Chapter Warning: Torture
Chapter Four: The Eight of Swords
On the far side of the warehouse, in the docking yard where the light of the village streets did not reach, two figures Passed Unseen. One had the physique of a goliath, grey-skinned and hunched to avoid even starlight. The other was lither, but in a way was more imposing. As he moved, the silver runes on his clothing pulsed. It made his companion shudder, and wasn't that an indulgent feeling?
Before going farther, Talisman made a final query. "You're sure he's alone?"
The answer came, not from the orcish giant, but from the outline of a shadow. "Yes," Bekkit murmured. Even his voice was insubstantial, and Talisman's lips twisted in contempt.
"Very well. Will you be joining us, dear?"
The gloom twisted, and Talisman savored the discomfort he sensed. "Someone should keep watch. Though I don't expect you'll be interrupted."
"Fools." Talisman had seen the brute stupidity of these people during their first encounter, but it still surprised him this had been so easy.
After the humiliating encounter in the square, Talisman had returned to his well-appointed rooms. The burns on his neck were like the bristles of a wire brush; they spurred him, pricking and twisting until he could think of little else. Perversely, it filled him with a sense of expectancy. A dull, provincial tournament; that's all he'd expected from Pamell. Now he nursed images of disembowelment, of gristle and bone, in fetishistic detail. He would scrap that fleshbag off his boots and offer up his remains with a prayer. Such thoughts had provided several hours of pleasurable anticipation.
Then he'd discovered the human wasn't participating in the tournament, and he'd nearly broken his own teeth, grinding them. He'd paced the floor in a sulking furor, destroyed the china washbasin and pitcher by his bed. A sense of being thwarted poisoned him until his mood turned so black that not even Sisk dared approach him.
But Bekkit, useful Bekkit, had found a solution. He'd located the tavern where Fjord and his people were staying, confirmed the wizard was among their party, and reported back, whereupon a seed of cruel intent had put down roots in Talisman's mind. Now he rubbed his fingertips together, feeling a surge of arcane energy. "Mirdautas vras," he murmured. "Bless my vengeance. Sisk?"
As they pushed inside, they detected no traps. There was no sentry. Only the sounds of an empty building, the faint creaking of wood as it contracted in the night air. Talisman stood, listening and sensing. Behind him, Sisk's heavy feet fell magically silent. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out, for when they reached the second floor, they found the wizard more than alone. For Talisman knew the glassy look in those pale, vividly blue eyes, knew the meaning of the lax jaw and expression of profound introspection. This man had a familiar, and he was traveling. To him, Talisman and Sisk were nothing more than vibrations, heat. They could not be seen or heard, only felt. Talisman's mouth twisted into the smile of an egg-sucker who had found an unprotected brood. His belly grew hot with ready triumph. Yes. He could not have planned a better, more satisfying revenge.
'You have failed more profoundly than words can describe, Fjord. At least if this creature means anything to you,' he thought, looking lustfully at the thin, unguarded throat.
He knelt in front of the vulnerable wizard. It gave him satisfaction that the human fit neatly between his knees. If he'd wanted to make this short, he could have snapped the man's neck. Instead, he breathed. Something, the warmth or the smell, reached beyond the veil. The man stirred and gave a very slow blink, as one in the midst of a dream. His chin tipped, gazing through the enemy looming over him with unseeing eyes, and in a soft, accented voice that Talisman remembered from the square, asked, "Fjord?"
An actual sigh of pleasure slipped from Talisman's lips. It was too perfect. "No, my dear." He lifted two fingers, and in a voice of Power, touched the man's temple. "Lock."
The human jerked as the spell took effect, and a laugh tumbled from Talisman's mouth. He had no more care for subtlety and watched with relish as the wizard struggled to pull himself back into his body. It would not work. In a panic, his hands shot out to defend himself, but Talisman seized them, bending back the twiggy fingers and drawing forth a bark of pain.
"Sisk," Talisman summoned, and the orc was there in an instant. "Mouth, for the moment."
A giant hand clamped down over the panicked wizard's face even as he began to stammer, attempting to summon aid or fire. Talisman saw the copper wire around his wrist and tore it off, flinging it across the room. He felt the man's cry as it came away.
"Now, now," Talisman said. "We can't have anyone spoiling this, not before I'm finished." Anger pressed against his chest, surging past even his gratification. "No one puts a son of Salvatore on his back. You ran like a coward before I could teach you, but now there's no escaping. Sisk, the belt and coat. Then hands. You know the way."
