by Rob J. Hayes
Eventually the Grave Watch heard footsteps and took their places; two by the wall behind me and the third standing to attention next to the door as it opened. Prena stepped through followed by the Emperor and an ancient, withered old man I did not know. The Emperor smiled, Prena scowled.
"Oh, this is most excellent," the Emperor said in that energetic, charming voice of his. "I can already see there's some fire in your eyes. It's amazing what a little rest will do for a person's humours." The door swung shut with a damning finality. I saw Prena shake her head, a pitying glance sent my way. "Now," the Emperor continued. "I'll be dealing with your stay personally. This is master Tivens." He placed a light hand on the ancient man's shoulder. "He's my tutor in such matters. Fifty years' experience in the arts. Don't worry, he'll stop me if I get carried away."
"Fuck you, you cunt!" I put as much venom as I could into the insult, but the Emperor just laughed as he produced a pair of heavy iron pliers.
"We'll get right to it then." The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a sinister air. "I am quite pressed for time, what with having an empire to run. And you really thought to challenge me for it. Idiot girl."
The two Grave Watch behind me moved forwards. One grabbed my right hand, forcing my fingers to splay out on the arm of the chair I was strapped to, the other placed hands on my shoulder, pushing me down into the chair. The Emperor approached and set the pliers around the nail of my index finger. He gripped tight and pulled a little and the pain started. Tearing, ripping. Like hundreds of needles stabbing into the skin.
"Did you know," the Emperor said, lessening the pressure. Already my breathing was coming fast and ragged as I tried to brace for the pain I knew was to come. "There are over twenty different screams of pain a person can produce."
I glanced down at my right hand. The pliers were still in place, but there was no blood yet. I could feel my own fear making my heart race. I should have been able to taste it, to draw strength from it through Ssserakis, but my horror remained silent and distant, as though it were not even there. The Emperor was still talking. The fucker really liked the sound of his own voice.
"… varying in tone and pitch. Each is produced by different stimuli. But what's really interesting, is that each person is different. Different stimuli producing the same screams."
I groaned. The anticipation of the pain was unbearable.
"Am I boring you?" the Emperor asked.
"Ye—" My reply ended in a scream of agony as my fingernail was slowly ripped from its bed.
He waited for my scream to die down. It took some time and he smiled at me through all of it. When I quieted, he started again. "I want you to know how close you came," he said, his voice gone cold again. "You might have realised the army I sent against your monsters was somewhat diminished." Two thousand soldiers was a smaller force. At the fall of Orran, the Terrelan army had numbered well into their tens of thousands. "I'm afraid that was all I could muster on such short notice. So many of my troops are forced to spend their time maintaining peace in the empire. Oh, I say Orrans have been integrated into what is now Terrelan, but it's not entirely true. There is resistance. And it is all your fault."
I shook my head, trying to clear away the fuzzy edges left by the agony. Trying to understand his words.
"The last of the Orran Sourcerers. A rebel fighting for independence, for freedom, for rights. That's what they call you. Eskara Helsene: survived the war, escaped the Pit, thwarted my Knights of Ten, returned and pulled a city from the earth." He paused and chewed at his lip for a moment. "They have unified around you, around your name. Rebel factions have been popping up all over old Orran, and seditious whispers have even been heard over on the Terrelan side of my empire." He sighed. "That is where most of my troops are focused, on keeping the peace. But I intend to use you to put the rebels down for good. If I executed you, my own people would turn against me for breaking tradition, and I would only succeed in turning you into a martyr. But, when you take the noose and end your own life, I will show your broken corpse to the world. Bereft of their unifying catalyst, the rebellious elements will break down." He approached me again and set the pliers to my thumbnail. I'm ashamed to say I let out a whimper. I knew the pain was coming and I didn't want it. I didn't want any of it. "But don't for a moment think I want that to happen quickly. My empire will survive these rebels for as long as is needed, for as long as you can hold out."
