Wind Wolf

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Aye, General!” Faison acknowledged.

  "I want a cadre of guards summoned to this office immediately,” the general instructed. “When they arrive, they are to accompany Commander Byrne to a holding cell where he is to remain until I decide what punishment I will order for his reprimand."

  A muscle jumped in the Modartha's cheek, but he made no comment to the order. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gloating look on Faison's face before the spindly man hurried out to carry out the general's wishes.

  General Brennan came from around the desk until he was toe to toe with Byrne. They were of the same height but the werewolf was muscular where the general had settled to middle-aged fat.

  "I will not...” Van began but the man standing so close to him he could feel Brennan's breath on his face, held up a staying hand.

  "Be very careful what you say because you are one step away from court marshal, Bryne,” the general warned in a low, gravelly voice. “If that happens, you can kiss goodbye any privileges you have thus far enjoyed. I will strip you of your rank. I will take everything you own, every copper to your name, and I will throw your ass into prison for the next twenty years. Do you hear what I am saying to you?"

  "Aye, Sir,” Van replied. There was no doubt in his mind that the general would do exactly as he threatened.

  "Will you fetch the woman?” the general queried.

  "No, Sir, I will not,” Byrne answered.

  General Brennan stared at the Modartha for a long time then nodded. “So be it.” He turned away and went behind his desk, taking a seat as a quartet of guards entered ahead of Faison.

  "Take this man to Level Five and jail him until I have decided upon what punishment he will receive,” the general directed, not looking at either the guards or the Modartha.

  The ranking guard turned pale. He risked a glance at Van then swallowed hard. “Jail him, Sir?"

  "You heard him, Sergeant. You have your orders,” Van said. He spun around on his heel and started for the door, the other guards moving out of his way.

  Faison was standing just inside the doorway, his face filled with gloating. As the Modartha's gaze fell on him the secretary smiled meanly. “Did I not tell you this would happen one day?” he quipped facetiously.

  Van barely broke his stride as he snaked out his left hand so quickly it was nothing but a vague impression to the men behind him. He grabbed the secretary by the neck and hoisted him up, cracking the top of Faison's nearly bald pate on the head jamb. The werewolf hissed, then growled so brutally the guards’ hands went to their weapons.

  "Let him go!” the general barked, coming to his feet, his eyes wide. “Now, Byrne!"

  For a moment longer Van held the squirming secretary aloft, then released him abruptly, letting Faison drop to the floor like a rock, ignoring the way the thin man gasped for breath, choked, and struggled to draw air into his lungs. He stepped over the heaving body and continued on, the guards falling in behind him, their hands still on their weapons.

  As he waited for the elevator doors to open, Van knew a moment of apprehension. With him in jail—for however long that might be—Bailey would be alone at the estate. He knew there was no way anyone could get past the security he had on the gates, for the safety measures also included activation of a defense grid. The grid—patterned after Storian Net technology—ran in an unbreakable circle all around the area contained within the gates of his estates, traveling upward from the mansion he had built for a good two hundred feet and extending beneath the foundation to an equal depth. Without the code to deactivate the grid, no one could enter or exit the estate. Nothing short of a megaton nuclear device dropped directly upon the grid could disturb or penetrate it. Bailey was safe, but he had to get word to her that all was well and bid her not to worry.

  "Sergeant?” he asked as the doors to the elevator began to open.

  "Aye, Commander?"

  "Will you call my home and let my wife know I have been detained, and I don't know how long I will be away?” he asked. He looked the man in the eye. “Do not tell her anything else."

  "Aye, Sir. I will do as you ask,” the guard agreed.

  Once on Level Five where military prisoners were remanded, the Modartha was relieved of his boots and socks, his uniform, and given dark blue cotton slacks and a plain white t-shirt to wear. Barefoot, he was shown to a six foot by eight foot holding cell containing only a bunk and a toilet. Long after the door had been locked behind him, Van sat on the titanium bunk and worried that Brennan would find a way to get to Bailey regardless of the precautions the Modartha had taken to keep his wife safe.

