"Enough." The Warmaster waved the spoon-bearer away. "Just enough to keep him alive in the Iron Coffin."
Icy fingers of dread gripped the Hunter's heart as the reek of iron reached his sensitive nostrils. He struggled against his bonds. In his weakened state, it had as much effect as a child attempting to move a mountain.
Strong hands seized his arms as his manacles were unlocked. Two scarlet-robed men lifted him from the table, sagging mass of torn flesh, and dragged him toward a set of wooden stairs leading up to a metal cage.
"Conserve your strength, Hunter!" The Warmaster's voice drowned out the cries echoing in the chamber. "It's going to be a long night."
The Masters of Agony only laughed at his pathetic attempts to resist and wrestled him into the cage. Pain stabbed into his healing ribs as one of the torturers lifted his hands and wrapped his fingers around the steel bar above his head. The door swung shut with an ominous clang, followed by the sound of a closing padlock.
The stench of iron nearly overwhelmed the Hunter. A wooden plank beneath his feet and the steel bar overhead were the only parts of his cage not made of the poisonous metal. A finger's breadth separated his bare shoulders from the bars around him. The low roof, no higher than his chin, forced him to hunch. He gasped for air; the position of his arms pressed his ribs against his lungs.
He met the Warmaster's gaze. Maniacal glee filled the demon's unnerving black eyes, and he rubbed his hands with delight. "Listen to me, Hunter. Believe me when I say there is no hope of escape or survival. The sooner you break, the sooner all of this stops."
The Hunter gripped the steel bar tighter. He could feel his resistance waning. How much longer could he hold out?
"I warn you, Hunter: defiance will only bring more pain. Yield or die." He waved at the Hunter's cage. "Trust me, I know exactly how to end your suffering"—a vicious grin spread his face—"one way or another." With a leer, the Warmaster turned and strode from the chamber.
One of the Masters of Agony disappeared behind the Hunter's cage. The cage suddenly shifted beneath his feet, swinging free as its supports were removed. The Hunter's back struck the iron bars. Flesh sizzled and crackled from contact with the metal. He jerked forward, and cried out again as his chest touched the cage. Blackness slowly seeped into his torso until he could pull himself upright. The pendulum motion of the cage made it almost impossible to hold himself still. The tension in his still-healing body sent agony stampeding through him.
Closing his eyes, the Hunter turned his attention inward. Too many sensations roiled within him, burning, stabbing, slicing, throbbing, shrieking at the torments he'd endured. They intensified as he pushed his consciousness deeper in an effort to direct blood, muscle, and bone to heal.
Can't! He gritted his teeth, fighting a wave of dizziness. Loss of blood left him weak, the pain too much to push through. He couldn't focus on healing his shredded body.
“Give up!” The demon's screams echoed in his thoughts. “Stop fighting. Let him break you, and it will all be over.”
The urge to accept defeat nearly paralyzed the Hunter. A part of him wanted to stop fighting. The Warmaster's torment had taken a toll on his mind as well as his body. The ache in his head compounded his suffering. He only had to yield to the inevitable and the pain would end…eventually. By then, he would be so broken it wouldn't matter. He could find peace in insanity.
No. The Warmaster's tools dissected his body but they had not touched his soul. Do your worst, Warmaster! I will NOT break.
* * *
"Morning, sunshine!" Icy water accompanied the mocking words.
The Hunter had no strength to respond. Every shred of willpower went into keeping his trembling legs from collapsing. How many hours had he spent trapped in this diminutive world of iron? He wished he could close his eyes, could let sleep wash over him, but he dared not. Anytime he'd found himself drifting off, someone had given the cage a shove, setting it swinging once more. Though every fiber of his being shrieked, he couldn't relax for even a second. In his utter exhaustion, he couldn't remember why the bars of his cage were dangerous. Instinct alone kept him standing.
He forced his eyelids open. Exhaustion intensified every sensation coursing through his battered body. His spine protested at the awkward, hunched position. He wheezed and tried to ignore the slow suffocation as his ribs constricted his lungs.