By the time the Emperor was done with me that day I had no nails left on my right hand. I think he would have moved onto my left, but one look at the solid stone of my arm convinced it would be a fruitless endeavour, and the Emperor hated doing anything that wasn't to the purpose of breaking my spirit. My voice was raw from screaming out my pain, and none of those wails were drawn voluntarily. They were ripped out of me just as my nails were. And each time that hateful fucking bastard drew pleasure from my pain. Master Tivens gave helpful pointers and occasionally tutted at work he considered sloppily done. I would have ripped out his throat if I had been free. Each time the nail was gone, dumped on the floor like the worthless, bloody flesh it was, the pain ebbed from a sharp agony to dull, throbbing ache. Each time the nail was gone and I could think once more, I hated everyone in that room. The Grave Watch, Master Tivens, Prena, and the Emperor. My rage knew no limits. I tried to reach for my power over and over again, but there was no strength left to it. My Arcstorm was there, but I could not even summon a spark. Ssserakis was coiled tight, its power to manipulate my shadow withdrawn from my use. I had nothing left to fight with. And they knew it. They knew I was powerless. They counted on it.
Drenched in cold sweat, shaking from the pain, and babbling whispered curses. That is how the Emperor left me on that first day. His work done, he handed the pliers to one of the Grave Watch and strode from the torture chamber with Prena falling in a step behind. At least she had the good grace to look sickened by what had been done to me. Master Tivens wrapped my right hand in bandages and forced me to drink water that tasted of herbs, then he too left. The Grave Watch unfixed my manacles and led me back to my cell. I say they led me, but mostly they dragged me. I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Back in my cell I found bread and water waiting for me. One thing I will say about the Red Cells, they fed me well down there. How else would I keep my strength up to withstand the Emperor's ministrations?
That first day was a bad one. The days that followed were even worse.
Chapter 27
This is one of Josef's memories.
Another prisoner is dumped in front of Josef, this one wearing the faded robes of a monk, the symbol of Lursa on his breast. The Orran empire had always considered worship of the moons heretical. They had always considered any form of worship heretical. Terrelan, however, had welcomed believers of both Lursa and Lokar, and claimed it was their prayers that brought the moon showers. Josef places his hand on the man's shoulder, and draws the life force out of him, channelling the power into the metal sceptre and the Source affixed to the end. The body slumps away from him, dead flesh worthless.
A sliver of Josef screams inside, as it does with every life taken, but that part grows smaller, quieter. In his drug-induced haze there is nothing that small part of Josef could do but watch and shrivel a little more with each death.
"Next," Loran says, making a small note in his book. He flicks his fingers and opens a portal, an invisible shove sending the body of the monk through it. The soldiers grab the last of the nearby prisoners and pushed her forward.
Things have changed recently. The experiments are happening more frequently, Loran's supply of prisoners has been all but exhausted. Now, they are used as soon as they are brought in. No, not used. Killed. Murdered. Josef has to remind himself of that. But it's becoming harder and harder to care.
The Source affixed to the end of the sceptre glows now, a flashing yellow light pulsing from within. There are no more prisoners left. The poor woman with buck teeth and watery eyes looked barely old enough to be
called an adult, but that didn't matter to the Iron Legion. And Josef found it didn't matter to him either. Not anymore. They were all the same once their life was drained from them.
The two hundred and sixteenth body drops and Josef channels her spirit into the Source. It glows even more brightly than before, a high whine filling the room as the dead Rand within the Source returns to life. Josef tries to care about that as well, but he doesn't.
In the gloom of the Iron Legion's laboratory, a second Source begins to glow. Upon his writing desk sits a large Source with a flat side. It is too big to swallow, making it completely unviable to be used in Sourcery. Loran turns his attention to it, to the soft blue glow burning within the crystal. He glances back toward Josef, still holding the sceptre, the Source affixed there shining so brightly it hurts to look at. Then both Sources shatter in a scream that echoes about the laboratory. The light fades and they are left once more in the dim, flickering glow of lantern light. Another failure. So many failures. So many lives spent for nothing.
