The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  She turned her face away.

  ‘Oh and, Myrren,’ he added, ‘I nearly forgot — how careless of me. I thought I’d throw in some squassation for good measure. Perhaps you don’t know what that is? It’s the most exquisite suffering I think I could possibly inflict without actually drawing blood. This is when we will let go of the pulley — just momentarily — and you, of course, my dear, will fall. But oh — and this is the good bit — my men will suddenly halt that fall by grabbing the rope and you just can’t imagine what torment that’s going to mean for those suffering sockets and limbs, long past their pain barriers. Now, do be a good girl and confess after the first drop because you should know that by law I have another three times to inflict it. It will hurt a great deal more by the fourth and I do think it’s more noble to die by the flames than hanging dead and broken on the ropes, don’t you?’

  This time she turned back to her tormentor and in a last show of defiance spat in his face. It was a momentary triumph.

  ‘Hoist the witch,’ he said viciously and his henchmen obeyed, hauling on the rope attached to a pulley.

  Wyl felt his stomach contents lurch into his throat as he heard the inevitable and sickening sound of Myrren’s shoulders capitulating almost immediately. As the first of her limb sockets popped, Wyl’s midday meal burst onto his boots and no one paid him any attention, except Celimus who pushed him aside to avoid being splattered.

  The Prince was laughing, though, enjoying Wyl’s terror. Finally he had unsettled Thirsk into humiliating himself. Plenty of other watchers looked away or retched at the hideous sound of her shoulders releasing their arms.

  But no one in that room heard Myrren utter a sound.

  They dropped Myrren four times that afternoon, all the while demanding she confess herself a witch, and failing. For several periods she appeared unconscious, presumably from the torturous pain. No one watching could comprehend how she resisted. Many were quietly in awe of what courage it took to repel such an assault; none were able to imagine the level of punishment her body withstood.

  Lymbert, coolly detached, expertly revived Myrren on each occasion with strong smelling salts and a dousing of freezing water. Still her mouth was firmly closed to any sound, although every other opening from her body slackened with the shock of her trauma, and if she were able, she might even have derived some satisfaction from the effect her loosened muscles had. Initially the chamber smelled of men’s sweat and lust. Now it smelled like a cesspit and a few experienced trial attendees held perfumed linens to their noses.

  Knowing this was a test of his own nerves but also frozen with fear at what this young woman endured, Wyl remained as still as one of the statues of Stoneheart. He had conquered the second wave of nausea and panic, fighting back the sour bile. Now he would conquer his fear and be like her; he would not capitulate.

  Wyl understood now why Celimus had brought him. It was to show him up to be a child; a pretender to his father’s title. He would not permit Celimus to succeed in this humiliation and, ignoring the stench of his own soiled boots, he lifted his chin and stared at the closed eyes of Myrren, his own new bedrock of determination derived from her refusal to succumb to their demands.

  Lymbert had his victim pulled higher so that the weights attached to Myrren’s already distended legs and arms could stretch them further. He was satisfied to hear her ankles and elbows give up their resistance. Now every major joint was loosened from its socket and several inches added to her height, some wit acknowledged.

  Naked, broken and surely dying, she was still true to herself, Wyl realised. He now would prove himself to be just as true to the name of Thirsk. He was no coward and, although this was a shocking, intensely barbaric scene, he would not flinch again.

  As her eyes opened once more at the dousing of chilled water, they searched for his, and in that moment he felt connected to Myrren. Together, united through her immense courage and linked via their personal despair, they would get each other past this torment. Her time was short and he would see her through to her end without turning his head again. He would now be strong for her.

  Look at me only, Myrren, he willed. But she closed her strange and exhausted eyes once again. He wished she was dead but knew otherwise as she retched for the umpteenth time from her agonies, her thin framework of delicate bones in stark relief beneath stretched skin.

