Severance Lost (Fractal Forsaken Series Book 1)

by Unknown

  Slate bit his lip and then said the statement he was afraid to say. “I believe the events of the past few months are the works of a Blood Mage who is subjugating minds and forcing them to attack upon command.” He didn’t mention that his other fear was that one of the headmasters, and quite possibly the one standing in front of him, could be orchestrating the entire ordeal.

  The headmaster didn’t laugh. “Blood Magic is a serious accusation and one that has occurred only rarely since Cantor’s time…don’t be surprised that I know the name. It is my job to have information of all sorts and with people like Brannon around, it pays to have a healthy understanding of magic.” The headmaster thought for a while before continuing. “That makes us even in terms of our trade. I trust your concerns are merited considering the company you keep. Lucus and Ibson have good reputations for honesty even taking into account their status as wizards.”

  “Why do you assume Brannon was involved?” Slate inquired.

  “I don’t assume his involvement, but he was present at the tournament bout, was the person to find Ibson after his fall, and has the ability and power to coordinate an attack on Pillar from across the kingdom without anyone finding out.” Didn’t that mean the Headmaster was assuming Brannon’s involvement then? The headmaster abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “You positioned yourself to have personal interaction with both Brannon and Villifor. I’m assuming they have need of your Sicarius skills to obtain information regarding me or the other headmasters.” Slate’s eyes widened just enough to confirm the statement, which was the intent of the headmaster’s abrupt questioning. “This is good. You will report to the other headmasters the updates I provide and share any information that arises from conversations with the headmasters to me.” Before Slate could argue, the headmaster held out the shock stick and touched his neck.

  When he awoke, Slate sat on a grassy hill under the shade of a large oak tree with a rather pleasant view of Ravinai. By the position of the sun, he estimated that it was around dinner time. He would have to hurry home in order to make it back to Ispirtu in time for his session with Primean.

  Slate picked himself up and tried to work out the sluggishness with a light jog into the city. On his way back to the city he contemplated the day’s events. He was now searching for more than the murderer of his parents but also a Blood Mage. The headmasters were still the main suspects, but they could be acting at the command of the Blood Mage or King Darik, if he had been subjugated. He was now in personal contact and under direction to spy on the headmasters by the opposing guilds. Slate found it rather surprising that the guilds knew so little about each other, but in retrospect, it was a brilliant move by King Darik. He had set up the guilds relatively autonomously from each other but under his direct control. It created parity between the guilds that resulted in stiff inter-guild competition and if any one guild challenged his authority, the other two guilds would be enough to counteract the threat to his reign. After hearing King Darik at the Sicarius meeting today, Slate no longer thought this setup was an accident. It also brought on the realization of the unique position he was in, and the reasons why he could be seen as a threat. Threats to the guilds were taken care of quietly, but Slate didn’t think quietly corresponded to painlessly. He had visited Master Primean on too many occasions to assume that. Slate headed for Ispirtu to find what the old wizard had in store for him tonight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PAIN TOLERATED

  Inside the walls of Ispirtu, Slate slipped into the catacombs occupied by the guild’s army of researchers. The orb patrols were infrequent in the deep parts of Ispirtu because simulated battles distracted them from their research. This allowed Slate to reach Master Primean’s Pain Tolerance Laboratory with relative ease.

  Master Primean looked up from his work when Slate pushed through the double doors of the laboratory. The congenial wizard’s demeanor differed this evening, looking too serious and single-minded for the researcher that Slate had come to know over the last few months of punishment. “You are late.”

  Lattimer waited in the laboratory and addressed Master Primean formally to contrast Slate’s late arrival. “Master Primean, my father has told me of your great discoveries and the honor you bring to Ispirtu. If I must serve as a test subject this evening, I am grateful it is within your laboratory.”

  Master Primean rose from his desk and pointedly ignored Lattimer’s attempts at flattery. “Master Brannon told me the two of you have developed a rivalry in your time at Ispirtu. It will end tonight. I will set aside my research to perform pain tolerance testing of the simplest sort. One of you will withstand the pain for longer than the other and get the pleasure of seeing your rival reduced to a sobbing pile of robes. Please join me in the back of the laboratory.”

