The next morning they set off before dawn and continued throughout the day without a single break. The snow continued to fall until there were snowdrifts taller than a man. Even though Tatianna was covered with several thick layers of furs, she still shivered from the cold.
By midday, her toes were numb and still Hawkeye trudged on as the snow got deeper and deeper. Eventually, Hawkeye had to shift into his hybrid form but still he continued on; driving forward with his powerful legs while using his arms to help push the snow back. Around dusk the snow stopped but the heavy clouds remained. Coming to the crest of a small hill, Hawkeye paused briefly.
Glancing over her left shoulder, Tatianna got her first glimpse of Itasca, the northern village of the Highland Nation. It was not what she expected.
Chapter 12
Blackfang moved through the bowels of the fortress until he reached a wooden door with a huge lock that barred his way. Pulling out a large key from underneath his filthy furs, he unlocked the door and stepped into the immense chamber. The intense smell of blood, urine, rotting flesh and fear assaulted his nose; Blackfang smiled at the horrifying smells. It was heaven to him.
To his immediate left was a large fireplace; although it was not burning at the moment, it was already laid out for the next fire. Nearby was a large table, full of pokers, shackles, thumbscrews, manacles, knives, bottles of salt and many other items Blackfang didn’t recognize. All were cleverly designed devises used for torture. They each had a unique way of causing great pain without letting the prisoner die.
Directly across from the main entrance were two doors of cast iron leading to the prison cells. Some of the filthy cells had inhabitants, soldiers who were delinquent in their duties or captured prisoners. On the walls to the right, hanging at different heights were iron shackles. Most were empty but some still held the remains of their last inhabitants; skeletons and a few corpses that had not completely decomposed. There were also three elves and one dwarf hanging from these shackles.
The elves hung limp in their chains with their heads bowed low and their wrists bloody and raw from the strain of holding up their weight. They were stripped completely bare and bore the many marks of torture. Mostly bruises, burns and cuts that had been left open to fester and rot. The torturer had gone to great lengths during their last session trying to make them beg or scream for mercy. He had failed. Not once during the many sessions of torture had either of the elves even uttered a single sound.
To an elf, the pains of the body can be endured. An elf just places his mind far away from the body and stays there until the session is over. It is what the pain has done to the soul that cannot be undone. The worst punishment Blackfang or anyone could do to an elf, was to place them deep underground, away from the light of the sun, the feel of the wind and the scents of the forest. The pain done to the body is preferable to the chaining of an elf’s soul deep underground.
As bad as the elves looked, the dwarf had it worse. He was suspended by both of his arms and legs while the tension pulled in four different directions; his wrists and ankles bloodied and raw from the strain of holding up all of his considerable weight. He was also stripped bare, showing several long cuts across his midsection and arms. But again, the punishments to his body though considerable were not the worst punishment the dwarf was made to suffer.
They had shaved him.
Every single hair on his body had been shaved off. His fiery red beard and long mustache were gone. Shaved clean by the wicked gnomes as punishment which was the most humiliating punishment one could inflict upon a dwarf.
To the dwarven culture long hair and beard were a symbol of a dwarf’s courage and physical prowess. For when a dwarf enters hand to hand combat, they must get in close because of their small stature. Any opponent could easily reach out and grab the dwarf’s long beard or hair, pulling them off-balance. Only a warrior who was sure of his skills in battle would give his opponent such an advantage. The length of your beard and hair was a great symbol of pride and honor to a dwarf. To be clean shaven or to even have short hair was to be without honor. And to a dwarf, honor is everything. A true dwarf would rather die honorably than to live shamelessly.
Blackfang punched one of the elves on the chin and shouted, “Wake up, Elfie! Your master is here!”
As the elf’s head snapped back from the force of the blow, his eyes popped opened and he glared at the Highlander. Even in the dim light Khlekluëllin’s dark hair still shimmered with blue highlights which gave him a foreboding look. “Good morning, Blackfang.”
Looking over his left shoulder Khlekluëllin called, “Wake up, Mortharona! We have a visitor.”