The fire in his legs—drained by too many hours fighting to hold him upright—had faded long ago, along with all sensation. The muscles of his stomach and back ached from the perpetual tension. His heart pounded a sluggish beat, barely keeping him alive.
But he was alive. That was what mattered. The Iron Coffin was meant to break him, not kill him.
Two faces floated in his delirious thoughts. Hailen's smile drove back the numbness, and the perfection of the woman he knew only as Az'nii—not Her true name, but the only one he had for Her: "my heart" in the tongue of the Serenii—kept him standing even when his muscles screamed at him to lie down and die. He held them before him like a shield, his protection against the madness that sought to claim his mind. Because of them, he clung to the steel bar and fought to continue drawing one ragged breath after another.
"Rough night?" The Master of Agony—a round, balding man with a patchy beard and pudgy hands—cackled as he fumbled at the cage's padlock. "You'll love what the master has planned for you today."
"Shut up, Garn." Another torturer stood at the base of the steps, a pair of steel manacles in his hands. "Didn't your mother ever teach you any sort of manners?" A dim part of the Hunter's mind recognized the man's accent as Praamian.
"Oh, get stuffed, Rhian!" Garn leered at the Hunter through the bars, speaking with the rough inflection of a Malandrian. "He's barely standing. Listen to that wheezing. He's 'bout as dangerous as a wet mouse."
The grizzled Rhian growled. "Looks can be deceiving, Garn. Now stop fiddling about up there and get the damned cage open. The Warmaster expects his prisoner to be ready when he comes."
Hope surged in the Hunter's chest. He's not here yet. He had to make his move soon.
The door to his prison swung open, and Garn rammed a truncheon into his gut. Air whooshed from the Hunter's lungs, and his fingers slipped from the steel bar. He slumped to his knees, his face and chest pressing against the iron bars. He screamed as the metal's poison scorched his flesh and blackness seeped into his veins. Pain raced through shoulders, legs, and back stiff from a night spent standing in the awkward hunching half-crouch.
"Get him out of there, Garn!" A momentary look of fear flitted across Rhian's face. "Iron'll kill him, Warmaster says."
Garn seized the Hunter's hair and dragged him from the cage, all but hurled him down the wooden steps. Too weak to stop his fall, the Hunter's face slammed into the stone floor with a loud crunch. Blood spurted from his nose and lip.
"Now look what you've done!" Rhian crouched over the Hunter. "You know what the Warmaster'll do to you if his prized possession isn't ready when he arrives."
"Well, we just say he tripped and fell."
Rhian snorted. "Keeper take you, Garn. Your idiocy's liable to get you killed—and me in the process." He grabbed the Hunter's arm. "Now help me get these on him."
The Hunter studied the two men through the lank curtain of hair hanging over his face. The scarlet-robed torturers reeked of the acrid stench of fear. No doubt they would be wary of him, at least until they thought they'd rendered him helpless. The Hunter remained still, allowing the Masters of Agony to twist his arms behind him and clasp the steel manacles in place. He made no protest. Even his inhuman strength would fail against chains thicker than his wrist. Better to bide his time.
"Stand up, you!" Garn tried to pull him to his feet, but the Hunter sagged. When the Master of Agony released him, he slumped to the floor once again. Only Rhian's strong grip prevented him from slamming into hard stone.
"I said, up!" Garn's boot crashed into the Hunter's gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He curl
ed around the foot, gasping for breath.
"Enough, Garn." Rhian shoved his companion away. "He's bleeding enough. The last thing you want is to draw the Warmaster's attention."
Muttering curses, Garn seized the Hunter's arm. "Well, then help me carry him."
Stone scraped the Hunter's knees and feet as the two torturers half-dragged him away from the cage. The scents of the torture chamber—blood, ordure, and vomit—overwhelmed his senses. Shrieks and moans of agony rang out, in time with the screaming of the demon in his mind. The Warmaster's temple amplified the voice to a painful intensity. The dissonance sliced to the core of his exhausted mind without mercy. If he remained here too long, the demon within would drive him to insanity long before the Warmaster's torments.
Another presence pounded in his thoughts. Soulhunger! He sensed the dagger somewhere nearby. If I can get my hands on Soulhunger…
The Masters of Agony threw him onto a wooden table. His manacles clicked open and, for a heartbeat, the two torturers released their grips on his arms. It was all he needed.
