Floreskand_Wings

by Morton Faulkner

  ***

  Shortly after breaking their night’s fast while the royal couple were still abed with the meal’s remains discarded untidily on the fur rugs, Trulan the torturer was permitted to enter.

  He was a gigantic bull of a man, almost two marks tall, his girth capable of equalling that of two men. Muscles bulged from his neck and arms, as his torso was traditionally bare. Doubtless his thighs were as well-proportioned beneath the grey-wool breeches he wore which were tucked into calf-length leather boots. He was shaved completely on his right side only, again a tradition perpetuated by master torturers.

  Iayen appraised him. Her thin tongue contemplatively licked her scarred lips. The big man felt her eyes upon him and stood uncomfortably awaiting the king’s command.

  “Have you seen the prisoners, Trulan?” Yip-nef Dom enquired as Iayen helped him shrug into a silk dressing gown.

  The torturer bowed, muscles rippling. “Yes, sire, I believe we would be wasting our time with the one in the Tower – also the other – the–”

  “The innman?” interjected Iayen, her eye caressing him.

  “Yes... him. I would recommend concentrating completely on the woman. She looks easy to break.”

  “You may then begin on her, Trulan. Her name is Cobrora Fhord.”

  “Thank you, sire. I shall begin at once.” He smiled, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth.

  Later, Yip-nef Dom – humming contentedly to himself with Iayen by his side – welcomed the surgeon, Edu-seren Grippore. “Por-al Row, my alchemist, tells me you performed a masterly piece of surgery, my dear doctor.”

  Head bowed and talking to the tiled floor, Edu-seren falteringly said, “I have tried to please, Your Majesty. I’m only sorry to disappoint you today, but I think–”

  “Disappoint, Doctor?” The king’s tone had altered frighteningly.

  Trembling visibly, Edu-seren said, “Yes, sire. My patient, the man Courdour. Really, to use his eyes effectively he needs another day’s rest.”

  Disconcertingly, the king laughed. “Another day’s rest, you say?”

  “I’ve just returned from my morning inspection. Sire, he – his blood hasn’t fully congealed. I think it has something to do with his wound. I think his right arm could do with treatment, it’s–”

  “His arm?” said Iayen, her single eye wide.

  Still the doctor did not look up, nor had he done so since entering the royal presence.

  Silence grew between them, making the old man uncomfortable; he so wanted to look up, but surely common folk did not face royalty eye to eye.

  Then the great double doors opened on rumbling hinges and a roumer hastened in, his clothes dusty from a long ride. “Your Highness, news of Lornwater!” In his mud-stained hand he gripped a thick scroll of parchment.

  Yip-nef Dom leaned forward, said, “Excuse me one moment, Doctor.” He stepped down from the dais and brushed past Edu-seren. “Good or bad, man? Tell me!”

  It was succinct, bare of the gory detail he wanted to hear. Nevertheless, the news was good. Civil war was in full spate, the palace of Saurosen IV was under heavy siege while pockets of his force still fought outside the New City. Fire raged and people were fleeing the city in droves. The nearest townships were brimful with refugees and the pall of smoke could be seen for launmarks around.

  Iayen joined him and read the parchment over his shoulder. She sighed with annoyance. “You want a city, dearest, not a heap of rubble. What conqueror’s prize is a burned-out shell?”

  At her forthright appreciation his countenance soured. He flung the scroll back at the messenger. “Damn you, man, how long did you take getting here?”

  Though taken aback and fumbling with the scroll, the rider replied steadily enough: “Ten days, sire – without rest.”

  “Good,” said Iayen, impressed. “Then you have earned a rest now, messenger.” And she delved into her waist purse and tossed him a sphand, which he caught adroitly, eyes like saucers at sight of such wealth.

  Having dismissed him, Iayen said, “With our invulnerable army, dearest, you could be in Lornwater by the Third Dekin of Lamous, welcomed as a saviour!”

  Ignoring the doctor’s presence, Yip-nef smiled. “Yes, I will be saving them from themselves. It fits so beautifully, Iayen! They’ll believe it, too.”

  Again the door opened, and the city crier entered, panic etched on his porcine face. “Sire, I have distressing news!”

  “Out with it, Crier!”

