A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  They were mining silverstone, or at least that’s what he thought. Occasionally one of their picks would encounter a silverstone wall, and his captors would ask them to dig under it. He had seen one large silverstone section hoisted up through the pit on his third day. He knew mining silverstone was wrong. He knew he was doing the work of naustics and heathens. But the choice was clear. It was that or death. And maybe, if Matteo had some divine purpose for him, it was one more adversity to endure before he was back on his quest.

  Or maybe he would die here like so many had. When he asked Doras if he had lost any comrades in the pit, he said, “There were thirty men when I arrived more than a year ago. None of those are still here today.”

  Sebastian figured the Sambayans must be desperate. They must be trying to obtain as much silverstone as possible to support their war effort. Either way, the war couldn’t be faring well for them. The Belidorans would support the Thelonians, and the Belidorans had the largest army in the southern lands. The Sambayans would eventually be checked and defeated, if they weren’t already.

  On the eleventh day, things changed. It was on that day Sebastian realized they might not be mining silverstone after all. They might be after something very different, and far more heathen.

  It was on this day that Sebastian, Doras, and three other prisoners were asked to climb up the ladder to the fourth level, where their captors had been pounding and scraping away for the last week. Sebastian remembered from his descent into the bottom of the pit that the fourth level consisted mostly of silverstone walls.

  The five prisoners assembled on a terrace made of silverstone and were pressed through an opening into a large chamber.

  Flashbacks came to him as the room opened up. Sebastian immediately recognized what he’d seen in the ruin in Albondo and the depths of the Great Library. Horizontal cylinders of bone met in the middle of a huge door on the far side of the chamber. The periphery of the oval door was surrounded by sinuous material, adding to the impression of prominent closed teeth of a giant mouth. The door was scratched, the result of repeated assaults from the Sambayans. To the left he saw the circular array with subtle bulbous indentations in the center, again like he’d seen in the ruin and in the keep library.

  He praised Matteo that there was no gargoyle lurking about.

  Perhaps jolted by his déjà vu, the fog of his imprisonment and pain in his limbs retreated for a moment, giving him some clarity of thought. This moment didn’t so much reveal anything other than subtleties that other prisoners might not have seen. His work partner Doras gently pushed to the back of the group of five. He also noticed the eyes of the Sambayans. They had lost some of their cruelty and looked almost…nervous? Something was amiss here, some danger to be heeded. The sense of tension in the room told him that despite the absence of any gargoyle, he should still be wary.

  Sebastian followed Doras’s lead and tried to maneuver to the back of the group of prisoners.

  Sebastian’s pulse slowed as they were ushered to the hole in the floor, far removed from the bone mouth door. This other hole opened up to slope down into a broad corridor made of dirt, the way lit by periodic wyg lamps.

  The corridor was long. They went down, down, and down some more, descending in a spiral pattern. There were indentations in the sidewalls that looked as though they could be adjoining corridors that were later filled in. He wondered if he’d actually dug some of those out at one point, but it was hard to tell. The dirt in the pit was all the same to Sebastian.

  Occasionally silverstone would show on the surface of the walls, usually on the ceiling. Eventually this silverstone became more prevalent as the corridor expanded into a broader chamber. It was here that they stopped. Beyond a raised platform, a patch of silverstone on the wall appeared to have a different makeup. There was a matrix texture instead of the usual homogeneous shine to the wall. It also looked as if a brackish form of condensation dripped off it. Around the matrix were scratch marks similar to the bone mouth door in the first chamber. A few silverstone tools lay in front of it.

  Sweat was dripping off the Sambayan slavers. Their eyes were open wide, and one held on to the pommel of his sword. But it wasn’t hot in the room, and the walk had been far from strenuous.

  There was a large pry bar that had been successfully set in a gap behind the weeping silverstone matrix. One of the Sambayan captors motioned to Sebastian and Doras to move it.

  Sebastian hesitated, and the guard hit him in the back with his cudgel.