  Slate ignored the stare that Lattimer directed his way. Lattimer hadn’t been sent to Primean before and didn’t know what was coming. In this lab, Slate had been cut, punched, and had objects shot at him, all with some unproven and unpredictable magic involved. Whatever Primean had in store for him, the look on his face was enough to know it would be a long evening. He followed Primean toward the back of the lab, an area he had never been before.

  Primean stopped at an open area of the laboratory. Wood chips covered the floor and two large hooks hung from the ceiling. Slate couldn’t help but ask, “What are the wood chips for?” Primean was first and foremost an academic, and couldn’t resist a question. “I have found they are excellent at soaking up liquids. It makes clean-up easier.” Slate didn’t see any water around, so he assumed Primean was referring to blood. Primean then ordered, “Please disrobe and remove your shirts. When you are done, stand under one of the hooks.”

  Slate began to question whether his position in Ispirtu was worth subjecting himself to torture. His positions in Sicarius and Bellator would still provide valuable information, but then Slate clenched his fist and remembered the iron inside. Someone had done this to him. That same person had hurt Ibson, killed his parents, and was now responsible for attacks on defenseless villages. If a little bit of pain helped him find and stop that person, then it was worth it. He looked at Lattimer and saw a look of false confidence on his face that Slate didn’t bother to comment on. He just took his robes and his shirt off and stood underneath one of the hooks.

  Primean stepped toward him holding a rope. Slate wanted to prepare himself for what was to come, so he continued to ask Primean questions. “What is the rope for?”

  “I will bind your hands and hang you from the hook above using the rope.”

  “Thank you for not hanging me directly by the hook.” That got a chuckle from the too-serious wizard. Slate asked the main question on his mind. “What will happen next?”

  Primean bound Slate’s hands and looped the rope over the hook. “It is an inelegant experiment. The two of you will hang from these hooks. I will whip you in alternating blows. The first to scream for mercy will lose. At that point, the winner can choose to end the experiment.”

  “Why wouldn’t the winner choose to end the experiment?” Slate had to ask.

  “Each person will receive equal blows, but only the winner can end the experiment. If the winner chooses, he can continue and watch his enemy receive more blows as he screams for mercy. As I said…it is rather inelegant.” Slate looked over to Lattimer as Primean hoisted him into the air. Would he be so cruel as to continue past the point of winning? Slate didn’t want to give him the opportunity.

  Primean bound Lattimer’s hands. Slate tried to remain calm and looked around the room for a way to distract Primean. For some reason, his gaze kept gravitating toward the area of the lab he was in last night. The chair sat next to a sponge in a bucket of water. What had Sana said about the sponge? It didn’t seem relevant to his current situation, but his mind couldn’t let it go.

  Primean hoisted Lattimer into the air. Lattimer was offering up some verbal abuse prior to the whipping. “Try not to cry for mercy too early, Slate…when
you say the words I want you to know you have been bettered.” Slate ignored him. The sponge…why was he still thinking about the sponge? Sana said Primean shouldn’t have used the sponge to soak up pain but rather to staunch the flow of blood.

  “Master Primean, I have seen the genius of your research and it pains me to see your talents wasted on such an inelegant experiment. I believe I have a way to continue tonight’s experiment and fulfill your obligation to Master Brannon while still advancing your research.” The words genius and advancing your research to an academic are like the words free and collector’s edition to a hoarder. They were too good to pass up.

  Sure enough, Primean’s eyes twinkled with curiosity. “What do you propose?”

  “I have been thinking of our study from last night. I don’t pretend to have your knowledge of magic, but what if the spell was used to staunch the flow of blood from open wounds?”

  The twinkle dimmed slightly. “A spell of that sort would have no effect on a person’s ability to withstand pain.” Sana was right. Primean couldn’t see the healing benefits of the spell because he was so focused on his own area of research. Slate modified his approach.