The soldiers cower. Their good humour evaporated when Loran started involving them directly in his experiments, and Josef sometimes hears them talking about running. But the pay is good enough to keep them around no matter the atrocities they must commit to earn it. Inran lets out an audible sigh and turns towards the broom leaning against the far wall. It was ever the little tahren steward's job to clean up after Loran, and he often complained about finding shards of Source for weeks after each experiment.
Josef stands, holding the empty sceptre, numb from the Sweet Silence Loran drugged him with, and from the consequences of so many lives taken. He can feel the strength of his innate Biomancy growing all the time now. Each experiment, each life taken makes him stronger. He cuts himself from time to time, to see if he still bleeds. He does, but only a trickle. The wounds close in moments and don't even leave scars.
The room shakes. It's a subtle thing at first, but the tremors grow even as Josef focuses on them The room, the halls nearby, the cells below, the very earth around them is quaking. It's not a natural tremor, Josef needs no Geomancy Source to know that, but instead it's was coming from the Iron Legion. Loran's face is tight, jaw clenched, and eyes screwed shut. His hands are balled into fists and shaking. Every bit of the man is too tense, taught like a bow string, and power flows out of him. It's not just Geomantic tremors, sound travelled bizarrely in the laboratory, one moment booming and the next, all but silent. One of the soldiers gasps as his sword twists and curls like rope caught in the wind. Portals snap open, leading to some unknown realm, and vanish in an instant. Golems break themselves free of the very rock around them, all reaching up from the floor or walls, half pulling themselves free before crumbling to chips of stone and dust. Josef feels a tide of rage sweep over him and, even numbed, he feels angry enough to scream, and then it's was gone.
Two of the soldiers collapse, hands pushed against their heads, sobbing from the tumult. Inran braces against the wall, just a few paces from the broom, his head twitching from side to side as though trying to smell the threat.
Josef glances down at the sceptre in his hand. It was unornamented, solid metal and weighty even without a Source affixed to the end, certainly heavy enough to inflict damage to an unprotected skull. The Iron Legion's back is turned, his magic flaring out in uncontrolled bursts. His shield might be suffering the instability too. There's no better chance. Josef will get no better chance to end it all, to free himself and all the others still trapped in the cells below. But he doesn't take it. Because it doesn't matter. He doesn't care enough to try.
"All for NOTHING!" the Iron Legion roars and the sound booms around the laboratory knocking everyone off their feet and making them all cover their ears. Inran is affected worst of all. Tahren hearing is much more sensitive than a terran's and the little steward is knocked unconscious by the burst of sound. "All these years of planning. All my experimentation. Made useless by an oversight!" The Iron Legion turns furious eyes on Josef. "Chosen one. Chosen ONE!" Again, a burst of sound accompanies the word and Josef groans from the pain.
The Iron Legion advances on Josef, stalking closer. "It was never about one at all, was it?"
Josef groans again, the only response he can manage, and he can't even hear that over the booming of the Iron Legion's voice.
"That is why you succeeded where all my other candidates failed. That is what makes you special. Not a chosen one, but a chosen two!"
"Eska?" Josef forces the word past gritted teeth.
"Yes. Helsene. Apart, you are useless. There is no escaping the laws of existence, Yenhelm. The Rand and Djinn are linked, inextricably paired. I cannot bring back the Rand without also bringing back the Djinn. Do you understand what that means?" Josef feels strong hands gripping hold of his tunic, shaking him, but the light had grown so bright it hurts even through closed eyes. "Twice as many lives needed for each resurrection. Twice as many chosen ones needed."
"No!" Josef fights through the pain and the haze. Tries to make his words mean something. Tries to protect the only person he can still care about. "Leave her alone."
The assault ends. The laboratory falls dark and silent in an instant, and the shaking subsides. With the pressure gone, Josef rolls onto his side and throws up, tears streaming from his eyes and stomach heaving.
"It's too late for that," the Iron Legion says in a mournful voice. He sinks down next to Josef, legs folding beneath him. Suddenly looks old. The weight of his years, both natural and not, have settled upon him. His hair stands up in thin clumps, only white wisps remaining. His skin is wrinkled and mottled with dark brown marks. His ears are too large for his head and two of his teeth had already fallen out, leaving gaps hidden behind sagging lips. "I gave her to that fool of an emperor."
