Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Enter,” Pandral ordered.

  There was movement then, and the room filled with the most wonderful aroma of sausages and mash, with thick onion gravy. Will’s mouth filled with saliva, his stomach twisting and writhing. He struggled to turn his head, an automatic response, to locate the source of the smell. As he did, he caught Pandral’s eye.

  “Is there something you wish to say, Will?” Pandral asked, his face closed and hard.

  Will tried to find his voice. It was difficult; it seemed so long since he had last used it. It did not help that his mouth would not stop watering. He swallowed and coughed.

  “I called you friend,” Will said, hurt and sorrow filling each strained word.

  Pandral stared at him. “What does an abomination know of friendship?” he hissed. “I trusted you, relied on you, promoted you—and you played me for a fool, lying to me with every word. And then you have the gall to ask me to feel guilty for a predicament entirely of your own making.”

  Shocked by the pain in Pandral’s outburst, and without thinking, Will spoke as he had always done to his friend.

  “I am sorry.”

  The Lord came forward, standing over his fearful captive, fury and hatred in his eyes.

  “Oh, you will be,” Pandral told him. “Very sorry. Let me tell you what you can expect…” He dropped to one knee at Will’s side. Placing his mouth very close to Will’s right ear, he spoke in a whisper no louder than a breath. “Please, my friend, do not give up. Help will come. I swear it. You will have been seen being brought here; the right people will now know.”

  Will gasped, conflicted needs warring within him. The thought of rescue sent goose flesh erupting across his body, his stomach tightening. The desire to know the loving comfort of Amelia’s arms or the joy of his children’s happy laughter again before he died was so strong that it brought tears to his eyes, his vision swimming. Then the darker side of this desire dragged its claws through his hope. He had come here to die, away from those he loved, doing something useful, for a reason. The last thing he wanted was to torment them by making them watch his death, and now they were going to risk their lives for the privilege of doing just that. Not knowing what to say or how to stop the rescue without giving Pandral away, Will struggled with his addled mind for a response. Before he had one, Pandral stood, turning stiffly back to Mortarlo.

  “You are free to continue whatever you are doing. Just hurry up and get him out of here—he is getting blood on my carpet. And remember, I do not want him dead, just compliant.”

  When the guards returned him to the dungeons, they did not bother stringing him back up, just dumped him on the floor.

  “Take the shackles off,” Mortarlo said.

  They ignored Will’s groans, moving in a quick, practiced way to carry out the order. Mortarlo came and crouched next to him, stroking a hand down his side. It felt unpleasant and oddly comforting at the same time.

  “Get some rest,” Mortarlo told him seriously. “I will be back later and we shall finish this.”

  Locked back in his dark, fetid cell, Will crawled into the corner, feeling safer with a wall at his back. He lay on his side and let his mind drift until eventually sleep came. However, it was anything but the restful nothing that Will wanted. Nightmares ran through his head, tormenting him. He woke often, at the slightest sound, frightened, his heart drumming in his chest. The fear of what was coming slammed into him, his terror climbing, each second filled with the agony of wonder—would this be the last moment he had before they came back?

  Heavy footsteps. They’re coming. Please, no.

  A futile plea, but if he got it out of his system now, maybe he would be able to maintain his silence when the pain started. In an act of defiance he was proud of, he forced his tormented, quivering body to stand. They came into the cell, startling Will with the level of noise, bright light and sheer movement. Cowering against the wall as his sight adjusted to the light, he tried to make sense of the chaos. Several Protectors were carrying in a large wooden contraption, yelling orders and curses at each other as they manoeuvred the heavy object. None of them seemed to be paying Will any attention, except for Mortarlo, who stood to the side, watching him with cold, calculating patience. Unable to look the torturer in the eyes, fearful of what he might see, Will looked back at what they were setting up. And as its function became apparent, terror smothered him. His breath painful, heart pounding, he slid to the floor. Pulling his knees into his chest, he tried to get his fear under control. A rack?! The type he had only ever seen before in ‘educational’ mockups of mediaeval dungeons. This is some bizarre hallucination—it’s going to go away. This is NOT real. Head down, eyes screwed tight, body trembling, Will felt his sanity start to run through his tightly grasping fists.

