Light Of Loreandril (28 page)

“Only a blind fool would believe that. The Empire is faced with a potential treat from the Elves again!” Govan replied, causing raised, jeering voices around the table.

“Silence!” the central Rjukhan bellowed, raising his bony, gloved hand. Immediately the council fell silent and turned towards the seated Rjukhan, waiting for them to speak.

“The prisoners will be questioned!” the second Rjukhan announced.

“They will tell us where the Elves are hiding!” continued the third.

“Use any means necessary. No mercy shall be given,” finished the first.

A heavy silence fell in the Chamber of Daam, a darkness drawn in by the venomous voices of the Rjukhan that still seemed to hang in the air. There was nothing more to discuss. The Rjukhan had spoken and now the council must see that their will was done.

The council drank once more to seal this final order, and the members were dismissed, most returning to their garrisons and cities spread across the vast Empire.

Tavor found the guards’ barracks, and following the sound of raucous laughter and drinking, stumbled across the mess hall. He blended into a shadowy darkened corner and began drinking himself into a dull stupor, to blot out the events that had brought him here. Part of him was pleased he finally had his desired outcome, but the rest was consumed by a gnawing agony of increasing guilt.
How could he have led these two innocent boys into this trap? What had become of Cradon out in the wilderness? What fate would befall Nechan?
 

He could not bear to think about it and tried to drown his anguish in more alcohol. Tavor knew he was being ignorant for even dwelling on these matters. After all, if anyone uncovered his traitorous thoughts, he would be punished and cast out again or even executed. If that happened, it would have all been pointless. At least this way, if he kept quiet, the boys’ deaths would not be in vain; they would serve his own purpose.

Govan eventually found his friend slumped over the table, his forehead resting in the spilt puddle of ale. He shook him roughly to bring him back to a semi-conscious state and helped him stagger back to his private quarters, cursing and babbling nonsense all the way.

The next morning Tavor woke with a start from a quickly forgotten, fleeting nightmare. The dull, pounding ache in his skull brought him straight back to reality. After splashing his face with water, he charged into Govan’s quarters next door, rudely waking him. Tavor needed to know some answers to the questions burning on his conscience.

“Tell me what was decided about the boy!” he demanded.

Govan rubbed his hands down his gristly face and sat up. “What are you talking about? It’s too early for laboured conversations, especially when that was my first night in a decent bed for several months!”

“I need to know what the council decided to do with the boy. I don’t care about the others. They can do what they like with them. Tell me!” Tavor shouted, looming over him.

Govan was never without a weapon, and discreetly drew out a thin dagger from beneath his pillow. He held it clenched in his fist, still hidden, feeling the strange urge to protect himself.  “Tavor, this is not the way to go about your first day back as a member of the Empire. You forget that it was on my word alone that your honour and name were returned to you. I own you!” he snapped.

Tavor screwed up the bedding in his fists with frustration, and shaking his head turned and sat on the edge of the bed, composing himself once more.

“I’m sorry, friend. It’s been too many years. I forget my place. It must be the drink from last night, confusing things in my head.”

Relaxing, Govan nodded, and throwing back the bedding got up. Tavor rose and walked towards the door.

“You know the council will utilise any means necessary to extract any useful information.”  Govan stared out the window at the red, outstretched plain.

“That includes the boy?” Tavor asked soberly, his hand on the door-knob

Govan answered with a nod.

With nothing further to ask, Tavor left, returning to his room. He had a lot to contemplate in private.

Canvil, the council member, was quick to take action on the Rjukhans’ decision and early the next morning, before the sun had even burnt through the hazy clouds, he sent orders for one of the prisoners to be brought up.

It had been a rough night for the captives, with little sleep, as they dwelled on thoughts of what might happen. The guards finally burst into the dungeons, rattling and banging the cage bars with their batons. They had been instructed to take the leader of the group, the male elf, up to Canvil.