Josef turns away from the Iron Legion and lets out a secret smile. At least she is free of the Iron Legion. A small compensation, but anything would be better than this torture.
"She hung herself twenty-two days ago," Loran continues. "The Red Cells get to everyone eventually."
Josef laughs but there's no humour in it at all. It's a manic thing that he can't stop.
"I'll have to start again," Loran says. "Expedite the process somehow. I know how it works now. I can make it work again."
Josef continues laughing, a madman's cackle.
The Iron Legion rips open a portal and shoves him through it. Josef is still caught in the hysteria, the laughing shaking him all over. He laughs so hard it hurts, so long he can't tell if the tears streaming from his eyes are out of joy or pain or grief or madness. One thing he does know though, something the Iron Legion does not, something he will keep from the man no matter what is done to him. Josef can feel it, deep down within himself, within his soul. He can feel Eska. He can feel that she's still alive.
Chapter 28
How long had it had been? I forget. Time lost meaning down in the Red Cells. Days bled into one another, punctuated only by those hours spent with the Emperor and his ministrations. He varied his methods, and I will not go into them. I have no wish to relive them all, and you have no need to know what was done to me. Torture is a harsh word for a reason.
At the end of each day I was escorted back to my cell, carried, more often than not, and I would find food and water waiting for me, my bucket emptied. Each day I would eat and drink, and then bereft of anything to do, I would stare up at the noose in my cell, trying to summon the courage to use it. Some people would call it cowardice instead. It is not that. It is never that. It is simply the effect of having nothing left to give, of seeing no way out but death. The only end to the pain.
Each night one of my ghosts would come to me. I think I summoned them, dredging them up from the throng that followed me, to provide some measure of companionship and comfort. They were all people I had killed, or at least those I was responsible for. Many of them I recognised; scabs from the Pit, Ishtar's mercenaries, Terrelan soldiers who died because of my little rebellion. I understood my innate Necrom
ancy better because of those nights. I came to understand that I was using it to raise my ghosts, using it to sustain them, without even realising. My guilt over their deaths manifested through a magic I had not, until recently, even known I possessed. Looking inside and studying that power passed some time, and I had a lot of time. Each night one of my ghosts would come to me, and each night I would unravel it, giving the poor soul the final rest I had unwittingly denied from them. I like to think of it as a form of penance. Mistakes are ever easy to make, and paying for them always more difficult. Each one left something with, something of themselves, or at least who they used to be. Memories. I learned to absorb memories from the dead.
It was not quite like the memories of the Djinn I absorbed through lightning. That had been like a vision forced upon me. I could do nothing but experience it in the moment, feeling as though I were living it. The memories I absorbed from the dead were different. They were impressions, a picture and the emotion imprinted upon it. One of the old huntsmen from the Forest of Ten left me a memory of his father and the way he used to smell of woodsmoke and leather. A Terrelan soldier left me a memory of her first child stubbing his toe and wailing for his mother. One of Ishtar's mercenaries gave me a memory of the whole company drunk in a tavern singing bawdy songs and drinking until their whiskers curled.
Magic was in me, I realised. Part of me. Whatever the Iron Legion had done to Josef and I, it had given us both something. I realised now that I absorbed magic. I call my Necromancy innate, as I had been changed using a Necromancy Source, but I had absorbed an Arcstorm and the magic that powered it. Or at least, I had absorbed a part of the storm. It was in me still, though so diminished it was barely a flicker. My eyes no longer flashed, and all I could find when I looked within was the shadow of the storm, the memory of it. But it was not gone. Nor, too, was the Geomancy I had absorbed when I pulled a city from the earth. Though the magic had been seconds from killing me, I somehow retained some of it inside, enough to move my stone arm. It was not much, though I think that was more because of weakness and condition, but I had enough strength left in me to curl and uncurl my fingers. It gave me hope, of a sort. The only hope I had. That one day, should I somehow survive the Red Cells, I might have full use of my arm once more, even if I would never be able to feel it again. It was not gone, only changed.