by Quil Carter
Midin let out a sick cackling laugh and nodded, taking the contraption from Erick and setting it down beside the others. “Yes, yes, of course.”
Erick smirked, the scared human had been left behind in his chambers. “Perhaps I will use it on his son. He is rather attractive, no?”
Midin bowed. “He died, Your Grace. My apologies. It is why we were hasty in you dealing with Philrick. Kirick hung himself in his cell.”
Erick picked up the Jare’s Paw again and slipped it over his knuckles. “Pity, does Philrick know?”
“He does not, my lord.”
Erick nodded. He started walking towards the second flight of stairs, leading up to the cells, the Jare’s Paw in hand.
“Philrick? Oh, Philrick?” Erick’s voice sounded, reverberating off the walls. Sweeny took a fleeting look behind him as he climbed the stairs behind Erick. Midin was at the bottom, tenting his hands and smiling. He knew better than to follow, this was going to be a personal interrogation. The words that would be leaving Philrick’s lips couldn’t be heard by anyone but Erick and Sweeny.
Erick pushed on the iron door, it was open. He stepped inside the dark tower room as Sweeny slipped the torch into a holder on the wall.
“What a sad sight you are,” Erick whispered.
The smell was even worse than it was downstairs. It smelled of feces, urine, and mouldy hay. The room was windowless, covered in bare, badly mortared brick, worn away with the wind and the elements. There was another iron door to the side, though this one did not lead to another level. It was a covered bridge that led to the twin tower beside it, one which held the rest of Midin’s torture devices.
The tower cell had the feel of a cave; it was damp and seemed to close in on them. The energy to it was pain-filled and seemed to scream, even in the silence. Many elves had died in this room, and horribly too. It seemed to be that their spirits had remained, unable to escape their torture and torment even in death.
Sweeny felt a shiver go through him as the energy sunk into his bones. He felt nervous, he wanted to leave, but he was just as trapped in this room as Philrick.
Sweeny looked around, trying to spot a place where he could hide once it got unbearable. He could see a stretching rack in one corner, a horrible beam contraption with shackles beside it, and many other nightmare-inducing things that he couldn’t even fathom what their use could be.
Then his eyes fell on Philrick. He had met Philrick before, but he had paid him no heed. Philrick wasn’t a mean lord, but like all nobles he had no time for wards or squires. He didn’t even make eye contact with him once when they were in the same room.
Nor did he now. The fat Hold Lord of Azoria was in a corner; his head had an iron cap on it, with a screw and crank sticking out of the top. The Head Crusher was on him, firmly. The iron rungs, imbedded into the hay-covered stone floor, framed around him. He was rigid and in a great amount of pain. Sweeny wondered how long Midin had had him like that.
“Look at your king, Philrick,” Erick said quietly; he ran his hand over the Jare’s Paw. “Look me in the eyes.”
“Go fuck your squire,” Philrick said. He downcasted his eyes, trying to move his head but it was firmly in the Head Crusher. He was wearing only a canvas sack-type tunic, which was stained in rusted blood or feces, Sweeny wasn’t sure which. He was shivering, and covered in dirt and filth. He didn’t look like a lord at all – he looked like a trapped pig.
Erick’s face didn’t move at the insult; his mouth was a thin line. He took a step forward and grabbed onto Philrick’s head. He wrenched it back, the iron cap protesting under the strain.
“I said look at me.”
“And I said to go fuck your squire, you motherless bastard.” Philrick’s eyes darted away, they found Sweeny. He refused to look at King Erick.
“My mother was a dragon, created from the Smokes of Shol. My father was a god,” Erick growled. He slid the Paw off onto the floor and punched Philrick right in the jaw.
Blood sprayed from Philrick’s face. He let out a groan, the iron frame shifting but remaining strong.
Philrick closed his eyes and took in a hard breath, he still wasn’t looking at Erick.
“Look at me, Philrick.”
Sweeny cringed as the blood spilled from Philrick’s mouth. His bottom teeth were no longer aligned; his bottom gum split right in the middle, making one side of his teeth higher than the other.
“I fucked your mother; she moaned like a whore.” Philrick spat out a tooth. “You’re probably my bastard son. I would have drown you when I saw you.”