Lifting his head slowly, Mortharona answered through a yawn, his voice was dry and wispy. “Good morning brother, is breakfast ready yet?”
Spitting out blood, Khlekluëllin aimed for Blackfang but missed. “I don’t believe so but someone let in this smelly mutt. You know it is so hard to find good help these days.” Twisting his head so he could see the dwarf he asked, “Wouldn’t you agree Rjurik?”
Clearing his throat, Rjurik spoke slowly. “Aye lad. Tis strange hospitality we have had ta endure these last few days. Personally, I think da host should be drawn and quartered.”
Smiling Blackfang walked over to the chained dwarf, reached out and grabbed Rjurik’s genitals. Pulling on them hard, he slammed his knee into his midsection. There was a loud grunt, as all the air in dwarf’s lungs was forced out. Groaning, Rjurik fell silent.
“Listen here, you smelly earthworm,” Blackfang said. “If I had my way, you would’ve been dinner long ago. Dwarves make a great appetizer although their meat is a little chewy. But my allies think you could be useful in the future. They seem to think that you will tell us of a back way into your homeland before you to die.”
Turning away from the groaning dwarf, Blackfang noticed that the fourth prisoner in the room hadn’t stirred yet. Turning toward him, Blackfang studied the pale elf. Corwin, the elven queen’s consort and father of the twins, hung limp in his chains. His naked body was extremely gaunt and bore the numerous marks of torture. Out of the four, he had been in the dungeon the longest and tortured far more than the others had and his body showed it.
Prodding Corwin’s chest with his knife, Blackfang screamed. “Wake up!”
No response. Grabbing the elf by the shoulders, Blackfang brought his knee up into the elf’s groin, hard. Extremely, hard. Still no movement or reaction at all. Blackfang checked for a pulse and couldn’t find any. He threw back his head and laughed.
“It seems that I will eat well tonight after all. Your father has finally given in to death’s reward. You elves are so weak! He didn’t even last a month.”
Khlekluëllin spoke quietly in his native tongue. “Go to Aurora, Corwin Amarth. Pass from this realm to the Halls of the Sun and rejoice in the knowledge that you will be honored forever.”
Blackfang walked over to Khlekluëllin and punched him in the gut. “If you forsake your goddess, I’ll set you free.”
Regaining his breath, Khlekluëllin fixed Blackfang in a deadly stare. “If you set me free, I’ll rip out your heart with my bare hands.”
Blackfang ignored the idle threat and said, “Soon you’ll be begging for a quick death!” Turning his back on the helpless prisoners, he stormed out of the chamber. As he passed the two gnomish guards just outside the door, they snapped to attention. “One of the elves is dead. Take him to the kitchen.”
“By your command!” They both replied in unison and hurried to do the Blackfang’s bidding. Once out of earshot of their master, the gnomes grumbled to each other in their own tongue as they unceremoniously dumped Corwin’s body on the floor, grabbed the corpse roughly and dragged it from the chamber.
As soon as they were alone again, Mortharona said, “It has to be soon. We can easily overpower the guards.”
Khlekluëllin shook his head. “Father didn’t think that would be a smart thing to do and neither do I. We might be armed but wher
e are we going to run? There has to be at least three thousand troops in these ruins. No, we should wait until they go off to battle. It’ll have to be soon. Even Blackfang isn’t stupid enough to keep an army this size idle for too long.”
Khlekluëllin looked over at the dwarf and asked, “What do you think, Rjurik?”
Rjurik nodded. “I agree with both of you. The chance to escape will have to come soon or not at all. We will have to be ready when it comes. It might be tonight or next week or next month. The important thing is to conserve our strength until then.”
As each thought about their situation and the possibility of escape, an oppressive silence fell over the torture room. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the ever-present scents of death, decay and the oily smoke from the old lamps which burned slowly in the corners.
Finally, Mortharona broke the silence. “When we do make our escape, I hope we have an opportunity to kill Blackfang. I cannot wait till I get my hands on that filthy shape-shifter. His death won’t come quickly or easily. I’ll show him what torture truly is.”