  “That’s true, but it would limit the severity of the injuries to the test subject. By applying the spell, it would allow you to test someone’s true pain tolerance, because they would still feel the pain of the injury but wouldn’t have their senses dimmed by blood loss.”

  “So physically, they would be able to withstand more pain…it would just be a matter of how much they could deal with…” The twinkle returned and magnified. “You may be onto something Slate. I’ll set it up!” Primean ran back to collect the sponge and bucket of water.

  Lattimer whispered feverishly, “What have you done?”

  Slate answered honestly. “I don’t know…”

  Primean came back mumbling to himself. Slate was able to catch only snippets. “…apply with the sponge…direct contact should…stand in the bucket…link, and yes…it should work!” The old wizard soaked the sponge in the bucket and then came over to Slate. He rubbed the sponge vigorously over Slate’s torso, soaking him in water. He repeated the procedure with Lattimer and then positioned the bucket of water to be halfway between them. Primean grabbed a whip from a nearby table and stuck one foot in the bucket of water.

  “We are ready to begin.” Primean said excitedly. “I apologize for soaking you in water, but it will make the spell easier for me to cast. Are we ready?” Lattimer just grunted and Slate didn’t respond, but Primean was unfazed. Slate knew he had cast the spell because he felt it. Primean’s magic couldn’t be described as comforting like Sana’s or a thunderhead like Brannon’s. It felt almost indifferent and well used. It reminded Slate of a rusty knife, an implement that was still useful but for which there were some tasks it shouldn’t be used. Slate hoped this didn’t fall into that category.

  Primean then explained, “I will maintain the spell for the duration of this experiment. Let us begin the inelegant portions of the study.” The whip lashed out and struck Slate in the shoulder, and he managed to stifle a cry. The whip stung on contact, opening up his skin and creating a burning sensation that lingered far after the whip was gone. Despite the pain and the open wound, only a small trickle of blood flowed from the wound. Primean was ecstatic, “It works! It works! They are probably casting a statue of me for the hallways upstairs as we speak!”

  Crack! Lattimer was struck in a similar location to Slate and the effect was the same, except Slate was pleased to hear Lattimer release a small grunt on impact.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! The lashes continued and the impact drew increasingly loud exclamations from Slate and Lattimer. The spell continued to work though. Slate’s chest and back were dripping with blood from all of the wounds, but it was an unsettlingly small amount. Through it all, Slate could feel the constant presence of Primean’s spell. It felt as though he was being held tightly…like a good set of leather armor on his skin, except the feeling permeated throughout his body, drawing everything toward his core.

  Crack! Crack! Lattimer cried out in anguish. He wouldn’t last much longer. Crack! Slate exhaled and felt the burning sensations across his back and chest. He forced himself to relive the sights of Pillar. He would withstand this if it prevented that from ever happening again. He didn’t bother opening his eyes anymore. He just waited for the next blow and steeled himself with his memories.

  Crack! “Mercy!” Lattimer cried out. Slate breathed a sigh of relief and opened his eyes. Crack! A blow from Primean struck him in the side. Slate cried out in surprise and stared at Primean with eyes bulging. “Slate is declared the winner.” Master Primean declared officially. He then continued to hit Slate and the twinkle in his eyes turned into a crazed stare. “Unfortunately, the results of this test are too promising to end prematurely.” Crack! Slate accidently bit his tongue. “I will need to see the limits of its potential.” Crack! Crack! “Don’t worry, Slate…you will be perfectly safe.” Crack!