  “Five influential merchants have gone missing, Your Highness! Watchmen investigations have revealed that they were involved with the man Grayatta Essalar who escaped your trap on–”

  “My trap?”

  “The raid on Grayatta Essalar’s house, sire – when that fellow Bindar killed all those poor soldiers then escaped himself. On the Fourth Sufinma of Darous, sire.”

  So. Por-al Row had some answering to do, Yip-nef thought, exchanging a knowing glance with Iayen. “Go on, Crier – these five merchants were involved with this Bindar fellow, you say?”

  “No, sire – Bindar’s in your cells, exchanged for those ten children.” This time Yip-nef remained quiet. “Grayatta. But the most distressing news, sire, is that Dab-su Hruma, your third-captain has disappeared.”

  “Dab –?” Then he remembered: the captain who brought in Courdour and Fhord. “What signs, Crier?”

  “Foul play is not suspected,” the crier ended sotto voce, seemingly aware of the implications of this disclosure.

  “Then he has gone missing of his own free will?” queried Iayen, surprise arching an eyebrow.

  Dumbly, the crier nodded.

  “All right, you are dismissed!” snapped the king ungraciously. He turned to see the now quailing doctor still facing the empty thrones, his head bowed as before. “You may leave, Doctor – your patient has his extra day for healing! Now go!”

  In ill-humour, Yip-nef stamped towards his throne. “Iayen, my love, ring for the first-captain, will you?”

  When he arrived the first-captain was ordered to instigate an immediate search of every house and shop, within and without the palace walls. Dab-su must be found, dead or alive.

  And when the first-captain had hurried to do his king’s bidding, Yip-nef Dom growled, “Iayen, it is time I paid another visit on my dear cousin.” He rose, descended the dais steps. “Are you coming?”

  She shook her head. “No. I would perhaps lose control and rid you of him for good.”

  He sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were more like you, my daughter. But this dread in me won’t let Yip-dor Fla be murdered whilst I am king.”

  Iayen nodded, as though saying, “So be it.”

  ***

  Guards dragged Ulran and Fhord in chains through the echoing black-stone corridors beneath the royal courtyard. They passed a small torture chamber illumined by smouldering red coals. Within, upon a blood-spattered rack, lay the spread-eagled body of Bindar, his red hair cropped and baring a bruised skull, his impressive body stretched and drawn.

  Though hurried on, Ulran detected the faintest vibration of a powerful heart, fighting for continued life. For me, Bindar had come to this. Yet both knew there was no obligation on either, implied or otherwise. If the roles of circumstance had been reversed, Ulran would have done the same.

  “I’ll return to that stubborn one later, after I’ve broken you, little woman!” Trulan the torturer said and chuckled as he waited for them at the doorway of the lower chamber.

  Trulan led the way. They descended well-worn steps into an infernal place lit with red torches that lent the cavernous chamber a hellish hue. Trulan said, cheerfully, almost conversationally, “This lower chamber has a nice atmosphere, don’t you think? An aroma all its own!”

  The stench of decaying carcasses rose to meet them. Fhord retched on a strained and empty stomach and bitter bile moistened her lips. Now they could discern various metal contraptions standing in the centre of the chamber, and upon the walls hung hideous-looking pincers, knives an
d prongs. “Tools of my trade, you see – each one with a special purpose – to extract truth!”

  Chains still jangling, they were led across to the far wall, opposite the staircase of stone. Here, the sentries snapped more shackles on them, firmly securing both Ulran and Fhord to ringbolts in the rough-hewn wall.

  “Yes, this is all necessary, you see,” said Trulan, “to get the subject into the right frame of mind.”

  Ulran was unimpressed by Trulan’s antics. The torturer’s performance so far showed him plainly to be an adept of Lornwater’s own torture training school, whose sessions Ulran had often watched, studying the psychology behind torture and also the minds of the men eager to become master torturers.

  Trulan walked over to a large spit supported above a long wide brazier of smouldering coke. “This is my favourite.” His biceps bulged as he manipulated the enormous bellows to produce gusts of flame and a deeper reddening of the coke.