  * * * *

  "There is no way into the estate,” Major Collin O'Rourke reported to General Brennan. “Bryne has it locked down behind a Storian framework which I suspect only he can deactivate."

  "Can't you break the code?” General Brennan demanded.

  "I am afraid not, Sir. Without the proper sequence, we are just pissing in the wind. Anything we might try will simply reinforce the security and make the grid that much harder to shut down."

  The general cursed viciously then sat down heavily in his desk chair. “Have you spoken to the human woman?"

  "I did but as soon as I asked her if she could shut down the grid so we could enter, she told me I would have to speak to her husband. As per your orders, I did not inform her he had been arrested."

  "Then how are we to get to her?” the general snarled. “She is our only hope of bringing Doyle out in the open!"

  "We will have to get the code from Bryne,” O'Rourke replied.

  "And just how the hell do you think to do that?"

  "Leave that to me, Sir,” O'Rourke said and his face was as hard as flint.

  * * * *

  Van knew as soon as he swallowed the water that something had been put in it. He cursed, furious at himself for not being more careful. He got up from the bunk, staggered, the room spun crazily for a moment, his ears rang brutally, and then he pitched forward, hitting the floor with enough force to bloody his nose. He felt the warm liquid oozing onto the floor as he lay there unable to move, his vision skipping and blurring and undulating so forcefully it made him nauseous but unable even to close his eyes. He was completely paralyzed, barely able to draw breath.

  "Get him up."

  The voice seemed to be coming from far away, and the hard hands that took hold of him jerked him from the floor to make his world skitter into blackness for a moment before bright light made his eyes sizzle as he was dragged out of the cell and into the corridor. He could not see who held him but a pair of highly polished boots trod smartly in front of his vision.

  They carried him into an elevator, down a long, curving corridor and into another elevator. He was fairly sure he knew where they were taking him and the moment he caught the stinging smell, his suspicions were confirmed—they were taking him to the Siléar Céasadh, the torture chamber deep in the bowels of the Doinsiún, the prison dungeon ran by the military.

  "Through there."

  Van struggled to identify the voice of the speaker but sounds were as distorted and garbled as his vision was wavering. It wasn't really his escort who concerned him. If he was a betting man, he would wager the man with the shiny boots was Major Collin O'Rourke, the general's right hand enforcer.

  What made the Modartha's belly clench and had put a hard lump in his throat was who O'Rourke was taking him to visit.

  "Place him on the table, gentlemen,” a new voice ordered.

  The Modartha's legs were lifted and he was lain on an ice-cold metal surface over which a bright, intrusive light sent spears of agony through his eyes. His arms and legs were pulled apart in order for wide restraints to be buckled in place around his wrists and ankles.

  A broad, jovial face appeared in his line of vision, and it was all he could do not to make a sound as he stared up at the face of the man known only as Lord Damhán, the spider.

  Dressed in a scarlet red lab coat, the man responsible for the torture
of all government prisoners was as large around as he was tall. He had very little hair on his head and what there was of it was snow white, standing in small tuffs around his oversized skull. Beady black eyes—like those of a pig—were sunken deep in a pudgy face set off by large, rubbery lips and a pug nose with very large nostrils.

  "How are you, Commander?” Lord Damhán inquired with a wide grin that showed sharp yellow teeth. “Are you ready for our little session?"

  Van heard himself snort with contempt and, if he'd been able to do so, would have squeezed his eyes shut at his own stupidity. Such foolish attempts at bravery would only work against him and the Spider's next words confirmed it.

  "Ah, that is music to my ears, young man,” Lord Damhán said with a wink. “Although you have sent many men to me for my special attention, I've never had a Modartha at my hands and, to have you?” He sighed. “This is going to be great fun, don't you think?"