  Eventually the noise stopped and silence fell, broken only by Will’s frightened, staccato panting.

  “Come here,” Mortarlo ordered. Will ignored him. He simply could not move. There was nothing anyone could do to him that would make him voluntarily put himself on that brutal, horrific device.

  Protectors moved towards him. Driven by blind panic, Will fought back, punching, kicking and struggling savagely as they grabbed him. Luck allowed a few of his random, violent strikes to make contact; his foot caught one man in the gut and he dropped back, winded. Another man staggered and collapsed, gasping, as Will’s fist made forceful contact with his throat. There was no plan, no thought in Will’s head, he just lashed out wildly, with nothing but adrenaline-fuelled terror that he could no longer contain, his terror extreme enough to give an exhausted, battered, starving prisoner the strength to fight five men to a standstill.

  “Stand back,” Mortarlo ordered. “And get them out of here.”

  One of the Protectors helped his injured comrades out of the cell. The other two Protectors watched Will warily, moving aside as the torturer approached. Will stood with his back to the wall, his eyes darting around his surroundings, fists clenched, his body taut, ready to fight on.

  “I thought we had an understanding?” the torturer said softly, sounding disappointed.

  Will felt shame fill him. Horrified at this response, he glared at Mortarlo. He knew the man would hurt him now, but he was ready, aware; his reflexes were honed, more frantically afraid than he had ever been in his life.

  Mortarlo struck out at him, a fist aimed at his heart. Will twisted slightly, raising his right arm to block. With speed and agility beyond Will’s current comprehension, Mortarlo caught his right wrist, twisted it at an unnatural angle, grabbed the index and middle finger and performed a small, sharp flicking movement. There was a loud cracking pop of bones.

  Will screamed, tears streaming, his vision darkening. He dropped heavily to the floor, cradling his arm to his chest. His fingers were bent away from his hand; pieces of bone from the lower half of his index finger poked up through his flesh. Shattering pain shot through his hand, quickly followed by an intense, scalding agony that steamrollered up his arm and barged into his head, viciously slamming around. Will’s consciousness moved in and out of focus with the pounding rhythm.

  Calmly observing his captive, Mortarlo crouched down and reached out to gently stroke Will’s face. Hating himself for it, but unable to override the automatic response, Will cowered back.

  “Move over there,” Mortarlo pointed.

  Shocked, Will stared at him. Does he really think breaking my fingers would convince me to put myself on that torture machine? Will was fairly certain that even removing his fingers would not be enough to get him to comply. Resolutely, he shook his head. Mortarlo looked sad and disappointed.

  “I had hoped it would not have to come to this.”

  Still clutching his damaged, rapidly purpling hand, Will turned away from his tormentor, pulling in on himself, tucking in his head. They would hurt him or they would not—it was beyond his control. Helplessness washed over him, followed by a deep, seething anger. Perhaps they would k
nock him out and he would wake up on the huge wooden contraption that dominated the cell, but he was not going to aid them in the irreversible destruction of his body.

  Mortarlo stood, turning to the nearest Protector. “Bring her in.”

  Trembling hard, and knowing he was most likely going into acute traumatic shock, Will heard the words but did not immediately attach meaning to them. It was not until he heard her screams of pain and sobbing pleas for release that recognition filtered through his mind. Shyla. He lifted his head as the red-haired girl was dragged into the room. Her face was bruised, her split lip bleeding, clothes dirty and torn, but judging by the effort the Protector was expending to restrain her, she was not badly injured.

  Mortarlo watched the struggle. She quickly noticed his scrutiny.

  “Please, I have done nothing wrong. Let me go,” she begged.

  The torturer’s lips curled in distaste and he turned back to Will. “Lord Pandral was very specific about you—there are certain pains I cannot inflict. He has further need for you, to which I am not privy.” A frown passed across Mortarlo’s face, displeasure perhaps that he had not been told Pandral’s plans, or maybe he was just annoyed that the full extent of his ‘skills’ could not be practiced. “However,” he continued, “this one has no such protection. No one who cares what I do to her… except, perhaps, for you.”