With looks of satisfied glee, they dragged Eilendan struggling from his cage. Nymril screamed in anguish, stretching a hand towards him through the bars. One of the guards cracked it with his baton, causing her to snatch it back with a cry of pain. Jaidan and Gaular shouted abuse at the unconcerned guards who just continued to drag the kicking and thrashing elf behind them. Nechan sat in silence, rocking, almost overwhelmed by the horror of their situation. The prison door slammed heavily behind the guards and the comrades could do nothing but pray as they waited and hoped for their friend’s safe return.

“Bring him in!”

The small room was dark and cold, with green slime dripping down the stone walls. A single chair was positioned in the centre of the chamber, a large, bubbling cauldron hanging above a fire on one side, and a grate of hot coals on the other.

The realisation that this was a torture chamber dawned on the elf and he began to struggle all the more in a futile attempt at escape. It took three more guards to overpower him and together they strapped Eilendan to the chair, using all their strength to hold him down as they tightened the leather restraints around his ankles, wrists and neck.

“An elf!” Canvil remarked. “I never dreamed that I would see a live one!”

Eilendan strained his neck and eyes trying to see where the strangely monotonous voice was coming from. Canvil stepped from the shadows and stood before Eilendan in the light of the fire. The elf was surprised to see an older man, his grey hair closely cropped and white beard trimmed neatly with two distinctive black stripes down either side of his chin.

“Are you going to behave? Personally, I hope you don’t, it makes it far more entertaining for me!” Canvil leered, leaning towards Eilendan, his hands pressing heavily on his arms, but the elf stared back defiantly. He had no intention of talking with this man.

“My name is Canvil……and you are?” He lurched in closer to Eilendan, probing him with his dark, beady eyes, his breath stinking of stale smoke. Eilendan continued to stare straight ahead without flinching, determined not show the slightest response.

“Have it your way!”  An evil smile darted across the Captain’s face.

He snapped up straight once more, standing tall over Eilendan, and snatched a metal poker from the burning coals, holding it threateningly before the elegant face. It glowed with white heat, and the elf could feel it singe the fine hairs on his chin. Small beads of sweat began to form on his brow, but still, he did not flinch. Canvil was used to stubbornness and well practised at dealing with it. He was prepared to take his time, but confident he would be successful in extracting the information the council required. He was under strict instruction what questions to ask, but they did not care about his methods.

“Perhaps you would like to tell me why you have decided to come out of hiding?” Canvil hissed in Eilendan’s ear, still brandishing the hot poker.

He waited a few moments, his breath falling heavily on Eilendan’s neck as he watched for the slightest glimmer of a crack in the stony-faced elf.

“How many of you survived? More than two?”  Canvil was quick to notice Eilendan’s eyes twitch. “If you do not tell me what I want to know then I will be forced to ask the female elf!”

These words invoked the response he wanted. Eilendan began to writhe in his seat, struggling to free himself from his bonds. “Touch her, and I will end you if it is the last thing I do!”  Eilendan screamed.

 Impressed by Eilendan’s continued defiance, Canvil pressed the hot poker hard against the elf’s bare neck, searing the flesh. The stench of burning hair and skin filled the room as he cried out in agony. Canvil laughed as he pulled the poker away from the burnt skin, pleased to see it quickly swelling and blistering.

“I will tell you nothing, and neither will she!” Eilendan sat up straight, refusing to give into the searing pain, swiftly recovering his air of defiance.

“Nothing?” Canvil laughed at his foolishness. “I haven’t even begun!”

Canvil flung the poker back into the hot coals. This time he picked up a large ladle from the cauldron, slowly stirring the bubbling liquid.

“I have waited a long time to meet an elf! In all my years faithfully serving the Empire I have not had such an honour as I have now! I will show you first hand how powerful the Empire is!” Canvil continued stirring the black, steaming liquid. “I wish I had been alive at the time of your first downfall!”

Canvil picked up a full ladle and turned back to Eilendan. Drops of the hot liquid fell, hissing as they hit the cold floor.

“But still I get to see an elf suffer. Tell me, how does it feel to know you will be the cause of the complete extermination of your vermin kind?”