His elbow shot up and backward, sinking into the folds of flesh around Garn's throat. The torturer's cry cut off into a pathetic choking cough. The Hunter spun and slammed his fist into Rhian's grizzled face. The torturer's head twisted to the side, and he collapsed like a sack of flour. Garn followed him to the ground a moment later, clutching his throat, face purpling.
The Hunter staggered away from the table, his eyes darting around the room in search of Soulhunger. The dagger lay on a wooden counter a few dozen paces away. Its voice screamed in delight as he lurched toward it and ripped it free.
A cry of alarm sounded behind him, and he spun to see two Masters of Agony rushing from the room. He shambled after them. His legs wobbled with every step, but he refused to stop. If he fell, he knew he wouldn't get back up. He had to find someone to kill; Soulhunger would give him all the power needed.
The first figures who met his gaze were more corpses than humans. Pitifully thin, their faces the ghastly sheen of near-death, four men lay shacked to the cold stone floor. Only the nearest had the strength to moan. Within the glass box strapped to his chest, a pair of mice nibbled at his flesh. Blood seeped from hundreds of tiny lacerations. White rib bone showed through in far too many places.
No sounds arose from the next prisoner. His single eye followed the Hunter's movements. A metal spike had been driven into the other socket—deep enough to puncture the eyeball, but not to reach the brain. Thousands of nails and pins protruded from his body. The Hunter shuddered to think of the immeasurable agony the man must have endured.
The third figure opened his mouth in a wordless scream, the bloody stump of his tongue wagging without a sound. The thick red tissue over his throat had yet to fully heal after the removal of his vocal cords. The Masters of Agony had removed his eyelids, lips, ears, and nose. His three remaining fingers ended at the first knuckle, his legs at mid-thigh.
The Hunter doubted the final prisoner had enough life left in him to be worth the effort. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, and his eyes remained closed. The redness of his skin spoke of infection, but a foul odor arose from the patches of blackness spreading across his body. Whatever these men had done, they didn't deserve this endless torment.
Miserable wretches. Pity stabbed through the Hunter, and he raised Soulhunger. Their deaths would serve a purpose—it was the best he could offer.
"Stop him!"
Before he could strike, arms encircled his waist, hands seizing his wrists. He slammed his forehead into one man's nose and drove an elbow into another's face. But he faced a half-dozen club-wielding Masters of Agony surrounding him. Though fear and hesitation showed in their expressions, they laid into him with their truncheons.
For a moment, his rage drowned out the pain. He shouted and snarled, trying to rip his arm from of their grasps. If he could just get Soulhunger free—
A club slammed into his knee, and his legs sagged beneath him. Someone kicked Soulhunger from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor. Even as he scrambled after the dagger, the Masters of Agony piled atop him. Their combined weight bore him down. His attack on Garn and Rhian had sapped his last reserves of strength. He lay on the ground, chest heaving. He had nothing left.
"The master's coming! Get him onto the table."
A dozen hands seized him and dragged his unresisting form to the wooden table. His weak struggles proved fruitless as the Masters of Agony spread his limbs and snapped the steel manacles and leather head strap in place.
The door opened, and the Warmaster strode into the room. His smile at the sight of the Hunter slipped as his eyes fell on the dour faces of the Masters of Agony. "What happened?"
A scarlet-robed Nyslian spoke up. "He broke free and killed Garn. He had this when we stopped him." He held out Soulhunger.
The Warmaster eyed the dagger, then the Hunter. "So, that's how it's to be, eh? The Hunter, stubborn and unyielding as any of his kind. You're not going to break easy."
The Hunter spat. "Rot in the frozen hell, you bastard!"
The Warmaster shrugged. "So be it." He lifted a mallet and a steel spike from the table. "Hold him firm."
The Masters of Agony seized the Hunter's arm. The Warmaster placed the spike against the flesh beneath his collarbone and drove it home with vicious blows.
"Hah!" A look of triumph crossed the demon's face as he reached for another spike. "Let's see you try to break free now."