A cloth belt took the place of Sisk's hand. However, as Sisk moved to bind the wizard's wrists, a scorched odor filled the air. Sisk grunted, then squeezed. Something popped, and there was a muffled shriek. After that, the cord wound without resistance around dislocated bone. "Done," Sisk grunted. The coat, belt, and component pouch were thrown out of reach. He tossed the boots as well. It was an understandable precaution; Sisk had been half-blinded by a mage who kept a twist of sulfur in the heel of his shoe.
Talisman took the wizard's face between his hands. "Do you know me? I do so want you to know." He pressed against the stubbled jaw, resting their faces together so that a tusk brushed the man's cheek. The human stiffened, and Talisman smiled. "Ah. There it is." He took the time to mutter a spell under his breath, feeling the walls of silence close around them, then yanked the gag free.
Having reclaimed his voice, their captive begged, "Let – let me go. I have no quarrel with you."
Talisman backhanded him. He could see the bruise blooming against his cheekbone. It would swell in moments, he had so little flesh on him. A poor specimen, even with his meager magic. This was no sorcerer. Just a poor little mouse who had ferreted away a few tricks from dusty tomes and learned to speak in a tongue his fleshy lips had no right to utter. 'I should cut off those lips,' Talisman thought.
"Did you hear that, Sisk? It thinks itself worthy of a quarrel with me. No, this is about punishment. For you, and for that milk-blood Fjord. He looks the sentimental type, squalling over street urchins. What do you do for him? Is it just your clever fingers? Or is there more – what did that tiefling call you? Caleb?"
Of course, the human could hear none of this, not even his name. It didn't matter. His nerve endings were functional, and that was enough. Sisk had sensed were this was going, and his bloodlust was rising. His hands kept tightening and slackening around the Caleb's arms, like tenderizing meat. Talisman enjoyed feeding that need for violence, would gladly feed it now, but first...
He pressed his hands together and rubbed until sparks traveled through them. "Hands off, Sisk," he said and dug his nails in like talons, sending a stream of pure energy racing into the body of the bound human wizard.
Oh, how he thrashed under Talisman's fingers. His scream was high and beautiful. Under ordinary circumstances, it might have been heard, but that did not matter with Talisman's spell in place. The silence would hold his voice, keeping it for Talisman's ears alone. It could swell to fill all the spaces, but not a soul would answer. That was an exquisite loneliness, was it not?
The Shocking Grasp eventually faded, and Talisman could see how weak his prey was already. One measly cantrip and already he sagged, eyes shot through with broken capillaries. Pathetic.
Talisman drew a long, slim dagger from his belt. He traced the edge with one finger. "I've been wanting to try this, but sadly it's more of a defensive maneuver, since most can maneuver to avoid its area of effect. But you won't have that problem. Would you like to see? They call it Cloud of Daggers."
A hundred or more sharp and stinging objects materialized, flashing and twisting in the air. Having found their target, the daggers – like a swarm of living insects – penetrated, twisted, and furrowed. Instantly, the floorboards were wet with blood. The wizard's voice rose, near the edge of endurance. By the time Talisman snapped his fingers, dispelling the magic, he had gone silent. Talisman surveyed his handiwork. In place of the human who had gone under his knives, there was now a mess of quivering meat. It bled, runny ichor streaking from stretches of ruined tissue.
Talisman took a moment to drink it in. Then he let out a sigh. It was too much, unfortunately. That would kill, and he wasn't done yet. He reached down and called on an ability that came, not from his blood, but from his devotion. The spell hit his captive, who convulsed. Like a needle through sailcloth, the worst wounds formed evil seams. Pink, hot scars formed.
In the end, the wizard lay on his back, gasping, sickened to the crux of spirt and soul, but alive. Talisman stepped back. "There now. All better."
Sisk was looking at him, rubbing his arm. Yes, he knew the cruelty of that spell, with its unique flavor of curative power. He remembered it by his own scars, and now he looked at his master with wary remembrance. Talisman enjoyed his fear. "Pull him up," he ordered.
Afterward, Talisman straddled Caleb as his eyelids fluttered like moths. The man wet his lips, searching for words. "W-why?"
"Why?" Talisman took his time with the question. "Many reasons. Because your leader annoyed me, and I want to make him sorry. Because it satisfies me to take apart my enemies with my own hands. Because what is power if it lays fallow and unused?"