Smiling, showing his yellow teeth, he tipped the ladle, spilling the viscous liquid onto Eilendan’s arm. It quickly melted through the sleeve of his tunic, eating into his skin. Trying to brace himself, Eilendan clutched the arms of the chair, fighting the agony as the liquid burnt deeper and deeper. He was determined not to cry out.  His breathing laboured, he bit his lip and clenched his teeth.

“Impressive! You have a high resistance to pain.”  Canvil sighed, and dropped the ladle into the pot. “So, how many of you survived?” he demanded.

 “The Empire will find out only when it is too late!” Eilendan laughed through the pain. His mouth was filled with the sickening taste of bile.

Canvil took a deep breath. He was starting to grow impatient. Normally, people would have cracked by now.

“We have long suspected Loreandril still existed.” He paused to study Eilendan. “I
think you should tell me!” persisted Canvil again, looming right in Eilendan’s face, nearly touching nose to nose. This elf was good. He had endured all the pain and scrutiny so far without a hint of breaking. He looked at the burns on the elf’s neck and arm, the scarlet skin blistering. “I strongly suggest you tell me. There are much worse things I can do to you!”

He stared deep into Eilendan’s bright blue eyes and for a brief moment persuaded himself that the flicker of defiance was starting to melt. His hopes vanished, as Eilendan did not even break the stare.

Canvil sighed heavily, and stood up, turning his back on Eilendan. Taking a cloth from his pocket he wiped the sweat from his hands and motioned for the guard to come forward.

“You know……Elves are not really so different from humans,” continued Canvil. Eilendan nearly laughed at this preposterous statement. It was obvious that he was starting to clutch at straws.

“I know the existence of Elves is rooted deeply in magic, that sets you apart
spiritually
from us mere humans……..but
physically
……..” He turned back towards Eilendan, holding up a delicate, silver dagger. Its sharp edge glinted as he twisted it in the firelight. “Physically……..you are not so different!”

An evil smile passed across his face as he moved behind the chair. Eilendan strained his neck, trying to see what was about to happen.

Canvil seized the elf’s head, dragging at the long, silver braids, smacking his head against the high back of the chair. Eilendan felt the slicing pain and trickle of blood down the side of his face as Canvil slowly carved through the distinctive, elvish tip of his ear and a wave of nausea hit. The agony became unbearable and there was nothing that Eilendan could do except scream before unconsciousness took him.

The comrades felt they had been waiting for an eternity with only the fearful thoughts of what was happening to Eilendan to pass the time.

“What are they doing to him?” cried Nymril, hugging the bars between her cage and Jaidan’s. He tried to comfort her, but there was little he could say to ease their worries.

“He is strong, in body and mind!” Jaidan whispered, pressing her delicate hand into his. He carefully wiped a tear from her face, and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “They will not break him!”

“That’s what worries me the most. They will stop at nothing to find out what they want,” she sobbed, unable to choke back the tears.

The echo of heavy footsteps in the corridor broke their gaze, and they turned to watch the door. It opened with a loud, grating creak, and the guards dragged in an unconscious Eilendan. Nymril could not watch as they flung the lifeless, limp body into the cell next to hers and left, laughing amongst themselves.

“Is he alive?” she cried, unable to look at the body beside her.

Gaular reached through the bars of his cell, and grabbed Eilendan’s cold arm to drag him closer. He touched his neck with his large, black hands, and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt a rapid but shallow pulse. “He’s alive. Although barely!” There were unmistakable burns on his neck and arm. As he rolled Eilendan’s head to the side he caught sight of the horrific mutilation. Even to the strong-stomached dwarf it was a sickening sight.

“They………They……”  he stammered, barely able to get his words out.

“They what?” yelled Jaidan, unable to hide his frustration.

“His ears!” Gaular could not look any more and had to turn away as he retched.

“No! They can’t have!” cried Nymril. She had to turn towards the contorted body of Eilendan to see for herself. It was true. She could not mistake the large wound down the side of his face. They had cut off nearly half his ears, removing the distinctive points, the mark of pride for all Elves. She hung her head and burst into tears, clinging to the cell bars.