  “I can see you are unimpressed, innman,” he went on, his back to them. “But as far as I’m concerned you are at the moment merely a spectator. I have my eye solely on your Cobrora Fhord here.” He turned in time to see Fhord edge away as far as her chains would allow. Trulan grinned. “Yes, this is all for you, young woman!”

  ***

  Yip-dor Fla stumbled drunkenly across the confined cell, his mouth dribbling blood. As he cannonaded into the cell wall, his cousin’s high-pitched laughter rang in his ears.

  “Your cousin has an heir budding in Iayen’s belly, Fla! How do you like that, eh?” Yip-nef walked forward, heaved Yip-dor Fla to his feet and struck him repeatedly with his vicious, damaging ringed hand.

  If Yip-nef Dom had been brave enough to enter the cell alone, Fla would have fought back. But a long time ago he had learned to his cost: the two armed guards had beaten him insensible with their spear-hafts the one time he had retaliated against Yip-nef. But he would not let his spirit succumb as easily as his body. “Your days,” he mumbled defiantly, spitting out a tooth, “are numbered – First Durinma will be your time of reckoning, Dom, not mine!”

  He paid dearly for his defiance, but short of some insane mistake he would survive, he thought and blacked out.

  ***

  Fhord felt strangely quiescent and had done so ever since they shackled her to the broad ironwood beam that served as a spit. She lay on her back, with the rotary spit between herself and the brazier fire.

  A whole orm had passed since the guards left and still Trulan was having some difficulty with the fire. He forced the bellows repeatedly down, but all he managed was a few stray sparks and gusts of choking black smoke.

  She smelled completely of charcoal, and coughed almost continually. Sweat poured from her, not from fear, but with the warmth from below. Surprisingly, she thought, the torturer had refrained from stripping her completely and had only torn off the remains of her shirt, baring her torso.

  “Can’t understand it,” murmured Trulan, huffing and puffing over the bellows. Then, in an aside to her, he said, almost reassuringly, “Don’t worry, Fhord, I’ll have you roasting nicely in no time. I’m doing my best.”

  Then, at last, flames erupted. A deepening red, the crackling of fuel-gases. “Ah, that’s better.” He flung the leather bellows to the floor where they loudly slapped down. “Yes, warmer already, are we? Good, good.”

  To her own surprise Fhord began objectively studying the torturer’s psychology. It was as though the man only lived to inflict pain yet talked and talked to his victims to convince them that he really meant no harm, he couldn’t help himself. The thought, perversely, amused her and she smiled thinly.

  Strangely disconcerted at sight of her smile, Trulan said, softly, “One rotation at a time. Slowly does it.”

  The beam began to move. Slowly.

  Fhord rotated side-ways to her left, slipped a little as she went round but the chains caught her with a jolt. She lay stretched out above the burning coke and could feel her face and chest flush red with the heat waves wafting upwards.

  Then she was moving, rotating, thankfully away from the intense heat, completing full circle. She sighed with relief as she slumped back onto the ironwood beam.

  Her body suddenly broke out in beads of sweat that lathered her, some dribbling off and into the fire with harsh hissing sounds.

  “We’ll take it gently, you see. Get you accustomed to it, so you’ll begin to expect it before it actually comes. You see my meaning?”

  Talk, talk, and talk. Rotate, rotate... Warmer, warmer... Hotter, hotter... Over and over again.

  When Fhord had first entered the lower chamber she had sensed an evil presence, though she had not been surprised. But now she felt she could actually identify the entity here. It was as though the whole chamber were permeated with the aura of Honsor, black lord of fire. One of the strongest, most evil lesslords in existence. She felt weak at the thought alone.

  After each rotation and the singeing of her leggings and hair she could almost feel her little remaining strength of will and body dribbling off with the out-pouring of sweat. As if the resultant hissing was Honsor’s demonic laughter.

  Though at least four marks away, Ulran could feel the heat from the brazier beneath Fhord. He marvelled that she had suffered so much without even a murmur. But she could not take much more, surely? Ulran tested the strength of his chains; but the ringbolts were secured fast. Yet still he heaved. His aching body cried out in protest – and was ignored.

  Fhord’s mouth curved in a grim stubborn smile as she faced the terrible heat once more. Again, she looked into the red-hot coals through slit eyes that streamed with tears and sweat.

