Evan took the full force of
the invisible punch to his face, refusing to cry out.
Licking his swollen lip, he tasted the salt of his own
blood. Instinct cried out for him to put a hand to his
offended face, and he struggled against the magic bonds
that held him to the stone altar.
"I do this to temper
your soul, Evan," cold fingers rasped along Evan’s
naked legs. "You require it before you can achieve
my goal."
Evan spit blood at his
enemy. "I understand. You’re just doing your job
as the vilest creature Hell has ever spawned."
"Precisely," the
voice answered. "And I brought my apprentices to
learn how it is done." Words of magic sounded, and
pain exploded behind Evan’s eyes as his mind was
pierced with a thousand barbs.
Evan called to mind a
hundred spells he could cast in return, none of which he
could do without free hands. His fists clenched and
unclenched behind him, and he muttered a few words of
magic. Until he heard a distinct snap, and felt his
index finger break.
He screamed in fury, the
first such reaction he had given the torturer. His life
depended on the use of those fingers! Shards of bone
scraped against his fist and middle finger, and he knew
it wouldn’t heal right. Never again would he feel the
cool comfort of harp strings under his fingertips.
"I see that is where I
should concentrate for now," the voice mocked his
weakness, penetrating Evan’s haze of loss.
A sharp, metallic ring
sounded, accompanied by blinding pain as some weapon
severed the intact index finger from his body.
Screaming, he writhed on the altar like a virgin
awaiting sacrifice.
"Save that for later
use, Cai," the voice ordered. Someone responded,
and he heard a box open and close. What kind of sick
people kept a finger as a trophy?
He began to hurl insults
and curses at his unseen enemies, in every language he
knew. Malicious laughter sounded around him, echoing
through the high-ceilinged cavern, mocking his tirade.
Evan clamped down on his emotions, and his mouth. He was
only increasing their joy.
Instead, he focused inward.
Closing his eyes, he willed himself into a trance and
sent his mind down through the core of his physical
body. With intense mental strokes, he calmed his rage,
and his terror.
Peace flooded through him,
and his thinking cleared for a moment. A wild and
implausible idea came to him.
Centering his mind, he
concentrated on his companions. Visualizing the chamber,
the voice, the magical travel that had brought him to
this place, he sent his mental powers toward Reany, the
mage whose mind matched his own. Drawing on the pain of
his body and soul, he transmitted his agony toward
Arama, who felt all things deeply. Feeding his need for
revenge and freedom, he broadcast his rage toward Donin,
whose strength he needed.
Searing heat and the
pungent smell of burning flesh brought him back to
reality. His flesh boiled with an audible crackle.
Flames shot up his leg from his thigh to his knee. His
eyes opened, and tears coursed down his cheeks, pooling
water under his neck.
The feeling of calm
vanished in a white pain that led him down into welcome
oblivion.
Hands of ice soothed the
burn, bringing him out of the faint. Perhaps he had been
rescued, or had been sent to a healer to recover. He
found himself relaxing under the delicate ministrations.
"Thank you."
"You must be awake,
Evan, or the plan fails," the familiar voice oozed.
Fingernails crawled across his chest, raising goose
bumps and as they traveled up to his cheek and stroked
away the tears.
Swallowing the bile that
rose at the intimate touch, he asked, "What
plan?"
"The plan to bring you
into your own. To treat you like a fine weapon and forge
you through fire and hammer until you are honed and
ready. But that is only where the plan begins. The rest
is for another day," a feather-light touch traced
the outline of Evan’s carefully hidden crescent
birthmark.
The compulsion to hide the
tiny brown mark was stronger than the magic that held
him captive. He clapped a mutilated hand over his eye
before he realized he was free. His wrist was seized,
and shoved back down on the altar.
"Beat him. If he
faints, revive him. Leave him broken and bleeding, but
not dead. Throw him in one of the cages when you are
finished. He must be aware of every moment, do you
understand me?"
"Yes, master,"
replied the other voices.
Frigid fingers scored the
birthmark. "Until we meet again, Evan."
A lean shadow crossed the
craggy roof, caressing the jagged rocks. He watched it
lengthen, and vanish, and felt relief. Closing his eyes,
he wondered how he had managed to free his hand only
moments ago. No spell had been cast, and he knew he was
not strong enough to simply pull away. If he could do
that again, he might break free . . .
Then the pummeling began.
Fists slammed into ribs,
stomach, and face. Whips cracked over thighs. Hammers
shattered kneecaps. Fingers snapped into useless lumps.
