I will not…I will not…" mumbled the servant pitifully, his lips pulled back into a miserable grimace.
"Your master has deserted you boy!" cried Rathborne mockingly, "left you to answer for his crimes… what purpose does your stubbornness hold now?"
Stepping closer, Uther pushed his question again, his determination for answers overcoming his sense of compassion, "What I cannot fathom is what Abraith stood to gain, what difference does it make to him if I am King, or Aurelius?"
Torquil said nothing, his eyes opening slowly and staring vengefully at Uther.
"Lower him again," said Rathborne gruffly, his jowl shaking angrily as we waved his arms at the guards.
"Wait," cried Uther suddenly, realisation dawning slowly upon him, "He gained nothing!"
"Sire?" asked the gaoler, markedly irritated at his order being counter-commanded.
Bringing his face in line with Torquil's, the King addressed him directly, "Abraith gains nothing with me as King… his plot is not yet complete is it? How long did he plan to wait before having me murdered also and seizing the crown for himself?"
"Not just you!" crowed the prisoner hysterically, the sustained levels of torture finally breaking his resolve, "Your pretty Queen too!"
Fury rose like bile in Uther's throat and he bit down hard to keep his anger in check, his fists clenching together tightly as he took a deep calming breath, "So he is just another usurper… just like Vortigern."
"Not like Vortigern, nothing like Vortigern!" shrieked Torquil angrily, "He was a fool who could not control his own bowels, never mind a Kingship!"
"He was a false King… Abraith would be no different," spat Uther in disgust.
"He would be the greatest king Albion ever knew!" insisted Torquil fervently, his lips curling into a crazed sneer, "Imagine it… a Sorcerer King, nothing could stand in his way and all would bend their knee to pledge allegiance to his rule," adoration dripped heavily from the young servant's lips as he spoke, his eyes peering wistfully into the corners of his mind, "His authority would be unmatched, it would spread until all the Kingdoms of the known world would unite together!"
"You are wrong," rejoined the King categorically, "If there is one thing I am beginning to learn about sorcery, it is that it is a dangerous force that easily corrupts the hearts of those that wield it."
"I will be vindicated, I will be vindicated," babbled Torquil, his eyes rolling crazily back in his head.
"You sir, are a traitor!" cried the King angrily, "Abraith's plot will fail but you shall not live to see it for tomorrow you will be executed."
"He will come, you will see… he will not forsake me here," insisted Torquil, laughing madly to himself.
"One more thing," added Uther dryly, obviously appalled at the traitor's failing grip on reality, "Are there any others?"
"You can't catch me, you can't catch me," he chanted hysterically, throwing back his head in demented glee.
Extracting a burning length of wood from the raging fire in front of him, Uther moved quickly forward, thrusting the wood at Torquil's gut. An immediate and excruciating pain ripped through Torquil and he screamed a string of expletives over the sizzling sound of his flesh.
"There are none!" He howled pitifully, his head hanging forward in exhaustion, "None of your precious Knights would be trusted by Abraith to keep such a secret."
Satisfied, Uther turned and strode briskly toward the exit, "Take him down and ready him for his execution tomorrow," he ordered Rathborne who scampered along in his wake.
"You have no further use for him sire?" he asked regretfully.
"No gaoler," he said bluntly, "I have the puppet… what I need is the puppet master."
"You're going to find Abraith?"
"Yes," replied Uther grimly, "Unless he finds me first."