  She had endured four mighty drops. Lymbert had begun to scream at her to confess, seemingly demented with his desire to overpower and win this admission from her. Realising she had somehow impossibly won, he looked around wildly and then ran towards one of the braziers, surprising the man tending it. The Confessor could not afford to fail in wringing a confession from the girl, particularly with the Prince in attendance. Lymbert had been unprepared for the royal presence, had not experienced such an important audience in his work, and having sensed the cruelty smouldering in his regal guest, the Confessor intended to display the full breadth of his skills.

  He grabbed a nearby glove and picked up a pair of white-hot pincers from the coals. Tearing the flesh from victims’ bones was not Lymbert’s favourite practice, although he knew other torturers loved the sensation. No, he preferred to break the body inside, but he could see this woman was built of otherworldly stuff; her resistance would become legend if he did not break her spirit now. There was no other way he might prevail in this battle of wills. No one resisted strappado and squassation and yet here she was, her fourth drop completed and still adamant.

  Reaching for the pale flesh of Myrren, who was hanging unconscious once again, he was stopped by a loud command into the now brittle atmosphere of the torture chamber. The crazed Confessor turned around, scanning for its owner, his face a mask of fury.

  ‘You will put those down,’ Wyl repeated. ‘She has suffered enough punishment by your hand, sir, and she has survived the four legal drops.’

  ‘And who in Shar’s Name are you to give me orders?’ Lymbert sneered, gathering his wits.

  Wyl felt his own internal rage focus on this cruel man. And the white flash of anger coursing through him suddenly made him feel stronger, older, bigger than he knew he was. Even his voice suddenly sounded deeper as he faced down the torturer.

  ‘I am Wyl Thirsk. You’d do well to remember that name, Confessor. It belongs to someone with the ear of our King and I will recount all that I have witnessed here today and the law you are about to break if you do not end this procedure now. Our King would not permit you to step beyond the legal boundaries. The trial is over. Let her die.’

  Celimus stepped in, the ever present grin across his mouth, and was about to take charge of proceedings when something in Wyl’s glare stopped him.

  ‘Your highness,’ Wyl said. ‘With respect, I believe it undermines your status to witness these proceedings any further. As your protector I insist we get you away from this place.’

  Celimus was shocked. All eyes were on him. If he remained he would certainly appear the sadistic royal voyeur — as Wyl had cleverly insinuated. He could not risk that. Cunning, Wyl, very cunning, he thought, and found an appreciative nod for the lad.

  ‘Of course, you are right, thank you, Thirsk. I had no idea it would be so ugly,’ he lied. ‘Lymbert, do as he says: bring her down. Incidentally, let me introduce General Thirsk of Morgravia.’

  ‘But … but he is a mere lad, sire,’ Lymbert spat.

  ‘Young, yes,’ Wyl countered, not allowing Celimus to answer on his behalf. ‘But my name carries weight where yours never will unless you consider travelling butcher as a memorable title. Do as your Prince commands. Lower her!’

  It was an audacious order coming from the red-headed youth. Watchers muttered to one another but none challenged outwardly as it was obvious the lad was with the Prince and everyone knew who the youth’s father was.

  As Myrren was lowered, Celimus shouldered his way through the onlookers but not before whispering to Wyl: ‘There will be a reckoning for this.’

  Wyl watched the Pri
nce leave and then to Lymbert’s disgust he demanded a cup of water be poured from a pitcher. He knelt by Myrren and, after gently lifting her head, he dribbled a trickle of it into her throat. Her lids fluttered open and somehow she mustered a smile which touched her oddly coloured eyes.

  ‘I’m Wyl,’ was all he could say.

  ‘I know,’ she croaked through her cracked lips, bleeding from where she had bitten them. ‘I shall return your kindness with a gift. Use it to avenge me, Wyl.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  What could you possibly give me? he thought as her eyes closed once again.

  ‘She’s for the flames now, Thirsk,’ one of the dungeoners growled.

  They dragged her limp body away.

  ‘When?’ Wyl demanded of Lymbert. He had decided the man deserved no courtesies.