  He had no choice. He walked cautiously over to the pry bar and pulled at it with both hands. Up close the matrix looked more like a permeable grating, loosened from the wall and already set to be pulled off. Doras was ushered to follow, so he grabbed the pry bar closer to the matrix. After some initial flexing of the material, on a count of three, they levered the bar with a burst of combined strength and fell back into the room as part of the panel came off.

  The back of the grate had been covered by a fleshy mucus which ruptured when the grate was torn from it. The mucusy substance that remained attached to the wall reeled back eerily, as if afraid of the air. A sulfurous smell met Sebastian’s nose.

  Much of the grating remained, and so the Sambayan guards signaled for them to continue. Sebastian and Doras worked away at it in fits and starts, and eventually there was a sizeable opening. Inside the hole was only darkness, from what Sebastian could see.

  The Sambayan guards handed wyg lamps to two of the other prisoners and ushered them to climb inside. The guards stood in the chamber tensely and didn’t follow. Condensation continued to drip from the opening.

  The two prisoners proceeded slowly, looking at each other for reassurance but finding none. Their faces cringed in disgust as they gained purchase on the contours of the aperture. They pushed onward and the darkness engulphed them.

  The two had been inside for less than a minute when a low-pitched scream emanated from the opening. It sounded like a large bird, and it was followed by a loud belch-like sound. Then there was another far more human scream. One of the prisoners suddenly jumped back through the opening headfirst, but before he hit the ground, a tentacle, or trunk, shot out of the mucusy opening and stuck to his back. It held him airborne as he swayed and screamed.

  A Sambayan jailor yelled, “Mosquero!”

  The Sambayans stepped away, clustering at the opening of the corridor. Doras stepped back toward the exit as well. Sebastian followed their lead.

  The last prisoner had decided to try to take advantage of the situation. He had wrestled a sword off one of the retreating jailors whose pommel guard was unlatched. This man faced down the three jailors near the entrance while trying to keep his distance from the grating opening and the flailing trunk that originated from it.

  The man hovering in the air tried to move, swatting in vain at the trunk affixed to his back.

  Sebastian then witnessed the horror the Sambayans must have anticipated. The trunk holding the man pulsed vigorously. The man screamed again, but not with fear. It was pain, mortal pain. He began thrashing about more violently as his backside caved in. He was hanging daintily from this fleshy tether in the air, but the expression on his face made him look as if he were swimming in a river of fire.

  Then the rest of the beast pushed through the opening. The main body was rounded and scaled, resembling a kind of gigantic armadillo. Its head was insect-like with multifaceted eyes. The meaty, fleshy trunk extended out from between these speckled reflectors. Pulses of flesh continued to course up the trunk into the beast as the man remained fixed to the end.

  The man stopped flailing and his scream ebbed to nothing. He looked wrinkled and drawn, like a prune left in the desert, and the ribs and bones of his back had cracked, flowing partially up the trunk.

  The corpse fell to the floor, and the beast turned its head to the prisoner who had stolen the guard’s sword.

  Sebastian hadn’t been paying attention to the people around him. Besides the other prisoner, he was the
only man left in the room. He decided it would be best to flee as well, leaving the prisoner with the sword to face down the beast.

  He ran up the tunnel as fast as he could, not quite catching up to the others who had already fled but not hearing the beast behind him either.

  When he reached the room at the top of the spiraling corridor, the others were waiting for him. Two Sambayan guards promptly seized Sebastian. A Cenaran also shuffled about in the back of the room. When Sebastian was subdued, the Cenaran moved to stand behind him and his two captors.

  All eyes turned to the tunnel in the floor from which Sebastian had come.

  Sebastian’s mind raced. Was this the destiny Matteo had laid out for him, to be defleshed from the inside by this horrific beast? Was this punishment for his transgressions at the ruin and the keep?

  They were held there for a time. Sebastian could only hope that the man with the sword had slain the beast. But eventually they heard footfalls up the corridor—heavy, lumbering footfalls. There was also another sound. It was almost like a low-pitched breathing with a curdled wheezing. No man could make those sounds.