Screaming ripped trained vocal cords. Knives scored down
his arms, through his palms, across the soles of his
feet.
The underlings took their
time, careful not to let him slip into unconsciousness.
When he finally fainted from pain and loss of blood,
they bashed his head against the altar until his eyes
opened. When he dared to whisper words of magic, they
pounded their fists into his throat.
His cries became as silent
as the tears mingling with the blood under his head.
They left him with nothing.
Then they released him from
the bonds, turned him over, and began again.
When they tired, they
dragged him from the altar. His head dropped onto his
chest as they maneuvered him into a standing position.
Forcing his swollen eyes open, he grimaced at the sight
of the bleeding wounds on his chest. He pushed past the
sight, tried to focus on any part of the men who now
forced broken arms around their necks, balancing his
weight between them.
Blackness threatened as
they pulled him forward, his bare feet scraping across
the jagged stone floor. He caught a glimpse of black
leather boots and trousers before his vision failed.
Traveling in a shroud of yellow agony, he was hauled out
of the torture chamber.
The grinding of metal
against stone drew his attention away from the misery of
walking. Craning his aching neck, he watched as a thin,
cloaked figure drew a heavy chain from a pool of black
water. A box was lifting into the air, coming even with
the edge of the cavern floor. Large enough to hold ten
grown men, the cage had no bars or windows, only a
single door with an outside lock.
Evan grimaced as the figure
unbolted the device, went inside, and tossed out a
corpse clad in the armor of an Elven knight. A slender
hand signaled from the depths, and he was dragged
forward and tossed into the inky interior. The door
slammed shut, the bolt thrown into place outside.
He heard the grating sound
of the cage being lowered. Then the soft whispers of
water as it caressed the outside of the box.
I will die here, he
thought. His wounds were severe, and he could feel his
strength slip away with every drop of his blood on the
floor. Had he been able to heal himself, he was still
trapped inside this airtight prison, under a ton of
water.
Evan sighed.
Without his fingers, he
could not drum a tune to cheer his listless spirits.
Without his voice, he could not sing himself a hero’s
death.
Already the air was
thinning, and he felt the sting of his sweat as it
trickled into the cuts. He relaxed, forced his body into
a more comfortable position, lying flat. Bones of
previous occupants lumped under him, but he ignored
them. He sent his mind out of his body once he was
settled, moving beyond the pain and the darkness of his
ravaged soul.
Instantly, he was among his
friends. Arama comforted him, wave after wave of
soothing encouragement flooded into him from her. Reany
caressed his mind, digging for more information than he
had. Donin’s courage, a flaming brand in the darkness
of the cage, bolstered his own.
Evan returned to himself,
drawing in another precious amount of air. He smiled.
At least he would not die
alone. His friends had visited, and he would be avenged
and mourned.
More air filled his lungs.
Sweat ran in rivulets across his body.
Death whispered to him,
crooning her welcoming song. Smiling, he tried to hum in
return, to show his appreciation for her greeting. His
voice failed, but she put her hand across his lips and
smiled, comforting him.
He drew what he knew was
his last breath. Savoring it, he held it on his tongue
as he would a fine wine. Stubborn, he refused to let it
go.
Death put her mouth over
his, and took it from him.
Then she pushed it back
down into him.
He felt his lungs expand as
she breathed life into him. Again. And a third time.
Evan coughed, choked, and
drew rancid air into his lungs on his own. Pain slammed
into him. White stars burst before his eyes as his
savior swam into view.
Reany rocked back on her
heels and wiped tears from her elfin face. Smiling, she
lifted triumphant violet eyes to someone above him.
Turning, he glimpsed the warrior Donin, his sword drawn
and stained with blood, standing over him. Gentle hands
on his legs told him where Arama was.
"How did you find
me?" he croaked.
Reany hushed him.
"Time for that later. We must leave. Can he
travel?"
"Just a moment!"
Arama forced a potion between his lips. Healing liquid
coursed through him, flooding him with warmth. Scabs
formed, bones fused, bruises faded. He sat up, and
nodded.
Evan struggled to his feet.
The others gathered in a small protective circle around
him. An elf he didn’t know joined the group. Reany
began to chant a traveling spell.
He glanced around the
cavern one last time, memorizing what details he could.
He would return for the others one day. He would destroy
the cages, burn the torture room, and scatter the
underlings to the edges of the world.
He would find the man
responsible for this nightmare, and remove him from this
world.
Laughter filled the cavern
as they disappeared.