Pausing to think, he didn’t notice the horrified look on his brother’s face. A wicked grin slowly crept over Mortharona’s face as he imagined his actions.
“I think I’ll start with his toes. I’ll cut them off, one by one and throw them in the fire so he can watch them burn slowly. Then, I’ll do the same to each of his fingers. I’m going to take great pleasure in killing him.”
Khlekluëllin stared at his twin brother in disbelief. “Mortharona, that isn’t a nice thing to say, even about Blackfang. Your thoughts and words go directly against Aurora’s teachings.”
“And the sacred words of Bromois,” Rjurik interjected. “Although I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on Blackfang myself, I would like to face him one on one in battle. There is no honor in torture, only in combat.”
Khlekluëllin nodded. “I agree. I wouldn’t mind facing off with Blackfang myself in combat, blade to blade, skill versus skill.”
Mortharona laughed. “You would condemn me for thinking of lovely ways to kill our enemy. An enemy deserves no mercy. Mercy is for the weak!”
Khlekluëllin shook his head, closed his eyes and silently prayed to his goddess that their chance to escape would come soon. He knew their imprisonment and torture was changing them all but Mortharona’s change was far worse. If he was thinking of torturing Blackfang then he was beginning to slip away from the teachings and beliefs of their goddess. That was not good.
* * * * *
Elsewhere in the fortress, Lalith was thinking the same thing. Her melodious voice broke the silence as they stared into the depths of the dark pool of water.
“Well, well… I think I now know which elf to curse.”
Staring into the dark pool, they watched the three captives argue. Reaching down, Lalith waved her hands slowly over the floating images which tightened and slowly focused in on Mortharona. His voice, although hollow and distant, could be heard as he continued his tirade.
“Come now brother are you going to hang there and tell me you wouldn’t enjoy killing Blackfang after what he has done to you, our father, our sister and me? I don’t believe you!”
Shaking his head, Khlekluëllin disagreed. “No, I’m not saying that. Yes, I would love to kill Blackfang. And if I ever get the chance, I will. But that’s not the point, it’s the way you would kill him. Torture! That is the way of a coward, not a warrior! There would be no challenge in killing a helpless captive.”
Lalith’s gargoyle familiar, Jinx, glanced up at his mistress and grinned. His fangs gleamed a sickly red in the faint firelight of the small burning brazier as he sat on the granite stones that made up the sides of Lalith’s scrying pool. Jinx rubbed his hands excitedly. “Very true, my mistress.” He pointed at the image of Mortharona. “That one’s heart is full of hatred.”
“Yes, isn’t it lovely?” Waving her hands over the pool, the images faded. “We needed to find a weak spot in which to poison the elves with and now we have it. Mortharona’s hatred for Blackfang will be his undoing. Where the fire of hatred burns, the ashes of evil lie. All we have to do is fan those flames a little.”
Reaching to the side of the pool, Lalith picked up a silver pitcher. Slowly, as not to cause many ripples, she emptied the pitcher into the pool. The faint firelight reflected off dark red-black liquid.
Jinx licked his lips hungrily as the smell of blood filled the room. “But mistress, we still have to find a way to let them escape without alerting Blackfang.”
She waved a delicate hand as if to dismiss the trivial thought. “Don’t worry about that, I have a plan. As to Blackfang…” She paused to pick up a small bundle of leaves and tossed them in the nearby brazier. “I’ll take care of him.”
The flames hungrily consumed the dried leaves filling the small chamber with the fragrance of juniper and illuminating Lalith’s spell chamber.
It wasn’t very big, only a third the size of the bedchamber in the next room but it was cozy. On one wall, a small fireplace was laid out and ready to light. Directly in front of the fireplace was a bear skin rug. The rest of the chamber was crammed full of magical paraphernalia. The walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of herbs, spices and spell components. Most were in clay jars labeled with ornate runes or simple pictures, while some were just stacked in loose piles. Among these were seven skulls, two or three arm bones, a handful of dragon teeth and a small pile of glittering crystals. In the corner was a rack of weapons; there were swords, daggers, axes, knives, maces and flails. Several of these weapons glowed with the unearthly light of magic.
