by Evren, S. K.
The interrogations began the next day. He told himself he would not break under their torments, wouldn’t cry out in pain. He would show them strength and resolve, would prove what an asset he could be. He’d been wounded in battle. He had experienced pain in his life. Nothing, he told himself, could be worse than the pain of losing the woman he loved.
He was wrong.
He inhaled in shock as the first hot needle slithered mercilessly under the nail of his right forefinger. His hand, clamped to a rest, accepted four more needles into its fingers. Each was heated by a flaming torch that cast looming shadows on the shrouded face of his tormentor. He bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out. He watched the torturer plying his trade, trying to occupy his mind with anything but the searing pain. The hooded figure worked as methodically as a carpenter. He did not exaggerate his work to enhance Troseth’s agony. He inserted the heated needles with practiced precision. After he finished with Troseth’s right hand, he began to work on the left.
No one asked any questions, no one watched the work of the tormentor. Troseth, his teeth clenched and sweat rolling in streams down his body, wondered if anyone would ever come to listen to him. He gasped twice before all five needles were placed in his left hand. He tried to control his breathing, tried to think of battles long past, of wounds received and given. He fought with the fear that rose as his shoes were removed and his ankles strapped into place.
The tormentor left the room after baring Troseth’s feet. His fingers seared in agony, torches still heating the wires that extended from his hands. He smelled the stench of burning flesh, knowing it was his own. His feet twitched in anticipation.
Why had the tormentor left? Would he bring someone to interrogate the prisoner? Would someone come to listen to his offer? Were they merely trying to frighten him, trying to make his mind enhance the pain it anticipated? Would they do the same to his feet as they had done to his hands?
The door opened. The tormentor returned. Without saying a word, he began to insert heated needles under the nails of Troseth’s right foot. After each insertion, he grasped the needle in a pair of tongs, twisted it, and pushed it in slightly deeper. He had waited until Troseth accepted the process as he had in his hands, adding the twist as a new dimension. Troseth gasped a few more times, but held back his voice with a soldier’s resolve. After completing the second round of insertions, the torturer left the room again.
Troseth struggled to accept the pain coursing through his body. The damage, he thought to himself, was minimal, far from life-threatening. He had endured worse. He could endure worse. They had to talk to him sometime. Someone had to come to find out what he had been doing, what mission he might have been on, at least who he might have been. They had to come, he thought to himself. They had to come. If they weren’t going to come, he questioned himself, why hadn’t they just killed him?
After what he guessed was an hour, the door opened once more. A shrouded man brought in a small cart containing a large bowl. A foul odor entered with the bowl, an odor composed of rotting food, decaying flesh, and raw, green alcohol. What appeared to be a small hand-bellows leaned up against the bowl. The smell began to catch at Troseth’s throat, causing him to gag.
A second man approached Troseth and took firm hold of his neck and jaw. His fingers were hard and bit deeply into Troseth’s flesh. The first figure took the bellows and inserted it into the bowl. He spread the handles wide, drawing some of the contents into the wood and leather device. Troseth’s mouth was forced open as the tip of the bellows was forced back into this throat. With a great force, the wretched contents were ejected into his mouth and down his throat. Troseth gagged and choked, vomiting up as much as he could. The procedure was repeated several times until, weak from the repeated dosings, Troseth could only drool as his head nodded limply on his neck.
One of the men took hold of the needles in his right hand, all five at once, and ripped them from under his fingers. The pain forced Troseth to open his eyes, but he couldn’t have screamed. He was too weak, too sick to his stomach. The other needles were similarly removed. Troseth felt light-headed, nauseous, as he had when he’d drank down the bottle of spirits in one draught. Just the hint of that memory caused him to dry heave. One of the figures regarded him momentarily, as if to make sure he was still conscious.
They removed the loincloth that had covered Troseth’s private regions. As queasy as he felt, his mind struggled to remain alert. His chair was pushed forward until it rested on its high back and two arms. Troseth had managed to wrench his hands out of the way just in time to avoid having them crushed by his own weight. He heard one of the men leave the room and reenter moments later. He was certain he had seen the tip of a red-hot poker pass only inches from his eyes. Hard hands pushed the cheeks of his legs apart and he felt a searing heat approaching his naked flesh. It was the last sensation he remembered.
He woke some time later. Days, hours, he was never sure. He felt sick to his stomach. His fingers and toes hurt. He caught a familiar odor that caused him to vomit. His hands were not bound. His leg was again chained to the wall. He felt an urgent need to move his bowels. The pain of the passing excrement brought tears to his eyes. Moments later he passed out.
He spent days enduring the shame and agony. He became instinctively frightened of relieving himself. The rotten swill they had forced down his throat, however, had made him more ill than he’d ever been in his life. He had seen soldiers die from dysentery, and he was certain that would be his fate, as well. His captors had added a special condition to the disease, and he hated them all the more for it.