Caleb blinked, gears shifting like clockwork behind absent eyes. He gazed straight ahead, and in that moment it was almost as if he were looking directly at Talisman. His jaw set. "It is weak people who attack the defenseless."
Rage flared up, and Talisman struck the wizard again. "Smart, aren't you?" he hissed. "Too smart for you own good. Well, let's dissect that pretty brain of yours and see what you have inside." He slid a copper coin out of his pocket, pressed it to the man's temple. "Won't you oblige me?"
With a word, he shoved into the man's mind. The surface thoughts came easily, though they were so slipstream, so like silver fish in a fast-moving body of water, that at first he had trouble grasping them. But there was something...something smoldering under the brittle, unimpressive shell this mind inhabited, something like the blackest parts of a well or the inside of a star. Places no one was supposed to see. Intrigued, Talisman pressed in further.
Except, where he had curled up and taken the abuse before, now Caleb fought. His leg lurched in a jerky but purposeful thrust, taking Talisman in the hip and making him lose his grip. "Sisk!" he snarled. "Take care of that leg."
This time the popping was more like a crunch, and the wizard wailed. Talisman watched the muscles of his leg twitch and bunch in an attempt to escape the pain. Only when he slackened did Talisman reclaim the sweaty temples, copper pressing like a brand, and cast his spell again. He expected it to be easy this time, but his captive had a trained mind and resisted the incursion with a strength that surprised him. He pressed a boot into Caleb's leg, winning a cruel victory in the form of a shattered cry. Talisman seized his opportunity as the besieged mind faltered, shoving until a fragment of what lay deep, deep down became known to him.
What he found he only particularly understood. Fire, a great deal of it. It both illuminated and burned, snapping cruelly around even the gentlest memories. Faces, both friends and foes. This man Caleb had noteworthy examples of each, although the categories were confused. In some ways, the foes seemed friends and the friends seemed foes. A man with steel in his eyes and pain-bringing hands. Two beloved souls that spoke in an unknown tongue. A leader, green with hands that smelled like salt. A bubbly, taunting tiefling. Fellow human, fellow child of the empire. Another tiefling, a helper who came sometimes with a slap and other times with a kiss. And the little thief, who Talisman recognized well enough, even tinged as she was by the strangest familial feeling.
Underneath it all was the sense of a great, burdensome secret. Something both past and future, always in the periphery of this man's mind. Something he was driving for, something that drove him, something dangerous, world-altering, unnatural...
With sudden force, Caleb shoved the intruder from his mind. Talisman grunted, stuck by a blinding headache. He knew he didn't dare delve so deep again. One thing had become crystal clear, though. Whatever else drove this man, he was full of one thing. Talisman reached into his pocket and withdrew a white feather. He looked down at the man on the ground. "You deserve this," he said.
The feather crunched between his knuckles, and he evoked Fear.
He didn't know what the wizard saw – a man's worst fears were his own – but this bile must have been impressive, because even with his broken leg, Celeb tried to run. It was compulsion, raw animal instinct, and when he failed, he curled up as tightly as he could and wept bitterly. In a voice that was guttural and foreign, he cried out, "Nein, nein, nein!"
Talisman watched impassively while Sisk lurked at the edges. He knew the spell had run its course when the wretched tone waned to hiccups. Talisman toed the prostrate wizard. The response was a reflexive flinch, nothing more. No matter. They were almost done. He locked eyes with Sisk, who moved into place, drawing the wizard into his arms. Talisman searched for his knife. It had fallen to the floor. He picked it up and flicked blood onto the ground.
"You know, I could simply kill you. In a way, it would be kinder. It's true you angered me, but if I'm being truthful, you're beneath my notice. That makes me want to kill you. But I can't, you see? I need your companions to discover you, to slick their boots in warm blood, to feel their skin creep with horror. You understand that, don't you?"
The wizard gave a little jerk, something of consciousness returning. His eyes, glazed with pain, wandered. He licked crackled lips, whispered. "You are going to die for this."
Talisman yanked Caleb's head back by the hair. "What?"
"My...my friends...they will kill you. There are...more of us. The ones who were gone...they will destroy you…for hurting us."