  There would be no fun for him, Van thought as he tried to focus on Lord Damhán's rippling face. Whatever the drug that was rocketing through his system, it was playing havoc with all his senses and not just the dammed paralysis. His vision kept shifting and blurring. His hearing was so acute he could hear the inhalation and exhalation of breath from each man in the room. The sensation of the cold sinking into his flesh from the metal table beneath him was so intense he wanted to scream. Even his sense of smell was heightened to the point he could pick up individual body scents and the sharp odors of drugs, the stench of dried blood and body fluids.

  "I have a regimen of twelve pharmaceuticals I have been reserving just for the Modartha,” Lord Damhán commented. “They run the gamut of delicious medical persuasions I have yet to try out on our kind. We have already started with the less invasive drug called Pairilis that you ingested in the water you drank.” He patted Van's arm. “As soon as it begins to wear off, I will inject the next drug."

  "Unless, of course, you want to cooperate with us and save yourself the coming pain,” O'Rourke said, leaning over Van so the Modartha could see his distorted face.

  Van managed to flex one hand as the two men hovered over him, but he could move nothing else. He growled in frustration, glad at least to be able to do that much although he could not speak.

  The Spider clucked his tongue in sympathy. “It must be very irritating for you to be incapacitated as you are,” Lord Damhán said. “A man always in charge reduced to being at the whim of another must be hellish.” He shrugged carelessly. “But there are many degrees of hell, aren't there, Major?"

  "Indeed there are,” O'Rourke agreed. He folded his arms over his chest. “We'll see how much he is able to tolerate."

  Like all Modartha, Van had been trained since early childhood to bear great pain. He could block even the most grievous injury from his mind, push it aside, suffer it stoically and silently yet still function at peak performance levels. He knew the regimen of torture Lord Damhán had devised would take that training into account. Whatever hellish concoctions the man, rumored to have once been a celebrated surgeon, had created would have been designed to go many steps beyond a Modartha's endurance level.

  "You can save yourself a great deal of discomfort if you will simply give me the code to enter your estate,” O'Rourke said. “This is your last chance."

  "Fuck. You.” The two words came out garbled even to his own ears, but at least he had enough control of his vocal chords he could spit them out.

  "He is regaining some management of his faculties. Shall we proceed?” Lord Damhán inquired.

  O'Rourke smiled nastily then nodded.

  From the pocket of his lab coat, Lord Damhán took out a tourniquet and made quick work of tying it in place just above Van's right elbow. He began tapping on the Modartha's arm to bring the vein into prominence.

  "I believe this is a good one,” he said and rubbed Van's arm vigorously. “Yes, this will do nicely.” Working quickly and efficiently, he inserted a trocar—a sharp pointed needle contained within a hollow cannula or flexible tube. When the trocar was removed, the cannula remained behind in the vein, an efficient system of delivery for the drugs the torturer planned to use.

  A man in a black smock appeared beside the torturer and, in his hands, he carried a tray upon which were vac-syringes filled with various colored liquids. Lord Damhán reached for one that was a pale pink.

  "This is called Samhnas, Commander,” the Spider explained. “It is another mild persuasion, a taste, really, of things to come."

  The drug burned as it was injected into the vein in Van's arm, but it was the immediate effect of it that made him clamp his teeth together. Intense nausea leapt up his throat, pushed with burning intensity all along his esophagus that had sweat popping out on his face.

  "Not a pleasant feeling is it?” Lord Damhán asked in a conversational tone. “Of course, you won't be able to vomit, but you will experience the full range of the severity of the condition. It can last for quite some time."

  It wasn't so much the pain involved as it was the inability to bring up whatever was causing his stomach to contract and his chest to constrict. He gagged repeatedly, but there was nothing there. It was a ghastly experience and one he hoped would end soon. By the time the symptoms diminished, his chest and back hurt and his throat felt raw.

  "The code, Commander,” O'Rourke said softly.

  Van swallowed hard and swept his tongue over his dry upper lip. His breathing was labored but strong.