  Slate’s mind was burning even more than the wounds from the whip. What had he done? Crack! He closed his eyes and suffered through the blows. Crack! Crack! “Stop!” Lattimer cried. Crack! “Mercy…” Slate said, although no sound came out. Primean’s excitement couldn’t be stopped. “This is the highest pain tolerance ever exhibited in my testing. It is ten times the level previously recorded!” Crack! Crack! The feeling of the spell had changed. The indifference had gone and it was replaced by something utterly frightening. Crack! “Stop…you are going to kill him!” Lattimer begged of Primean. Crack! Slate was starting to feel light-headed. Crack! He was losing too much blood, despite the spell’s effects. He felt the spell acting on him and he clung to the “tightness” he felt. Crack! Slate was losing consciousness. He pulled as tightly as he could on the spell, drawing everything toward his core, trying with all his might to stop the blood loss. He pulled tighter and tighter and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized the whip had stopped. Slate was too tired to concentrate on anything but that feeling of tightness. That was keeping him alive. He held it in a vice grip and then he felt the spell stop, but the tightness remained and the world went black.

  Slate opened his eyes…a simple act but one he didn’t take for granted. He could remember what had happened in Primean’s laboratory, but what he really remembered was the pain. It was blinding. It was excruciating. It was blissfully gone. He was too disoriented to even lift his head, but he could see enough from his position to realize he was in the infirmary.

  A white-robed wizard was in his room and she noticed that Slate was awake. “Welcome back to the living, Slate. You have been healed to the extent possible. You also have several visitors anxiously awaiting news. I will send them in.” Slate was excited. In contrast to his experience with healing from Ibson, Slate found he had most of his energy back. That told him he’d be recovered much sooner than he originally thought and hopefully he wasn’t under investigation again.

  Slate was getting ready to welcome Rainier, Lucus, and Sana when Brannon and Lattimer Regallo entered his room. They were the last people Slate expected to see. Upon looking at him, Lattimer flinched slightly, and the wizard’s words “to the extent possible” crept back into his mind.

  Brannon addressed him. “Slate, I am in your debt. I requested Primean to settle the dispute between you and Lattimer using his…unique…talents, but this was not my intent. No wizard should put his research ahead of another’s well-being.”

  “So I won’t be under investigation this time?”

  “No, Slate. Lattimer witnessed the entire event. His testimony is sufficient to implicate Primean.”

  A wave of relief went through Slate. He had no desire to have his memories ripped from him again. “What will happen to Primean then?”

  Brannon looked to Lattimer and back to Slate. “Slate, Primean didn’t survive the encounter.” Slate was shocked. “Lattimer was worried you had died as well, and if it weren’t for his actions, you probably would have. I wil
l leave the two of you to talk. If nothing else, I hope today’s events will end the dispute between the two of you. Slate, you should be well rested and able to attend classes tomorrow. I will see you then.” The headmaster of Ispirtu, having displayed more compassion in a two minute conversation than Slate believed him capable, turned quietly to leave.

  Lattimer sat on the edge of Slate’s bed. “Let me say a few things before you speak…” That was fine with Slate because he didn’t really have much to say to Lattimer. “I thought you schemed your way to tournament victory by having the iron suddenly appear in your hand. The timing was too convenient, but tonight changed my mind. I know how much that whip hurt and I had to hang helplessly from that hook while I watched what Primean did to you. Through it all, I saw you fight on and never give in. You have the heart of a Champion, Slate. I can’t explain what happened at the tournament, but now I know that you deserved to win.”

  Slate was dumbfounded. His nemesis, a Regallo nonetheless, was apologizing to him? Did he have a concussion? Was he still dreaming? “Thank you, Lattimer. Can you tell me what happened in Primean’s lab? Toward the end there, things were getting a bit hazy.”

  “After I called for mercy and you requested an end to the competition, Primean…went crazy. He whipped you repeatedly despite my cries to stop. I could see you were losing a lot of blood and your skin drained of color. Primean must have been increasing the power of the spell as he continued to lash you because your wounds bled more slowly and then ceased to bleed altogether. At some point, Primean attempted to stop the spell. He stepped out of the bucket and started stumbling toward you, but he collapsed before he made it. I tried to get myself off the hook, but I couldn’t. Eventually, the student responsible for collecting the blood-soaked woodchips arrived and let me off the hook. That was when I discovered that Primean didn’t have a pulse…and much to my surprise…you did.”