Talisman actually laughed. "Is that what you think? That your friends fell defending you? Oh, dear one. What a sad disillusionment you will have if you survive to experience it." His knife caught the light. "What do you think, Sisk? I think – the hands. We will maim him as his little thief should have been maimed, a fitting lesson. Is it not perfect?"
Sisk's grip tightened. "You need serrated knife."
"No. I'll just cut through the soft tissue. You can snap the little bones, can't you?"
Muscles corded as Talisman maneuvered the arm into place, but the wizard was so weak his resistance was like an anxious child's, being drawn to bed. Talisman turned the wrist, thumbed the smooth flesh over the pulse point. He waited until Sisk fixed a tourniquet and the fingers began to blue. Then he looked into Caleb's face. Delicate veins threaded his eyelids. Blood oozed from bitten lips.
Talisman let the warmth of his breath mist so that the half-lidded eyes snapped toward him. Their gazes met across planes of existence. Talisman poised the knife on a prominent bone in the wrist. "If you live, I hope you remember this," he said, and he made his first cut.
What came after was filled with sound. Yet outside the cone of silence, nothing.
Mollymauk had a bad feeling. It started near midnight while he was standing a block away from the manor. His stomach, which had been uneasy since they left, slowly tightened until he was overcome by an anxiety that had no source, no reference point. Why? He looked up at the moon, which was darting in and out of cloud cover, and felt a powerful sense of premonition.
"Yasha."
A shadow moved at his back. "Yes?"
"Something feels wrong. We need to call it a night." He kept his voice as casual as he could; nonetheless, his friend seemed to sense the profundity of his mood. She considered it, then disappeared without a word. They'd arranged a system by which Nott would check with them via Message at regular intervals, and he heard Yasha murmuring.
She returned. "Nott's coming."
It took a quarter of an hour, during which time Molly wanted to peel himself out of this own flesh. Nott showed up looking perplexed and wary. "Why did you call me back? I had another wing to go, and there wasn't a soul in sight."
"Molly feels we should leave this place for the night."
Was that it? Molly searched himself, realized it wasn't quite. "We need to get back to the others," he corrected, hoping they didn't demand an explanation. Gods, he felt crazy. Yet he couldn't stop fidgeting, his hands and feet twitching with the desire to be gone.
The two women shared a long glance. He waited, beseeching. Finally, Yasha – the one person in his life who knew him too deeply to doubt, who never demanded what he could not give – nodded. "Of course. Lead the way."
The crowds made it easy to blend in, so there was no need for subterfuge once they hit the streets. Molly set a challenging pace, abandoning his usual languid gait for something more insistent. Soon, he was near a run. Nott jogged in Yasha's shadow. "Molly, do we really need to go this fast? Did the others say something?"
"I don't know," was all he could say. "I don't –"
A flash of orange caught the edge of his vision, stopping him mid-step. He moved away from the crowd, into an alleyway. There were barrels of trash, a spool of heavy cord. He knelt by the later, looking into the gloom it created, and saw a huddled animal. Its ears were flat against its head, its paws drawn tight, and it was shuddering violently. Nott drew a sharp breath. "Frumpkin? But what is he doing here? He's supposed to be spying on the other hallways."
With incredible gentleness, Molly reached under the spool. He half-expected the animal to lash out, but it didn't respond as Molly drew it into his arms. It just stared out, and that was when Molly recognized the eyes, which were a deep, penetrating blue. His heart stuttered. "Caleb?"
A ripple went through the muscles of the animal, a tremble that was neither animal nor fey, but human. Nott scrabbled, drawing him down so she could press close. "Caleb, Caleb, is that you? What's wrong? Did something happen to Frumpkin?"
The warm body of the animal was pressed against him, and Molly moved his fingers through its fur, looking for any sign of a wound. There was nothing, not that a wound made sense. If Frumpkin had been hurt, Caleb could simply abort the mission and snap him back into the Feywild. Why, then, was he here in an alleyway, paralyzed and hiding? "There's nothing wrong with Frumpkin, but this looks – it looks like trauma, or pain."
Nott's spine snapped taut. "If it's not Frumpkin..."
Mollymauk's throat knotted. Yasha was already moving. Out of the ally and into the press, which parted around her much more easily than it had for Molly. Her eyes had a wild look, and her hand was on the hilt of her sword. Nott and Molly darted behind her.
"We're coming," Molly mumbled into orange fur as he ran. "Just be alive when we get there. Dammit, Caleb, we're coming."
Frumpkin laid in his arms and didn't move.
