The Tallosians were a savage race that had broken off from Aldor centuries ago, at the height of the Wizard Wars. They hated magic, believed that it ate the souls of men. They wanted a pure, more simplistic form of life. Under this notion, they left Aldor and took up residence in the northern mountains on the Isle of Tallos, eventually earning them the name Tallosians or Northmen.
Their settlements remained primitive in nature and their language had reverted to a twisted dialect of the original tongue. Many of their tribes were ruthless, which made them perfect for what Mangora had planned.
Their brutality was most apparent in the garments they wore. Their cloaks were the pride of every male warrior. They were sewn together from the scalps of their victims. The Tallosians believed that in wearing another warrior’s hair, they would garner that person’s strength and ability—the larger the cloak the more prestigious the warrior. The more prestigious the warrior the more women he would naturally attract.
From the size and thickness of Baeldor’s cloak, it was clear to Mangora why he had been named chief of his tribe. He was as ruthless as he was ugly.
“They go. Why we still in hole?”
“Because I want to make sure they’re not coming back.” Mangora rolled her eyes and huffed at the other’s impatience. She was starting to get a bit flustered herself, and not wanting to spend any more time cramped in the small hidey-hole alongside the smelly, illiterate Northman, she finally released the trapdoor latch. She pushed up on the hidden floorboards with her cane and crawled out.
Having two members of the wielder council paying her a visit so soon after the faeling child had stumbled into her shop only deepened Mangora’s suspicions that the ven’ae in Easthaven had been hiding him all along. She could have probably taken the two of them in a fight, but she didn’t much care for the look of that rune-covered staff the older one carried. And why take the risk when you can just hire others to do it for you?
“How close are your men?”
Baeldor closed the trapdoor and followed her out to the front of the shop where her collection of questionable oddities was displayed. “Close. North of town. Near river’s fork.” Mangora was having a difficult time understanding his accent. She had to angle her head to better catch what he was saying. “My men no fight magic.” She could tell by his tone and the strong position of his body language that he wasn’t bluffing on that account. She knew the Tallosians were a very superstitious people when it came to all things magic.
“I can assure you that you will not have to,” she said as she stepped over to thumb through the books on her shelf to see if anything was missing. “I have some associates on their way to deal with the wielder infestation in this city. Your job is to get me the boy.”
“You said he magic.”
“Yes, but as young as he, is I doubt the boy has had any practice in the use of it. From the fear that I saw in his eyes the other day, I would be surprised if he even knew he had magic in the first place. He probably has no idea who he is.” Mangora turned back to where Baeldor watched her from the other side of the room. “The wielder council was in all likelihood instructed by Nyalis to keep the boy’s secret hidden from him.
“Whatever we are going to do,” she said, “we’ll need to act quickly. If the council believes the faeling has been discovered, they will begin to close ranks, if not whisk him away altogether.”
She paused a moment to stare at the large spider-shaped ring on her right hand. She couldn’t afford to lose the child now, not with such an incredible opportunity being dropped in her lap. How could she face Aerodyne if she lost her opportunity to grab him because she wanted to play it cautious?
“And how many men did you bring with you?”
Baeldor straightened as he rested his hand on the top of his battle-axe. “All.”
Mangora’s mouth twisted upwards. That was exactly what she wanted to hear.
Chapter 50 | Ferrin
FERRIN WOKE TO the sound of scraping metal.
The locking mechanism on his cell door clicked. He rolled onto his side and the stone floor pushed against his bruised ribs, forcing his breath to catch in his throat as he lay there waiting. He could hear Azriel stir from the far corner. Here we go again.
There was a dull snap as the final pin released. The sound of rusted metal grated on his already raw nerves as his cell door swung open and three members of the Black Watch stooped their way inside.
The first guard held out his torch, providing just enough light for the other two to make their way across the room.
“So what’s on the schedule for today?” Ferrin asked as they each grabbed a stiff arm. “A nice stroll around the gardens perhaps, or maybe some tea by the fountain?” The guards chuckled as they hefted him to his feet and clapped the iron bracelets around his wrists.
“Guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
Ferrin glanced over his shoulder as they marched him toward the open door, hoping to catch a quick glimpse of his cellmate. “Don’t wait up. I might be a while.” The old man shook his head, his face twisting into what Ferrin believed was a grin before the light from the torch flickered from view and they stepped into the narrow hallway beyond.
The shuffling of their feet echoed off the hollow interior of the Tower corridors as they made their way through dark passages and circular stairwells, winding ever downward, each step driving with it the almost hopeful longing of reaching an end. Suffocating underneath a growing mountain of melancholy, questions resurfaced: would this be the day he gave in? Would this be the one time he faltered? Would these be the last moments of his pathetic life?
Momentarily distracted by another company of guards shutting a nearby door, Ferrin turned to look at his surroundings. The inner hallways all looked the same: square passageways of stone with doors lining both sides. Ferrin always knew when they had reached one of the outer corridors, since the doors on one side would be replaced by the occasional arrow slit.