  “Harper?” Shyla cried in horrified disbelief from across the cell. Mortarlo nodded at the Protector holding her and she was released. Her own situation forgotten, she ran forward, dropping to her knees in front of Will.

  “Oh, Harper, what have they done to you?” she moaned. Will caught a glimpse of how he must look in the pain and distress in Shyla’s eyes. She wrapped her arms around him, and he resisted the urge to sob at this warm, welcoming comfort. How did Mortarlo know? Were his visits to Shyla common knowledge? He did not think so, but Pandral had known. Suspicion flared through his mind, overridden by fear. While there were things he would not do to protect his own life, there was very little he would not do to protect someone else’s, especially someone he loved.

  What if protecting Shyla’s life cost Amelia hers?

  “I will see us both dead before I give you the information you want,” Will said flatly.

  Shyla gasped, staring at him, but Mortarlo nodded.

  “Yes, I assumed as much. But are you willing to watch the agony I can inflict upon her, just to postpone your own pain?”

  What if his mind failed before his body did? Should he gamble with Amelia’s life to save Shyla? It was a risk, but submitting seemed the only way to protect Shyla. Defeat a heavy weight crushing him, Will shook his head.

  “No,” he murmured. “I am not.”

  “I do not understand, Harper,” Shyla whispered, her voice fearful.

  Will kissed her forehead with dry, papery lips. “My name is Will, and I know you do not. I am sorry you have been dragged into this,” he said sadly.

  “Chain the girl up in the corner,” Mortarlo snapped at the nearest Protector. Shocked, frightened and confused, Shyla did not make a sound as she was dragged upright, a metal collar slipped around her neck and attached to a chain in the corner of the cell.

  “I want you here,” Mortarlo ordered Will again, pointing to a spot on the floor at the side of the rack.

  Will began the arduous task of rising to his feet.

  “I did not ask you to stand.”

  Humiliated, his eyes to the floor, and trying not to put pressure on his broken fingers, Will crawled awkwardly to the place indicated. He heard the two Protectors sniggering, and his humiliation turned to burning rage, giving him a strong desire to rip them limb from limb with his bare hands.

  Mortarlo patted him gently on the head, like a dog.

  “See how much better it is when you do as I say? Now, get up here and lay flat, arms above your head,” he ordered.

  Taking deep breaths and hoping that Pandral had included ‘ripping arms out of their sockets’ as one of the things off Mortarlo’s torture repertoire, Will did as he was commanded.

  “Obeying to protect a woman, a whore. Pathetic,” one of the Protectors said.

  “No wonder he is happy to crawl around. He is no man,” stated the other.

  “Maybe the whore needs to know what a real man is like, I think…”

  “No!” Mortarlo roared, cutting the Protector off mid-sentence and making Will jump. “The abomination and I have made a deal. Anybody who touches the girl will have to answer to me. Do you understand?”

  The Protector paled and nodded emphatically. Will wanted to cry with relief. Mortarlo’s actions were more honourable than expected and deeply appreciated. His torturer moved around him, attaching his wrists and ankles to the leather cuffs at the corners of the device. His hands gently roamed over Will’s body as he did so. Wanting Mortarlo to know how grateful he was that he had stepped in to help Shyla, Will did his best not to flinch away from the touch.

  Using a large wheel attached near Will’s feet, Mortarlo then tightened the ropes with slow, rusty, creaking turns, stretching Will’s body out. Will closed his eyes, trying to calm his pounding heart and frantic breathing as he felt the stretch begin to reach his joints and spine. With chilling ease, Mortarlo stopped just as Will felt the tendons in his shoulders begin to pull. A few more turns and the result would be dislocation.

  “Look at me,” Mortarlo ordered softly.

  Will opened his eyes. The torturer stood over him. The rack was raised at the end under his head. Will could see Shyla sat on the floor in the corner, her expression one of wide-eyed horror.

  Mortarlo slapped him hard in the face. Shyla jumped, letting out a squeak of fear.

  “I said look at me!”

  Trying to find calm, his rapid heartbeat betraying his failure, Will looked into Mortarlo’s pale blue eyes.

  “Do you know what a ‘cral tarr’ is?”