  The creature entered the broad chamber, feeling around with its trunk. Doras made a move to try to escape the grasp of the Sambayan guards but was unsuccessful. The motion caused the mosquero to look up. The Cenaran behind Sebastian said something, then pushed Sebastian forward. He fell to the ground in front of the beast.

  There was nothing Sebastian could do. He couldn’t escape, nor would he stand a chance fighting this monster. He was at the mercy of Matteo. He raised himself up to a kneeling position, closed his eyes, and prayed.

  Something wet crossed his face while his heart hammered away. He braced himself, waiting for the trunk to puncture his chest.

  But it never did.

  Sebastian opened his eyes to see that the mosquero sat on the floor just ahead of him, its trunk still swiping around the area. Another wave of sulfurous odor hit Sebastian as he allowed himself to breathe.

  The Cenaran came out from behind him, walking in an almost leisurely fashion. He smiled at Sebastian and said, “You are lucky, Belidoran. The mosquero is no longer hungry. After such a long fast, I didn’t think three would be enough. But the mosquero likes sweets, so let us see if he wants dessert.”

  The Cenaran stepped toward the mosquero and dropped a Sambayan lime in front of it. The beast sniffed at it. Then the fruit imploded violently up its trunk. The Cenaran patted it on the carapace of its head and said, “Nalasai. Nalasai.” He spoke soothingly, as if he was coddling a baby.

  The Cenaran said a few more words to the guards then returned to his position lurking behind Sebastian. The Sambayan guards approached the mosquero with great stealth, drew lines of rope over its trunk, and then tied down the rest of its body. The beast just lay there listlessly, not caring about what the men were doing.

  Sebastian didn’t see what happened to the beast after that. He and Doras were ushered back down to the bottom of the pit.

  Of course, he wouldn’t have witnessed much of anything even if they had remained. For he had firmly closed his eyes and descended into fits of prayer, repeatedly whispering thanks to Matteo over and over again.

  Chapter 29

  The Imbecile

  Darian had another restless night. This time his mind was plagued by memories of Sebastian and visions of the Porcupine.

  It would be so easy to reveal what he knew. They probably wouldn’t even find Sebastian, and if they did, what did it matter? Sebastian would either die at the hand of the monks or die on the slopes of the Snail Mountains.

  But he couldn’t, because if the threat of the Porcupine was any sign, they were serious. He would be lucky to be left alive if they knew he’d helped Sebastian. Adeira and her children…they might be collateral damage. And yet, Darian had to believe that the Porcupine was just a bluff, and the performance by General Granth a scare tactic. He found it hard to believe they would use it on someone they didn’t know was guilty. Especially on a league private and son of Bartholomew Bronté.

  He had to stay strong.

  In the morning, they led him to a courtyard in the military building. There the four monks prayed and Leftenant Mackie paced. Two other captives from the group who had been rounded up that night were also there. Darian wondered if he looked as terrified as they did.

  All eyes gravitated to the center of the courtyard. A large arch had been erected with a hanging bar and manacles dangling from it. Below this structure was the globe, laying on a pivot, with razor-sharp sliver-thin spikes jutting out. The ball was only the size of a man’s head, but the spikes emanated out up to a foot in length. They were nonuniform: in some areas packed close together, in others not. One’s manhood, and maybe one’s life, depended on how the spinning ball rotated before one was cast down on it.

  There were a few other guards in the courtyard. Besides Mackie, there was only one Thelonian, and the rest were Belidoran, probably General Granth’s men.

  Granth arrived as they were tying Darian and the other prisoners to chairs in front of the Porcupine. He flung his dark locks about as he walked over to Mackie.

  There was a long period of quiet as everyone waited for the monks to finish praying. When they stood up, they picked up long skinny satchels. What did these contain, he wondered? Was it water, or maybe holy wine? They surrounded Darian wielding these satchels, testing their weight, creating long arcs.