The Hunter's screams filled the chamber, echoing in time with the tap, tap, tap of the mallet as the Warmaster nailed him to the wooden table.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Hunter had believed yesterday's torments the worst the Warmaster could inflict. He'd been wrong.
Gears cranked and shifted as the Masters of Agony raised the table. His weight dragged on the steel spikes embedded beneath his collarbones, between the bones of his forearm, below his ribs, and through his thighs. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Every pitiful, coughing breath sprayed a mist of blood. One of the spikes had pierced his lungs. The searing, stabbing pain tore at his consciousness, threatening to rip sanity from his grasp.
The Warmaster stood over him, his face split in a contented grin. The smile failed to drive the ice from his eyes. "Now do you understand how truly hopeless your situation is, Hunter?"
Too weak to move, his hoarse voice raw from screaming, the Hunter couldn't summon the strength to reply.
"Good. Then let's move on to more important matters." The Warmaster's hand rested on the Hunter's shoulder. Even the tiniest contact sent fire coursing through his body. "Tell me your name."
The Hunter clamped his jaw.
The Warmaster's hand squeezed, grinding the Hunter's collarbone against the steel spike.
"The…Hunter!" The words tore from his lips beyond his control.
The Warmaster didn't let up. "That is your name? The Hunter? What kind of name is that?"
Sobs shook the Hunter's body. "It's…my name!" His voice sounded pitiful and weak. He gasped as the pressure on his shoulder relented.
"So be it." Satisfaction filled Warmaster's cold midnight eyes. "Not such a difficult question to answer, is it?"
Suffering drowned out any remaining traces of the Hunter's defiance or rage. "Please…just make it…stop!"
With an ugly predatory grin, the Warmaster patted his arm. "But what would be the fun in that? I'd rather take my time getting answers from you. More fun that way."
He held up another spike, this one slimmer than those transfixing the Hunter. "I'm going to ask another question. Tell me what I want to know, and I won't have to use this. Lie to me…" He shrugged. "Did the Sage send you to kill me?"
"No." The word came out barely above a whisper.
The Warmaster shook his head. "Wrong answer." He held out the spike. "Rhian, he's all yours."
The grizzled Master of Agony stepped into view and accepted the length of metal. "Thank you, Warmaster." With a vicious grin
marred by the hideous purple bruise on his jaw, he pressed the spike into the Hunter's bicep. The mallet crashed down.
The Hunter screamed, and Rhian struck again. The crack of splintering bone sounded loud in the chamber. The Hunter teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, but a fresh wave of torment pulled him back as Rhian drove the spike through bone, nerves, flesh, and into the wooden table.
The Master of Agony stepped back, and the Warmaster took his place. "Let's try this again." He held up another slim spike. "Did the Sage send you to kill me?"
"No," the Hunter gasped, coughing. "But he—"
"Stop lying!" The Warmaster's face purpled, and his eyes burned. "Why do you make me do this to you? All you have to do is tell me the truth, and the suffering can end."
"I am…telling the truth!" Blood filled his mouth, garbling his words. "The Sage…didn't…send me."
Another Master of Agony stepped forward. This one drove the steel spike into the Hunter's shin. The Hunter jerked, his body convulsing with such violence that flesh tore and blood spurted from the wounds in his chest, legs, and torso. His cries of anguish were little more than pathetic sobs.
"No more lies, Hunter. Tell me what the Sage intends, and it will be all over."
"Please! I…don't…know…anything."
Anger flashed in the Warmaster's eyes. "You've been in his company for nearly a week, and you expect me to believe he hasn't spoken to you of his plans? What manner of fool do you take me for?"
The Hunter moaned. "Don’t…know…"
The Masters of Agony took turns pounding spikes into him. Some pierced bone, while others sought the bundles of nerves around his body. He lost count how many. His screams grew weaker with every agonized beat of his heart. Yet he could not give the Warmaster the answers he sought. He could only protest his ignorance and cling to the hope that the Masters of Agony would tire of their torment before he gave in. The sheen of sweat on more than one forehead and the exchange of nervous glances grew more noticeable as the Warmaster's frustration mounted.
Darkblade Guardian Page 31