  ‘No time like the present,’ the Confessor replied and rediscovered his smile.

  FOUR

  WYL STRODE AHEAD OF the column of people scrambling out of the city to get a good view of the Witch Post on the hillock where they held the burnings. Some remembered the last burning, but most of the youngsters had no idea of the horror they would witness. Public executions in Morgravia were usually swift. This was a people forged from a tough, warring background and they had no need for theatrics. Any noble sentenced to death had head and body separated by a quick falling sword; those of lower caste fell to the axe. Criminals convicted of a crime lesser than murder or treason were hung, and in such cases Magnus favoured the drop method. It was brutal but merciful. He did not believe in death as an entertainment. Unfortunately, the very rarity of a witch-burning turned it into a public spectacle.

  Traditionally, the Zerques had promoted a festival atmosphere for a burning and although the open celebration of death had long been wiped out, there remained a strong sense of theatre. Lymbert’s Witch Stalkers deliberately played off the harmless superstitions of the people, making warding signs as they led the procession up the hill. Many onlookers were bemused to realise that gestures they often performed without thinking — such as crossing their index and third finger should they inadvertently pass someone on a flight of stairs — were rooted in the ancient belief that such a sign in the vicinity of a witch would prevent the devil entering your body.

  For the majority of Morgravians, their interest in viewing a proven witch stemmed from plain curiosity, but there were still those in Pearlis — wealthy older folk — whose fear and loathing of magic was very real. Lymbert was counting on this to convince his audience that this woman was a danger. He would fan the flames of those fears and watch them erupt into a desire to see the witch suffer as she burned.

  Wyl’s mood was as bleak as he could ever remember. With his mother’s death and more recently his father’s passing, his deep sorrow had been like a darkness over him and he had never felt more alone. But this turn of events involving the young woman called Myrren provoked in him a pure and seething rage … an anger he never thought he was capable of. And as always Celimus was at the root of his problems. If not for the Prince, Wyl might be none the wiser to Myrren.

  Alyd caught up with him. The news of Wyl’s standoff in the torture chamber had travelled fast.

  ‘Is this wise?’ he asked carefully, knowing how determined his friend could be.

  Wyl stopped short. ‘You needed to be there to know why I do this.’

  Alyd’s gaze narrowed. ‘Do what exactly?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Wyl shrugged, the rage cooling to a hard determination. Gueryn had always warned him to harness wrath and unleash it only when he had it under control. He felt it was his to use now. His voice was brittle. ‘It’s too hard to explain.’

  People jostled past them and in the distance Wyl could see Gueryn striding purposefully towards where they stood. Alyd noticed him too. Time was now very short, for he knew Wyl would say nothing more in front of his mentor.

  ‘Tell me quickly. Let me understand,’ he urged.

  ‘I need to share it with her,’ Wyl blurted, rubbing a hand through his flame hair.

  ‘Share what?’

  ‘Her death. I can’t describe it any better.’

  They both glanced towards the grim-faced Gueryn, now only a few strides away.

  ‘Why? You can’t do anything for her!’

  ‘She needs me,’ was all Wyl could say and then the shadow of Gueryn fell over them.

  ‘What happens here, Wyl?’ There was no trace of emotion in the man’s voice. Not a good sign. It was often easier when Gueryn was stirred to raise his voice.

  Wyl told his tale as simply as he could, sticking to the facts, in soldier fashion, as he was trained. ‘I was forced to accompany Celimus to watch the torture of a woman accused of being a witch.’

  Gueryn sighed. ‘I gather.’

  ‘She wouldn’t confess, didn’t even utter a single sound of protest,’ he continued. ‘Confessor Lymbert made her go straight to third stage. They dropped her four times — strappado and squassation.’

  Gueryn could see the confusion on Alyd’s face and the inevitable question springing to his lips but prevented it with his own comment. ‘I have only witnessed such a thing once in my life. I only wish that I had been around to spare you of such a thing.’