  Granth strode up to Darian. “Well, you’ve had some time to think. Why don’t you save yourself the trouble and just spit it out? Tell us where Harvellian is going.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything.”

  Granth said, “Well, then, if you won’t speak of Harvellian, I suppose we can grant you clemency if you at least repent your sins.”

  Darian’s spirits brightened. “Really?”

  “No, of course not.” Then Granth broke down laughing. He looked over to the monks and Mackie. “Mackie, you say this one is some kind of demented idiot. Well, maybe. He certainly is thick.”

  Once Granth’s laughing subsided, he nodded and turned around, making room for the monks to approach.

  The monks started twirling the satchels with greater velocity, coming ever closer. He soon learned that the satchels weren’t filled with wine or water. Based on the whizzing sound, he could tell that whatever was in them was something hard.

  The first one hit Darian in the cheek, and he doubled over, trying to hold his face with his tied hands. The others started pummeling him on his legs, back, and head. He kept his head down. He couldn’t stop himself from crying out. At first he cried at the shock of it; then he cried out at the pain. Then he cried at the unfairness of it.

  But he told himself he wouldn’t say anything about Sebastian’s whereabouts. This had to be more taunting. They wouldn’t use the Porcupine, not on him, not on a Bronté.

  He didn’t know how long they pummeled him, but he could tell when they stopped. The time was marked by dull pains pervading every inch of his body, instead of the constant shocking blows. His face was covered in tears and snot. Surely it was also bruised and bloody, along with the rest of him.

  Soon after they stopped, a wave of memories washed over him. The pressure to whisper Sebastian’s words became so profound, so intense, that he felt he might burst. He barely managed to suppress it. He tried to think of something else, some other channel for his energy.

  As he devoted his strength to trying to suppress this urge, he bore witness to the other beatings. The prisoners learned to bend over as Darian had done after the first hit. One of the men cried like Darian had. The other tried to be strong, but he seemed to be beaten worse because of it.

  It tormented Darian that his silence could be causing these other men pain. And the more the beatings went on, the more he worried the Porcupine might not be a bluff after all.

  The urge to emulate Sebastian suddenly became very pronounced. The beating had sapped Darian’s strength, and it took every ounce of his at
tention to keep his jaw clenched. Darian began to cry again, less for the aches on his battered body and more for the visceral pain it caused him to have to suppress this urge; this wave of pent-up energy that wanted release no matter what. He was breathing in deep gasps, his restraint causing him to hyperventilate. But he couldn’t emulate him, not here, not now. They would know he’d seen Sebastian for sure.

  Granth called out, “Get ahold of yourself, Bronté. You still have your balls for a few more minutes; might as well use them.” Then Granth remarked to Mackie, “I could have a lot of fun with this one. It’s like playing peek-a-boo with an infant.” He laughed at his own joke, his cackle echoing across the courtyard. Darian couldn’t see anyone else laughing. Mackie looked pale.

  Darian tried to block them out. He tried to ignore the words, to ignore the pain. Above all, he continued to quell the urge to mimic Sebastian, but it was like trying to push back a waterfall from below, and he felt as if he was drowning. He closed his eyes, and his mind reeled, pushing him toward the only safe haven, the only unbiased good he knew.

  In his mind, Darian saw Reniger in the forest. His lifeless eyes bored into him, and his words exploded out of him, “It’s war, then, not just a rabble.” He had to unleash, to continue to spit out Reniger’s valiant words, ignoring the strange glances of Granth, the monks, and even the other prisoners. It was all he could do to avoid mimicking Sebastian. “How does this bode for us?” Darian said. “How does this bode for us?” he said again, just so, just like Reniger.

  Granth laughed again, his mouth wide. “You’re a mess, Bronté! Mackie, you were right. He is some kind of imbecile.” Mackie looked confused at Darian’s outburst, but he wasn’t laughing.

  Granth walked up to Darian and leaned into his face. “How does this bode for you, you ask? Let me tell you, D-D-D-Darian. Since you asked, it indeed does not bode well for you.” He laughed again.