Days passed, he was certain of it. The pain continued, even on the single day that he managed to keep his bowels from moving. The following day he became more ill, passing out often in his darkened cell. He began to envy the corpse that was still chained to the wall. He truly regretted the fact that he had not killed himself the morning he woke in the ditch.
Some uncounted days after his arrival, he heard a voice in the hall outside of his cell. It was a deep voice, a commanding voice. It demanded to see the prisoner. Troseth wished fervently for his own death. He heard two sharp detonations outside of his door. He felt a deep tremor in his lungs as the sound passed through his body. The door of his cell shook and his chain rattled.
Slowly, the door opened, and light flooded into the room. The light stabbed deeply into Troseth’s eyes. He trembled with weakness and backed away from the brightness. The door opened further and someone stepped into the room.
The figure appeared gaunt against the light pouring through the door. He wore a black robe that draped from shoulders to floor. His features were hidden in the shadows of the backing light, but his hair appeared to be silver or white. He stood erect, one hand on the door, another pushed out to fend off any rush from inside the room. Troseth looked at the outstretched hand and knew the figure had nothing to fear.
“Who are you?” the figure demanded.
Troseth tried to answer but could only produce a nasal whine.
“Speak,” the voice commanded in thunderous tones. Troseth again heard the rattling of his chain, and realized he was trembling.
An incandescent glow seemed to form in the outstretched hand of the stranger. For a tantalizing moment, Troseth could almost see the face of his interrogator. The incandescence expanded before he could get a good look, its glow burning painfully into his eyes.
“This will not do,” the voice said firmly, though slightly softer than before. It uttered something in words that Troseth did not understand. He felt as if a warm wind had passed through his body. “I see,” he heard the deep voice as it spoke to itself. Again he heard the words of an unknown language, and again he felt as if the air itself had passed through him. The air felt warmer this time. It was soothing, refreshing.
The pain in his fingers leeched away. The sickness he had felt for days left him, remaining only as phantom memory. He felt strong and well rested, as if he’d been on leave for weeks
. He breathed in deeply and moved his body as if it were a feather.
“Thank you,” he said simply and earnestly to the figure in the doorway.
“Who are you?” the figure asked again. The question had lost much of its initial harshness.
“My name is Troseth.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I have come to offer my services as a soldier,” he answered. Could this be his chance, he wondered.
“What makes you think that any here would be in need of your services?” the voice asked seriously.
“I have been a cavalry commander since my nineteenth name day. Recently, I have commanded two regiments that have earned both glory and praise.”
“Very good for you, young man. Why have you left all that ‘glory and praise’ to risk your life here, coming like a spy in the night?”
“I am no spy,” Troseth replied. “I am a soldier. My Maryndian master betrayed me, promising me certain rewards for my services, and then withholding them when they were due.”
“Are you a mercenary, then?” the voice asked with a faint and insulting tone of amusement.
“I am no mercenary, but I am a man of my word. I deal honestly with my men and those I serve, and I expect to be dealt with honestly in return.” Confidence returned to Troseth with the departure of his pain.
“Ah,” the figure nodded, “your feelings were hurt, so you ran away.”
“I didn’t run away,” Troseth ground out between clenched teeth.
“What do you call it, then, abandoning your rightful lord and trying to defect to Sel Avrand?”
“The men of the West have no honor or loyalty,” Troseth explained. “Perhaps I will find no better master in the East, but I owe it to myself, as a man, to seek such service.”
“And what would you do if you found such a master?”
“Offer him my life, my service—my very soul,” Troseth replied truthfully.
“I see,” the figure said, “I see.” He looked Troseth up and down, measuring, judging. “If you would seek such service, follow me, boy.” The black-robed figure turned from the cell and walked out into the brilliant light of the hallway.
Troseth began to object, wanting to explain that his foot was chained to the wall. He heard a sharp click come from the cuff around his ankle and watched as it fell to the floor. He stared at it in amazement, then quickly left the room to follow the man who had not only rescued him, he thought, but healed him as well. As he stepped out into the hallway, he saw two shrouded figures smoking in heaps on the floor. His tormentors had been killed! His eyes widened as they focused on the man leading him away from the nightmare he had lived. He could only hope, he thought to himself, that he would have the chance to serve the man who had ended his shame and suffering.
As the prisoner rounded the corner, the two smoking figures righted themselves, jerkily, into a standing position. Their robes had charred away partially, exposing vacant-eyed skulls and blackened bones. One closed the door to the cell while the other extinguished a smoldering fire fighting for life in the filthy straw on the floor.
The old man smiled as he led his newest follower from torment into service. The boy was young and eager, believing the world owed him a debt. All the better, he thought to himself, all the better. He led the young man out into daylight and across a courtyard to the supply house. A portly man in a spotted uniform leaned back in his chair until the old man entered the office. The soldier leapt to his feet, his chair sliding out from under him and scraping along the floor.
“Yes, my Lord,” the quartermaster inquired, snapping himself to attention.
“This young man needs a uniform, cavalry, with no rank for the moment. See to it. When he is outfitted bring him to me personally. Do you understand?”