  Wyl looked down. ‘I survived. She won’t, guilty or otherwise.’

  ‘I heard that you assisted her.’

  ‘A sip of water.’ Wyl shrugged.

  Gueryn nodded. He had heard all of this from someone who had been present. ‘That was noble of you, boy. So why are you here now?’

  Wyl stayed quiet. It was Alyd who answered. ‘He says he wants to share her death.’ He looked back at his friend with an apology in his eyes and could see none was necessary. Wyl would forgive him anything.

  Their attention was diverted to the main party bringing the accused.

  ‘Here she comes!’ Wyl exclaimed and made a move towards them.

  ‘Leave it alone, lad,’ Gueryn said, grabbing his arm and spinning him back. ‘I felt similarly when I had to watch a woman suffer. I felt I should do something to help her but it was useless. They’re going to burn her in spite of you.’

  Wyl’s gaze considered Gueryn coolly. ‘I know.’

  His expression was now as serious and determined as any his father would strike when he had made a major decision. Gueryn knew all too well that Wyl would not be moved.

  Wyl tried again to explain his feelings. ‘She needs to know that when she dies here today that her death is witnessed by at least one person who disagrees with it.’

  It sounded like an accusation. Gueryn let go of his arm — it was useless to argue with him further. He and Alyd watched Wyl draw up alongside the cart and call to the slumped figure it carried.

  ‘I thought they paraded convicted witches,’ Alyd queried.

  ‘Normally, yes, but not if they’ve survived strappado,’ Gueryn answered, ‘and it would be nigh impossible after squassation.’

  ‘Oh … is that when they rip all the limbs from their sockets?’ Alyd asked, unable to quell his eagerness to learn all the bleak details of torture.

  Gueryn answered absentmindedly. ‘After what I’ve heard they’ve done to that poor girl, they’ll be lucky if she can do any more than lie at the burning pole. Come, lad, if he’s determined to see this, we must stay close. I fear it will be his undoing.’

  Wyl was already a brisk walk away, so his two friends did not hear the exchange between him and the torturer.

  ‘Come to say your farewell?’ Lymbert asked Wyl.

  ‘Come to see that you treat this woman with the respect she deserves,’ he answered.

  ‘Respect! A witch?’ The Confessor was amused.

  ‘Not proven, Lymbert. Your vile tortures won nothing from her.’

  ‘Watch yourself, boy. I know who you are but your rank counts for naught with me when I am about my business.’

  ‘That may be so, Confessor,’ Wyl replied, scowling
at the title, ‘but officially those are my men behind you escorting this charade and I could disrupt affairs just as easily as let them take their course.’

  Lymbert regarded him with pure hate, although he was wise enough not to show too much of such an expression on his face.

  Wyl sensed it, though. ‘Have a care, Confessor,’ he added. ‘Do it right. Where is the samarra she is supposed to wear?’

  ‘For someone so squeamish, you appear to know a great deal about the formalities of witch trials.’

  The barb did not work. Celimus’s taunts had ensured Wyl was well used to ignoring insults. Instead he glared. ‘I am a noble’s son, sir. I am well read.’

  Gueryn, approaching, had caught this final comment and was amazed at Wyl’s composure, wondering where this sudden maturity had come from. He sounded years older than himself. Perhaps the famous Thirsk blood ran even stronger in this one’s veins than his father’s. He might just surprise them all.

  Lymbert stepped away to order one of his men to fetch the special cloak. He carried a samarra with him as he travelled the realm but it was rarely seen. Ancient law required that the victim be burned wearing the samarra, which was believed to entrap evil humours emanating from the witch’s flesh. The cloak bore a design of flames and dancing devils, with the Zerque sigil of a silver star to denote purity in the face of debauchery and evil. It was crafted by a special tailor who had royal assent to produce this garment. In ancient times, the cloak itself was considered enchanted and dangerous, and as such no other tailor could be granted permission to touch it.