The king’s red eyes blazed; he picked up the Jare’s Paw and raised it.
“NO, Your Grace!” Sweeny yelled suddenly. Erick paused and looked at him, his face furious.
“Do not disturb me, squire!” Erick snapped.
“My lord, he is trying to get you to kill him,” Sweeny said quickly. “So you won’t get what you want out of him.”
“You sheking traitor spawn,” Philrick said to Sweeny, glaring at him. “I spat on your father’s head; he begged for his life like the coward he was. Calin should have skewered you with him, traitor!”
Oh, so he does recognize me…
Philrick spat blood at Sweeny’s feet. “How does the king’s cock taste, traitor?”
“Better than King Calin’s boots,” Sweeny growled lowly, feeling a hot rush of anger course through him. There was no way for Philrick to know what had happened almost a week ago but it still burned him more than other insults would.
“Pick up the claws, Usurper, or give the Crusher a twist,” Philrick said to Erick. “Or are you a coward like Lord Taunel was? His son has already proved what a coward he is. A coward, a traitor or as every lord in Alcove calls him: the King’s Whore.”
“I am not!” Sweeny suddenly yelled. He lunged at Philrick and started slashing at his face. “He treats me better than King Calin ever did!” Sweeny dug his extended claws into Philrick’s face and tore at it, before he felt Erick pull him off.
Philrick chuckled, his cheeks completely shredded. The cuts paled around the edges before they started filling up with blood, which then spilled down his cheeks. Shreds of cheek skin flapped as he laughed.
“Calin spared your life, boy. You owed him your allegiance and your life; you should have died with the rest of the court who were honourable enough. A clean death is better than a traitor’s life. You would be wise to adopt such morals.”
“Highborns have no morals,” Sweeny snarled, trying to kick away from Erick before he remembered himself. He stopped and Erick set him down. “Highborns are traitorous–”
“– snakes?” Philrick cut him off, nodding his head to the draken sigil sewn onto the breast of Sweeny’s robe. It looked like he was smiling but his lips were slashed; it had given him a permanent smirk. “Traitorous snakes? You wear a draken snake on your heart. A hibrid wearing a snake proudly, I’ve never seen anything more disgusting.”
Sweeny shook his head. “No, snakes are not able to feel fear, you are terrified right now. I smell it on you, you are like all highborns. Mighty with your guards and entourage, with your diamonds and covis, with your legacy and your titles and holds. You shek gold until someone in a hold across the kingdom decides you’re a threat, and then you die; your family dies. And to shut the king up and the lords up you gift them jewels to look the other way,” Sweeny said. “What is worse than gods’ games? Highborn games. Because at least the gods actually do own us, not a false sense of entitlement because you happened to be born to the right elf.”
The Hold Lord of Azoria seemed amused by this. “So your allegiance is to a false usurper who doesn’t beat you as badly as Calin? Your price is cheap, like your ass probably is.”
Sweeny’s hands flexed, he eyed the Head Crusher’s crank. “My allegiance is to one who was chosen by the gods himself, King Erick Zahn.”
“You would be surprised how quickly a tyrant goes down once he develops a god complex,” Philrick said.
; Erick reached out his hand and gave the turner half a turn. Philrick groaned, closing his eyes with strain.
Erick knelt down in front of Philrick; he picked up the Jare Paw again and tapped it against his hands. “You are not afraid to die, are you Lord Philrick?”
“Piss on my corpse for all I care.” Philrick reared back and spit blood in Erick’s face.
“How about your son, Kirick?” Erick whispered. Sweeny ran over and wiped the blood away with his sleeve.
A look of pain swept Philrick’s face, his head lowered. “My son is as good as dead. Piss on his corpse too for that matter.”
Sweeny watched as Erick picked up Philrick’s shackled hands, for a second he looked like he was holding them in almost a comforting way, until he reached into his tunic pocket and grabbed a pair of pliers. Sweeny watched, and Philrick groaned, as Erick pinched one of Philrick’s hibrid claws and yanked it out.
Philrick bit his lip, stifling a cry of pain. Erick pulled out the next claw, not taking his eyes off of the lord’s face.