“Of course, my Lord,” the quartermaster replied smartly. “It shall be as you say.”
The old man nodded, looked once at Troseth, and turned to leave the supply house. He paused for a moment and turned back to his new recruit.
“I believe this is yours,” the old man said, pulling a sheathed dagger from his robes. He handed the ceremonial dagger to Troseth.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Troseth replied, taking back the weapon that Ythel had given him.
“If you serve me well, young man, I may just consecrate that for you.” The old man smiled and left the building.
Troseth’s mind raced at the events of the day. Less than an hour earlier, he had known agony as never before. Now, his tormentors lie dead in their own ashes, his pain had been swept from his bones, and he was being outfitted into a new uniform. Somehow, his plan had come together. He was certain that, once he was fitted to the uniform, it would only be a matter of time before these Easterners were calling him “commander.”
Riding in the wake of the dead, Troseth looked down at the medallion of rank hanging around his neck. He had achieved his command and so much more. He led the personal guard of a man who would rebuild an Empire. His new Master commanded so much power that the dead clawed their way out of the unyielding soil to serve him. Thousands upon thousands of fearless fighters marched to do his bidding. Pain would not stop them. Death could not frighten them. They would be relentless. If he had understood his Master correctly, each of their victories would not diminish their ranks, but add to their total.
Troseth had served in the West and been betrayed in the West. He had lost the love of his life twice, once to marriage and once to death. Fortune had placed him in service to the only man who could restore that love to his life. He was certain she was among the bodies marching east. He would find her. Sooner or later, he would find her. He had to find her. He had been meant to find her.
His former master had denied him the object of his passion out of jealousy and pettiness. Ythel had wanted something better for his daughter, better than an untitled servant. Troseth’s new Master would have no such designs on Li. She was simply one body among thousands. If he served faithfully and well, why would his new Master ever deny the restoration of Troseth’s true love? Poson, the Master’s closest servant and advisor, had suggested as much on numerous occasions. He had advised Troseth to serve and be patient, and Troseth had done both.
Troseth moved his horse up alongside the army, surveying the silent horde as if they were his own command. Others would think that he was merely taking a professional interest in the order of the new Imperial Army. They would never know, could never guess, that he sought love in the ranks of the dead.
He had been concerned in the first few days, worried that he would never find the object of his desire in such a vast gathering. Time and distance had set his mind at ease. They were marching to a hidden staging area, a concealed stash of ancient Imperial weapons and supplies. They would spend their time outfitting the dead for the campaigns to come, and Troseth would have all the time and opportunity he needed to search carefully through the ranks. He would find her, he repeated to himself, because he had been meant to find her.
Chapter 20 – Observations and Identifications
The silent horde approached the border city of Sa Ruus shortly after crossing into Sel Avrand. Caught in the same powerful spell that had summoned the dead of and around Æostemark, the dead of Sa Ruus had overrun the city before the new Imperial Army had crossed the border. The waiting corpses added their numbers to the horde, leaving Sa Ruus in ruins.
The growing army encountered patrols moving west to the border. Troseth’s light cavalry chased down those the dead did not embrace, preventing any word of the army’s existence from spreading. Several days after crossing the border, the army wheeled to the north. The only major obstacles between the army and the centuries-old Imperial weapons cache were distance and the city of Sa Kuuth.
Troseth had planned and executed campaigns in his military service, but his mind reeled at the scope of the design that consumed him. Where he had dealt in matters of weeks or months, his Master had plotted across decades and centuries. His own power was measured in terms
of men and horses, while his Master’s power tapped a source of awe and fear. How could any mortal force face this horde? How would any living army, of either Marynd or Sel Avrand, stand against these warriors?
He tried to consider how he might engage this army in the field. In any sort of even exchange, he thought, he might stand a chance. They were light and, for the moment, unarmed. A fast cavalry charge might be enough to shatter, literally, an equal force. In all his experience, he had never seen a living army of this size. Aside from the sheer numbers, there was another factor to consider.
He had watched, with interest, the skirmishes between the new Imperial forces and the town guardsmen in Æostemark and the various Eastern patrols. There were wounds that a living human body could not survive, overwhelming traumas that would bring down any man. He had seen the dead dismembered and decapitated, and watched as they continued to press their adversaries. He had seen skulls splintered moments before the hands of the same corpse reached up to squeeze the life out of a terrorized soldier’s throat. How could anyone stop something that would not die?
His own men had required time and exposure to become accustomed—if he could even call it that—to the dead. They were, at the very least, not incapacitated by fear. Even so, many of them turned to prayer before they sought their bedrolls at night. These men had been handpicked killers, ruthless creatures capable of instant violence and murder. He had been told to select the most fearless of his Master’s living forces, and he had done so. Their experience with the dead had changed them. Their fierce boasting and glaring challenges died in their throats. They sought protection in their own numbers, like children or herd animals. They nervously eyed the dead marching near them, their hands never far from their weapons.