There seemed to be an endless supply of cells to fill. He could tell which of the rooms were occupied by the sounds of prolonged suffering wafting eerily from underneath the doors as they passed. Men and women cried out in despair, holding on to what little hope still remained—that one of these days, the guards would show a little mercy and drive a sword through their chest, or maybe drop them from the walls of the Tower and let them hit the rocks below. Either would be a kindness.
It was how Ferrin felt most of the time.
However, he was determined that as long as he drew breath, he was going to resist. After all, they didn’t want him dead. They only wanted him to suffer long enough to agree to join their cause and help them create more of his magic-enhanced weapons.
He wouldn’t succumb. All he had left was his sense of humor, and he would wield it to the bitter end. He would cut, and whack, and jab with it until those around him were doubling over under its use. He laughed. He wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe he was finally willing to accept his fate, maybe Azriel’s prophetic rantings were somehow taking hold, or maybe he was just losing his mind.
“So . . .” He raised his head, his eyes hopping from one guard to the next. “What does a fellow have to do to become a member of the Black Watch anyway? I hear the pay is pretty good.” His head made a circular motion around the gloomy dungeon walls. “And just look at these accommodations. You can’t get this in the city.”
The guard in front turned his head as they continued their steady march. “I’m going to miss you, smith. It almost seems a shame to have to break a wit as dry as yours.” From the displaced shadows of the torchlight, the guard’s silhouette held one remarkable feature—his schnozzle. Good ol’ Nostrils! Someone you can always count on being there when you need him the least.
Nostrils stopped in front of a large iron door and pulled a ring of keys from his waist. Ferrin recognized the door from the numerous times he had stood waiting, like now, for a similar guard with a normal looking nose, of course, to unlock the bolts and swing wide
its hinges. Like the mouth of a great dragon, it promised all those who entered a sure and painful end.
With a shove from behind, Ferrin nearly tumbled down the stone steps toward the Hall of Inquisition below. The sound of the screaming enfolded the small group as they stepped from the enclosed well onto the final landing. Walking down a short hall, they entered a large circular room—cavernous in nature, and surrounded on all sides by pillars of stone. The central floor held a conglomeration of stone tiling that formed a unique image at the center, which Ferrin took as the crest of the White Tower.
Surrounding the room were thirteen doors, each with a guard posted just outside the entrance. Some rooms stood open, others were shut. It didn’t take a great imagination to guess what was happening behind the shut ones. The sounds of human agony were unmistakable.
In the center of the enclave sat three desks where the black-robed members of the legate were busy transcribing and documenting whatever information was being retrieved from those rooms with the closed doors. The guards marched him forward. “Prisoner Ferrin’s here for questioning as you requested, Legate.” Nostrils bowed his head in deference, awaiting a response.
“Very well,” said the elderly man at the center table. He paused in his scribbling to take a quick look at their prisoner. Ferrin knew him as Sticks. It was a name he had given the old legate after having caught a glimpse of the man’s bony arms poking out from beneath his dark robes. They were very similar to a pair of birchwood branches he had played swords with as a boy. After a brief hint of recognition crossed Sticks’ face, he scanned through some of the papers on his desk. Having found what he was looking for, he gestured to his right. “Room eleven, move along.”
“Yes, sir.”
The guard standing outside the door bearing a carved “eleven” in the top turned as they approached and twisted the already-inserted key. With a dull snap, he pulled back the latch and opened, leaving plenty of room for Ferrin and his armed escort to slip inside.
The door whined as it closed behind them, causing Ferrin to once again cringe at the sound of rusted metal. Inside, Cheeks was resting on his favorite stool in front of an already filled rack.
“I see you already have company,” Ferrin said. “I’ll just come back at a more convenient time.” He turned to leave, but two of the guards held him in place.
Cheeks shifted his weight on his stool and turned to look at Ferrin. “Ah, my dear smith, you’re just in time.” The inquisitor motioned him forward. “Come, come. Take a seat. You might enjoy watching my work from a different perspective. Perhaps it might give you a greater appreciation for my gifts, yes?”
“I think I’ve had enough appreciation of your gifts already. How about I take the rest of the day off?” Cheeks shook with laughter, almost pitching himself backwards from his rickety stool.
“You will be the death of me, smith.”
“If only,” Ferrin scoffed under his breath. No one else in the room had heard him save Nostrils, and Ferrin could have sworn the man had smiled. One of the guards walked him forward and motioned him to the empty seat on the opposite side of the rack. Making a quick pass of the room, Ferrin noticed the little healer was nowhere to be seen.
Cheeks pushed up from his stool and waddled over to his small table of tools. Lifting the ball peen hammer, he looked it over and pursed his lips in thought before glancing in Ferrin’s direction. “You see, pain comes in all shapes and sizes, and since we are all created differently, our tolerance for certain kinds of pain has different levels. For example,” he said, stepping over to the rack, “our friend here has managed to withstand the knife fairly well, at least on the outward parts, but as you know, it’s the hidden, protected areas of the body which bring the most pain.” He offered Ferrin a twisted wink. “Those are, however, the worst places to apply torture. The subject tends to lapse into a state of unconsciousness all too soon after the pain is applied. No, I learned long ago that the most sensitive areas are not always the best to prod.