“I have a horrible, horrible plan, when we count to finger five, I’ll tell it to you,” Erick whispered. He dropped the long bloody hibrid claw onto the hay-strewn floor and pinched it against the third.
Erick pulled it out slowly. Philrick couldn’t stifle his cry this time. Though his head was stationary, his eyes looked down at his raw, bleeding fingers. Torn red flesh and skin seeping droplets of rubies onto his lap, they seemed to weep blood, one drop at a time falling like tears.
“Three.”
Sweeny’s eyes fell to the shadow on the wall beside them. The king’s silhouette with his pointed crown, hunched over, and the tuffs of Philrick’s hair not under the iron cap moving as he tried to writhe as much as the Head Crusher would allow. While Erick pulled the forth fingernail out, Sweeny could see Philrick’s gaping mouth in the shadow. He cried out and groaned, unable to clench his teeth from his split gums.
When Erick got to five, sweat was mixing in with the blood on Philrick’s forehead.
“You seem to hate traitors, is that right, Philrick?” Erick murmured. He picked up one of Philrick’s bloody claws and examined it, before tossing it aside.
“Burn in Shol, you cocksucker,” Philrick whispered.
“Your son will be dead, your wife is dead… your legacy is dead. The impenetrable Azrayne as fallen. The only free town in Alcove.”
“And they will never be known as traitors, they will die with honour. My House dies the most honourable in Alcove, because Philrick did not speak.”
“Your House will not die though, Lord Philrick.” Erick put his hand on the turner, he twisted it again. “Kirick will survive.”
Philrick’s eyes bulged with the last turn, as it compressed his head even tighter. Philrick tried to close his eyes as Erick tried to meet his gaze, but he could no longer draw his eyelids over them. “You…” he groaned, his buggy eyes started to rim with blood. “You cannot brainwash lords, you’ve never… been able to.”
“And you think once you die. Kirick will be a lord?”
Sweeny remembered this. It was the same rule that had prevented the lords and others from giving up where King Calin had been smuggled to. It had outraged Erick at the time; dozens had been tortured to death as he tried to get Calin’s whereabouts. Sweeny had even been threatened but never questioned. They had never told him anything, least of all where the remainder of the royal family went that night. Everyone knew that if he knew, he would tell.
Philrick was right, once he was dead Kirick would be the Lord of Azoria. In theory, if Kirick was alive and not captured, all Philrick would have to do is die for his son to be protected. Hopefully to eventually take back Azrayne.
“I’m no fool, you Dashavian horse tosser,” Philrick said, his uneven teeth still showing bits of white over the blood that continued to fill his mouth. “You and I both know you won’t be able to get a whisper out of me, no matter what you do to me.”
“And the Lord of Azoria will go down in Alcove history as the lord who never folded. The lord of the impenetrable Azrayne. When Lord Fraust bent a knee to me, and Lord Ahren, and Lord Firemane tolerated my takeover, the great and powerful House Fendil was loyal to the core. The history books would pour open with praise and accolades.”
“And House Fendil will die that way, thanks to Kelakheva and the Holy Anea.”
Sweeny watched a smirk creep up on Erick’s torch-lit face; he put a hand out and raised Philrick’s chin. His bulging, and protruding eyes still didn’t meet his.
“Look at me, Philrick,” Erick whispered.
“Burn in the pits of Shol, you prince-slaying bastard,” Philrick whispered. “As with everyone else, I will not say a word. My son will take back Azrayne, and if you have Kirick my other sons will. I have many, and many you will never find. The Lord’s Silence will fall to one of them and the holy Kelakheva will guide them.”
Erick put his hand on the crank, and as he did Philrick let out a groan. He clenched his hands around the wooden handle and slowly turned it.
“There is no protection anymore, Philrick. Nyte got the information from your head days ago.” As the words left his lips, Sweeny’s head became hot, he felt himself fill not with fear, but exhilaration. Erick’s face was split in an evil grin, his face half-covered in the darkness, half-lit by the fire of the single torch. His red eyes glinted, his thorn crown making him look every inch the powerful king he was before Xalis and Darsheive revealed themselves. Sweeny felt a rush go through him.
Philrick sputtered. “You’re a liar.”