Getting up from her scrying pool that lay in the center of the small chamber, Lalith crossed the few feet between the pool and the shelves. “Come, Jinx. We have much to do before everything is ready.”
Studying the clay jars for several moments, she began selecting certain ones and carrying them over to the pool. Jinx hopped down from the pool and began to lick the blood from the silver pitcher.
* * * * *
Grunk moved easily through the camp surrounded by the enemy. Of course, they didn’t realize he was the enemy. To them he was just another cyclopean warrior, maybe a bit better outfitted but just another one-eye.
Infiltrating the enemy camp had been easy. The why was harder to explain?
Grunk had followed the river downstream and found the tracks where three of the companions had come ashore. Unfortunately, they had landed in the middle of a goblin camp.
Judging from the tracks, Grunk knew it was the two elves and the dwarf. They had been captured without a fight, bound and marched south to this ancient dwarven fortress. This was extremely unusual behavior for goblins. This had heightened Grunk’s curiosity, which only partially explained why he was wandering around an enemy’s camp.
He had spent the last three days learning the workings of the camp. It’s amazing what soldiers will discuss around a campfire or in a chow line. He didn’t know the exact location of the dungeon but he reasoned it would be deeper into the fortress than he could wander without proper authorization.
Of course, Grunk had to worry not to draw too much attention to himself since he wasn’t a true member of the army. He had overheard enough of the army’s organization to deflect the most common questions. His major concern was being caught up in a situation where more than a cursory examination would take place. Grunk also never stayed in one tent, messhall or section of the camp for long. Most of the other cyclopean guards generally ignored the gnomes or goblins, taking food or drink from them at will. So his noncommittal grunts and gestures spoke volumes to the smaller races.
Grunk was sitting in a chow hall on the east side of the camp, the same one he had visited on his first day inside the enemy’s camp. Out of all the eating establishments he had visited, this cook seemed to have the most talent or pride in his work. The food wasn’t excellent but considering some of the other slop he had choked down over the last three days, it was wonderful.
Grunk loo
ked up from his meal and spied a well armed and armored dark elf moving through the crowd, the surrounding gnomes and goblins parted at his approach.
He was dressed in solid black leather pants with a vest of black chainmail and moved with the grace of a panther; smooth, confident and deadly. A brace of throwing knives were strapped to his hips and the hilts of his twin sabers could be seen over his shoulders. His stark white hair was shoulder length but pulled back into a ponytail and a silver choker inset with a glowing red ruby encircled his neck. Everything about his movements and manners spoke that this dark elf was a warrior supreme.
Grunk felt the hackles at the back of his neck rise when the dark elf stopped at his table.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Glancing around, Grunk noticed his was the only empty table. Feeling slightly cornered, he nodded his head and grunted.
Taking that as permission, the dark elf set his food down, reversed the chair and seated himself. Taking a bite of the stew the dark elf looked up at larger cyclopean warrior. “I’m curious, why do you Jotens always grunt? I know you can speak but all of you seem to do is grunt or growl at everyone?”
Grunk couldn’t hold back his grin at the straight question. “Most of the other races think that since we are big and strong we are also dumb. So, we act that way. Why rock the boat?”
Nodding, the dark elf took a swig of his mead. “That makes sense.” He gestured to the surrounding gnomes and goblins with his free hand. “Kind of like these damn digger and gobbies, they think all shadow elves are vicious murdering bastards.”
Looking around, Grunk could see the fear on their faces. Very few even looked their way and those that did averted their eyes immediately when they saw Grunk or his companion glance in their direction.
“I can see what you mean. They were a bit cowed when I sat down to eat but since your arrival they are positively frightened.”
“Aye, it’s so sickening. There isn’t a true warrior among them. They will be nothing more than fodder when the battle starts.” Reaching out his right hand, the dark elf said, “Darnac Penumbra at your service.”
Tales of the Wolf: Book 01 - The Coming of the Wolf Page 10