  "I don't believe he's interested in speaking to you, Major,” Lord Damhán said and picked up another vac-syringe from the tray held by his assistant. “Now, this is a very interesting little thing called Fiabhras.” He pushed the drug into cannula. “As the word implies, it produces fever."

  Heat—like the interior of a kiln—rushed over Van and before he could stop himself, he cried out with the intensity of the burning sensation. Though he knew his flesh wasn't sloughing off, crisping, it felt as though it would, and he would have sworn on Bailey's life he could smell burning meat. The blood inside his body seem to boil, and he writhed against the invasive torment.

  "The code, Commander,” he heard O'Rourke say. “Give me the code and it will stop."

  "No!” he managed to hiss and regretted having spoken for it felt as though his lips split apart.

  "This drug was designed not to last very long else his heart would give out beneath the onslaught of the high temperature,” Lord Damhán stated.

  Panting, hassling, Van strained against the bands holding his wrists and ankles in place, trying to lift his sweat-drenched upper body off the table.

  With the same quickness the drug had taken effect, it stopped but he had no chance to get over one torment before another took its place.

  "Tinneas,” the torturer said.

  Every muscle began to cramp. Every sinew began to stretch as though it were being pulled apart. Every bone developed a marrow deep ache that had the Modartha squirming as he grunted and groaned with the acute discomfort. Every tooth in his mouth became a living hell as it erupted into the very worst kind of ache. His ears hurt. His belly cramped. His back hurt so badly he was hard pressed not to cry out.

  "Here again, the drug has a short life cycle,” the Spider told O'Rourke. “No one can experience severe aches and cramps like this for very long without the heart giving out. I lost quite a few lab subjects before I decreased the dosage to what is now manageable."

  He hurt so badly he wished he could die. There wasn't a square inch of his body—inside or out—that did not ache or throb or pulse with pain. When the sensations slowly died away, he felt tears coursing down his cheeks and was ashamed that he had dared manifest such weakness.

  "The code, Commander,” O'Rourke insisted once again. “That's all you need to give me. I will do the rest."

  Despite the weakening of his body from the assault against it, Van knew he had to protect Bailey at all cost to himself. He mentally vowed he would die before giving them the code.

  When he would not sp
eak, the injections were stepped up, the demand not asked as one living hell ran into another.

  Chills gripped his body with stinging sharp claws that made his teeth click together and his flesh feel as though it were sticking to the metal table.

  Vertigo—so severe the entire room cantered away over and over again and spun him crazily in circles before plummeting him down fiery shafts of piercing lights.

  Blindness that left him feeling more vulnerable than he ever had in his life until it passed.

  The Headache from Hell that squeezed his temples in tighter and tighter bands until he thought his eyes would pop from his skull, his head would implode.

  Van was gasping for breath, his chest heaving, and sweat pouring from his body in waves. He hurt in places he couldn't even name, and the more he suffered, the weaker he became.

  And still the demand for the code was not put forth.

  "Now I am quite fond of this particular drug,” Lord Damhán said, holding aloft a vac-syringe in which a dark, red shone like liquid rubies. “I christened it Speabhraid. At first it didn't work as well as I would have liked, but when I combine it with the tenth drug, Céasadh, in tandem, the effect is awe inspiring."

  One drug went into his vein with an ice-cold wash and it was quickly followed by the next drug that stung so brutally, he began to whimper even before the effects of the combined preparation spread through his body.

  "God!" Van screamed and fought against his restraints. His eyes bulged and his entire body went rigid as he continued to scream.

  "What is it doing to him?” O'Rourke asked quietly.

  "Extremely bizarre and incapacitating hallucinations mixed with what I have been told are an excruciating pain that will ripple rhythmically through every muscle and vein in his body along with his heartbeat, increasing in volume and intensity until he looses consciousness."

  O'Rourke frowned. “He won't die, will he?"

  "Oh, no,” Lord Damhán answered. “No, but I assure you at this very moment he is praying that he will."