“King Calin is in the Garas Islands, under Castle Gelane, with fifty others in the king’s court.”
Sweeny’s eyes widened, he stepped into the shadows as his chest and other areas started to tighten. Erick continued.
“Your son Kirick, is also dead.”
A look of horror swept over Philrick’s face, then a defeated cry escaped his lips.
“And everyone in Alcove, will know… that Lord Philrick Fendil of Azoria… handed it over to me on a silver platter. He broke through the Lord’s Silence, just to tell me.”
Philrick’s breath quickened. “If you know this, why are you doing this to me?” he yelled.
Sweeny, standing a few paces behind him, watched as Erick turned the crank a whole half-turn. As he did, Philrick screamed and a horrible cracking sound sounded from his skull. In that moment his eyes popped out of his head. Even Sweeny felt sick as they burst out in a stream of blood.
Philrick screamed.
Erick brought his hands up to Philrick’s face and picked up an eye in each. He turned them up and made Philrick’s popped eyes look into his.
“I just wanted you to look at me,” Erick whispered, staring into them.
Then he dropped them and rose, he looked at Sweeny and picked up the Jare’s Paw.
Erick slid it over his hand and clenched it. Then, with a scream of rage, he swung his arm in an undercut and slashed up Philrick’s neck. The force of the blow knocked Philrick out of the tight clamp of the Head Crusher; the contraption clanged up against the stone wall behind him.
The lord rolled to his side, his head broken like a cracked egg, his eyes dangling unseeing on either side of his face.
Philrick’s mouth gaped open as he took in a few rasping, dying breaths; dark gouges in his throat could be seen flexing with every inhale.
Erick watched in silence, chunks of skin and flesh hanging off of the Jare’s Paw.
Then the king turned around and walked past Sweeny, the Paw still in hand.
Sweeny watched as Philrick took his last breath, before the Hold Lord of Azrayne died in a heap of blood and mangled flesh. It was a gruesome sight, one Sweeny hadn’t seen since the rebellion that took the Pyre from Calin.
“Sweeny,” Erick called.
The squire tore his eyes away from the corpse, and watched as Erick started walking down the stairs, taking a torch up off of the walls. Philrick had no need for it now.
Midin w
as beside his array of torture tools, the same twisted grin on his creased face. “My wonderful king, did you get what was needed?”
“I did, Midin.” Erick watched as Midin bowed lowly to him. “You have earned the king’s favour. Anything you need, let it be known during one of my courts.”
Midin bowed again, this time his nose touched the floor.
“And I will be keeping the Jare’s Paw. I grow fond of it.”
“I would be honoured to give it to you, Your Grace.”
“Another thing.” Erick paused, examining the paw. “I want Philrick’s claws made into a similar device, perhaps on leather fingerless gloves.” He dug into his pocket and tossed Midin a covi. “Alert my smith and my tanner.”
“Y-yes, Your Radiance.” Midin nodded, catching the gold coin.
Sweeny couldn’t help but grimace a bit at the grotesque thought of hibrid claw gloves. He took in a deep breath, and squared his shoulders before following his king down the second flight of stairs, glad to leave the horrible-smelling, dimly lit tower behind. His lungs ached for fresh air.
The Sentinels were waiting for him at the bottom of the prison tower, ever vigilant. Zoltan was gone, off to do his other duties as steward.
With blood speckled on his robes and bits of flesh hanging off of the Jare’s Paw, the king wordlessly walked back down the halls. The shuffling of armour sounded as they followed the king back to his chambers.
Erick left two Sentinels to stand guard in front of his chambers. He went inside and took his blood-stained satin blouse off. He tossed it to Sweeny and picked a few bits of drying blood off of his shoulder blades.
“Wine, Your Grace?” Sweeny asked. The bulging eyes of Philrick still in his head, and the rush he felt during his torture not far behind. He had loved his king dearly, and respected him; but there was something in how he acted with the Lord of Azoria that made him respect him even more. He may be a human, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a king to be feared. He wondered if Erick knew that. Did he know he could still be a great and mighty king?
Erick looked over at him, he was wearing nothing but his trousers which were now speckled with blood. His chest was bare and pale and his red eyes had never looked brighter. Sweeny found himself flustered as his king looked at him.