  “You’re doing well, Cobrora Fhord.” Trulan rubbed his hands as he left her suspended over the fire a little longer than before. “You have my compliments. Yes, you’ve done well – so far,” he ended ominously.

  And still Fhord smiled grimly as the skin of her face blistered and the smell of singed hair and clothes filled her nostrils, stronger than charcoal and all else.

  The smell of Honsor.

  ***

  While they watched the preparations for the rite begin to take shape out of the former chaos, Yip-nef Dom said, “You’re sure the potion will work, Por-al Row?”

  Seething within himself, the alchemist nodded. After the way he has treated me recently, he still comes begging reassurances! By the gods, if only my powers hadn’t waned of late with all the demands he has made on me! Then I would brew something appropriate for that she-devil! “Yes, sire, it won’t be long before you are invincible – Lord of Floreskand!”

  “And you say the after-morning has been set aside to view Courdour’s demise?”

  “Indeed, sire. But now, if you will excuse me, I must descend to the lower chamber to probe the mind of Cobrora again. I think she should be just about ready!”

  The alchemist backed out of the salon, bowing.

  Iayen appeared from behind a curtained doorway at the rear of the dais. “Why didn’t you question him further on the man Bindar, and the merchant Grayatta, father?”

  “Oh,” shrugged Yip-nef, “he works for me now for fear of you. But he still believes he has my trust even if you possess my heart. As long as he believes that, he can prove useful – at least until the rite. Afterwards, well...” And he shrugged expressively. “But were I to begin asking him too many awkward questions, he might learn to distrust my intentions. And he could be a dangerous opponent, Iayen.”

  “Then have him slain.”

  The king smiled. “That’s your answer for everything, my sweet. But whilst he is useful, he must live. After the rite, you may deal with him as you see fit.”

  She smiled.

  He had a twinkle in his eye. “And I would like to watch!”

  ***

  Trulan hummed to himself and stoked the fire and said over and over, “Give in, Fhord, you can’t last!”

  Ignoring the torturer, Por-al Row concentrated on probing Cobrora’s mind. He was somewhat disturbed to see she ha
d withstood the fire for so long.

  “Three orms,” said Trulan, as though proud of his victim’s achievement.

  A blank white wall, with that orange glow, as before; a barrier that showed no sign of a breach whatsoever. Not without a tinge of envy, he wondered how could such a weak specimen withstand so much?

  “I’ll return later, Trulan. If she feels like talking in the meantime, send word to me. Do you understand?”

  Trulan nodded and contentedly rotated the human spit again, Por-al Row forgotten.

  As the alchemist departed he cast a baleful look at the innman who was ineffectually straining at the wall-chains. He shook his head, face burning. At least Courdour Alomar’s death will cheer me up, he thought.

  ***

  After-morning sun beamed upon the royal courtyard. A scattering of nobles had arrived early and occupied the foremost seats facing the clear-glass front of the Tower of Ash. The tower stood ten marks tall and showed through the glass to be almost two-thirds full with ash. Wooden poles criss-crossed about a mark above the surface of ash. The top of the tower was boarded up.

  A fanfare warned of the imminent arrival of the royal party and entourage.

  All those present hastily stood as Yip-nef Dom, hand in hand with Iayen, stepped forward onto the balcony above the wooden benches. They sat and the nobles followed their lead.

  The king was already drooling. And Courdour Alomar had not been brought out yet. “After so long,” he whispered feelingly, “revenge at last!” His solitary eye flashed in the sunlight. And, solicitously, his daughter laid her hand on his.

  Revenge today, the historic rite tomorrow! All’s well with the world – and damn Fla to ashes!

  ***

  Fhord suffered. Scorching-hot branding irons pressed down hard upon her abdomen and breasts, burning into blisters. The body-suppuration sizzled. And still she fought back cries of anguish.

  Honsor hovered. She could feel the foul presence close by, as though salivating with anticipation, to burn up this meagre offering.

  Ulran had lapsed into a semi-trance and mustered hidden subconscious reserves. He knew full well that if he exerted such reserves for any lengthy period he would later be as weak and as helpless as a babe. But he must attempt saving poor Fhord, before she was too far gone. He gouged and rubbed a link of chain against the mortar surrounding the stone-block where one of the ringbolts was attached.