  The exact translation was ‘soft nerve’, but Will did not understand what was meant by it, so he shook his head. A cold smile spread across Mortarlo’s face. His hand ran back down Will’s body, stopping at a point in the middle of his inner thigh. Still smiling, he used his thumb to apply pressure to the trembling limb, pushing hard into the meat of the leg.

  Will screamed, his body thrashing as far as his restraints would allow, his hips and head thumping up and down on the wooden boards of the rack. The pain was excruciating, like an intense muscle cramp he could not relieve. Agony became everything. But exhausted and damaged as his body was, this initial reaction did not last long. As the intensity of Will’s movements diminished, Mortarlo removed his thumb and gently rubbed the afflicted flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately. Will slumped, panting, his heart hammering in his chest, sweat dripping from him. He could hear Shyla’s distraught crying from the corner.

  As thought returned, Will understood. ‘Soft nerve’, pressure points, clusters of nerves close to the surface, a way of causing intense pain while not necessarily inflicting permanent damage. As soon as Will’s breathing calmed, Mortarlo moved his hand back to Will’s body, the other leg this time, and dug his finger into another pressure point. Burning agony flooded through Will once again and a piercing scream tore from his throat. Tears streamed down his face, his limbs writhing and straining. Again Mortarlo released his thumb, rubbing the affected area as Will sobbed.

  “Please… please stop…” Will’s breathless pleading filled the cell.

  The torturer smiled, his hand already moving up Will’s body to just above his left elbow. It was going to happen again; there was no stopping it. Will struggled, screaming his terror, but this only made Mortarlo’s smile wider. Then pain became everything there was, and Will was lost to it.

  There was a brief respite from the blistering agony when Martalo was called away to another prisoner who had decided to talk. The dull ache in Will’s shoulders and hips was pushed into the background by a throbbing pressure in his lower back that was turning into pain. Will drifted, his heartbeat
loud in his ears, reminding him that life was still his. The screech of the door opening reached down through the haze in his mind, and Will struggled towards coherence with dogged determination.

  “No… more… please… stop…” he begged, his voice rough and scratchy.

  “Does this mean you wish to tell me where Conlan Baydon can be found?”

  The torturer’s cold voice floated through Will’s mind. Answering would stop the pain. Answering would be easy. And he had a good idea what the answer was. Amelia’s face filled his mind, his love for her stronger than it had ever been. This was who the pain was for, to protect Amelia, to make sure that what he was suffering was not something she would ever have to go through. He could lie, of course; but what would happen when they discovered it? He would be given time to recover a little and then this agony would start all over again. He doubted his sanity would take it.

  “No…” Will whispered.

  A new pressure point was located, the pad of a thumb pushed hard into the nerve cluster, agonising pain for minutes that went on for years, release, heartbeat slowing down, breath becoming less ragged. Repeat, again and again and again; until thought stopped and awareness evaporated in the hideous inescapable pain.

  There was no longer a thought process. He could not form the words to beg for it to stop. But he had a desperate longing: to return to a world he barely remembered, a world where agony did not rule. His screaming sobs had long since dropped to strained whimpers, his body’s struggles becoming slow and lethargic.

  “I do believe you have had enough of this,” Mortarlo said, with a tone that a parent might use when their child has eaten too many sweets. Will pushed himself towards the voice; it seem terribly important for some reason. He opened his eyes, but could not get them to work properly. “I am so glad you are still here. The next part is one of my favourites,” Mortarlo told him with chilling glee, while gently caressing Will’s face.

  Mortarlo moved to the bottom of the rack, whistling tunelessly to himself, and returned with a knife that glittered ominously in the lamp light. The torturer laid his cold hand against Will’s ribs and, using his finger as a guide, sliced a deep line into the flesh. Agony spiked Will’s brain; his back arching, he tried to pull away. Panting, gasping noises came from him as Mortarlo smiled at his handiwork before cutting another gash. The bonds that held Will tight at the beginning, had, over the hours, developed more give with his frantic struggling. As a third slice was made through flesh and muscle, his frenzied movements took on an urgency that gave him greater strength, and Will heard the snap of bones from somewhere above his head. It proved to be too much, and oblivion sucked him down.