“I should like to explain this to you later, but for now,” he said as he stepped away from the table and walked over to the rack, “I am going to use a different form of discomfort. The knife is rather elegant in its use, slicing asunder our meats, puncturing and probing our inward parts, but with it, you get a searing pain, sharp, and relatively confined. However, this,” he continued, stepping in front of the prisoner and raising the hammer, “this is not so confined. It tends to spread throughout the entire limb, like so.” Cheeks swung the hammer downward with speed, force, and precision, connecting the ball point tip with the man’s kneecap. There was a dull cracking sound, like that of a rotten floorboard giving way under the weight of a heavy step. The man’s knee shattered. Ferrin recoiled under the recognition of what had just been done.
Cheeks raised his fingers in succession, “One, two, th—”
“Ahhh!” The poor victim’s head bounced backwards off the metal rungs as he screamed in pain.
“You see!” Cheeks’ smile widened. “There is a time delay before the pain is registered.” Ferrin had never been forced to witness the torture of another before. He had to admit that if it hadn’t been so appalling, he might have found it a little intriguing. Ferrin quickly shook his head, as if in doing so he could rid himself of the fleeting thought.
The inquisitor’s brow rose. “Hmm?” He dropped back onto his flimsy stool. “Perhaps I should pen a book.” His face lifted, eyes sparkling. “Yes, that’s a wonderful idea,” he said as he thumbed his chin. “I could pass on this wealth of information as a learning guide for new inquisitors.”
“Please!” the man begged. “I’ve told you everything I know! Please stop!” Tears poured down the prisoner’s cheeks, dripping onto his bare and bleeding chest. Snot was running freely from his nose and Ferrin watched the complete and utter collapse of the man’s dignity as he cried out to the inquisitor, to the Creator, to his mother.
“I believe I know which two topics I should like to begin with,” Cheeks said, still focused on the possibility of authoring a book. Coming out of his dazed introspection, Cheeks turned his attention back to the helpless prisoner restrained in front of him. “Yes, yes, I believe you,” he said with a flippant wave of his wrist. “You’ve told me everything you know.”
“Then, I can go?” The poor man sniffed some of the fluid draining down his upper lip. “You are through with me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. I have a wife and children, and they will surely starve without me.” Cheeks was already lost in thought again. Ferrin could see the wheels in his head turning. No doubt working out the opening lines to his new book.
“Guard!”
The latch to the door turned and the sentry stepped inside. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m through with this man. I’ve acquired everything I can. I believe his wielding days are over.”
Ferrin watched as the prisoner’s shoulders relaxed at the inquisitor’s words. “Yes, sir, I know now that using magic is evil. I will never do it again.” There was a spark of hope ignited within the man’s eyes. Even over the excruciating pain, Ferrin could see the tears he now shed were stemming from the excited hope of being released.
“Yes, that is most certainly true.” Cheeks rose from his seat and walked back to his table of displayed instruments and replaced the hammer within its slot. “Take him for purging.”
“What?” The prisoner’s eyes bulged as his spark of hope was snuffed out and replaced by one of terror. “But, you said I was done . . . That you believed I wouldn’t use my magic anymore?”
“You are correct. You are done, and I know you will not use magic anymore since we will be ridding you of it.”
“But what about my wife and child? They will starve!”
“I guess they should have thought about that before getting involved with a wielder.” Cheeks rolled his tools into a neat bundle and tucked them under his arm. “Now send Rae in. I want his injuries mended.”
The sadist turned and smiled at the prisoner. “We need him to be strong for the purging process.” After Cheeks left, one of the guards pushed Rae through the door.
Nostrils, not really sure whether he should stay or leave, took up a position to the left of the entranceway. Ferrin remained on his stool, staring helplessly at the poor wretch in front of him. The man wasn’t much older than he was. Though thinned by a lack of food, Ferrin could still tell he had been a new recruit to the Tower. The marks on his body were nowhere near as extensive as his own. The man was obviously not much of a fighter. Pinching the edge of his seat, Ferrin felt his hackles rise at the thought of the man’s supposed lack of strength. How could he be so willing to give in? he wondered.
Realizing his anger was being channeled in the wrong direction, and feeling more than a little uncomfortable at just sitting there watching the man’s agony like an audience at a Tinker Show, Ferrin left his seat and walked to the far wall, keeping his eyes on the little healer as she entered. Rae never once looked in his direction as she stepped onto the base of the rack and laid her hands on the man’s wounds.
Her hands were glowing and Ferrin recognized the shuddering effect of her magic as it forced its way through the prisoner’s body—eyes widening, neck stiffening, sharp inhale, and then complete relaxation as the broken bones and torn flesh worked to knit themselves back together.
As Ferrin watched the man, he found himself wishing there was something he could do for him, but he knew better than to get involved. You get involved and it might be you heading to the purging chamber instead of him.
Ferrin watched as Rae finished her work on the man’s knee and slunk onto the nearby stool. “Please help me!” the man begged, but the healer kept her eyes on her feet as she struggled to maintain a stable breath. She was clearly exhausted. Ferrin wondered how many others Rae had been forced to heal before this man.
The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 39