The Last Whisper of the Gods (38 page)

“You don’t feel that. The bark-salve from the mediveen tree has deadened all sensation in that arm, else you’d be in agony. Wounds like you suffered take weeks to fix themselves if’n they don’t fester. But perhaps the time has come for you ta get back whatever use your arm can provide. I’ll instruct your keeper ta stop applications of the treatment. The next time my loving companion sings, her song will touch a part of your body that’ll feel it. It’s pointless for her caresses ta go unnoticed. Maraman only demands an intact tongue.” He paused, allowing Sorial to digest his words. “Now, who are you, where’re you from, and why are you here? Three simple questions. You shouldn’t have ta
think
about how ta answer them.”

The difficulty would be weaving a tale that was believable enough for Langashin to accept but close enough to the truth that Sorial wouldn’t get tripped up in his web of lies. The best was to start was with an honest foundation. “My name is Sorial of Vantok. My companions and I were sent into The Forbidden Lands by King Azarak and Prelate Ferguson.”

The audacity of the claim nonplussed Langashin. He regained his composure quickly, however. “August names. Even here, far from civilization, I recognize them. Last I was in Vantok, Azarak was a young prince but Ferguson was an old man. The gods must smile on him for his body ta remain hale. I’m encouraged ta believe you since only an idiot would make such a claim if it wasn’t true. Of course, we don’t know each other well enough yet for me to say whether or not you’re an idiot. Are you one?”

Sorial didn’t answer. It didn’t seem as though a response was required or desired.

Langashin disagreed. “Tsk. Tsk. Such a simple question.” He stooped, bringing his face within inches of Sorial’s. His breath reeked of strong spices and carrion. He raised the knife-like implement with theatrical slowness, making sure his victim could see it, then employed it with a flick of his wrist. It plunged two inches up Sorial’s right nostril, then sliced through the side of his nose, causing a spray of blood that spattered Langashin’s face as fully as it did his victim’s. Sorial let out a cry, instinctively raising his hand to his ruined face.

Langashin carelessly wiped away Sorial’s blood with the back of his hand. “Curious things, noses. They bleed easily and hurt like hell. You’ll be uncomfortable for weeks when the snot oozes out. But it’s only a minor thing, ’specially when you consider what else I could’ve done. The cock bleeds just as much and is a lot more useful. Pissing without one ain’t fun.

“Hopefully, you’re learning the rules. Don’t lie. Don’t hesitate. And never refuse ta answer. Now, let’s try again. Are you an idiot?”

“No.” At the moment, it felt like the wrong response. The cut to his nose hurt out of proportion with its severity. The blood flow was lessening but the sting would linger. It was disfiguring but not life-threatening.

“Good to know. I hope you ain’t lying ta me. So let’s assume you were sent by Azarak and Ferguson, the kings o’ the secular and sacred, ta infiltrate my poor domain. Why would they do such a thing? Are they planning an invasion?” His smirk, barely visible through the thick tangle of a beard, was without mirth. There was cruelty in his eyes, almost as if he wished Sorial would misspeak so he could deliver another of his precise cuts.

“No invasion.” The idea was preposterous. “We were sent to discover whether Havenham’s got an active wizard’s portal.” It was the truth, if not the whole truth. As close as Sorial was willing to get.

Langashin straightened and regarded his prisoner with amazement. He didn’t scoff or respond with derision, accepting the explanation without question. Sorial couldn’t predict what Langashin would do with the information.

Hand once again scratching at his beard, the big man considered. Finally, having reached a decision, he nodded to himself. “You’re dirty and you smell. Let’s get you cleaned up and give you something ta drink so your voice don’t fail. Next time I come, you’re going ta need it ta talk, scream, or both.”

* * *

The passage of time in the dungeon had little meaning for Sorial. He remembered a story about a man who had been imprisoned for one year but emerged thinking he had spent his entire lifetime in a cell. Sorial could empathize. Shut away from the sun with no companionship other than silent gaolers and his interrogator, he could easily lose all sense of time. Four days? It might have been four weeks or four seasons.

The feeble light to which he was exposed varied only when one of the torches in the outside corridor guttered out. Shortly after Langashin departed, a couple of unkempt and humorless men came to cut away Sorial’s filthy clothing, douse him with cold water, and splash several bucketfulls on the most offensive areas of the floor. He was left shivering, wet, and naked but not appreciably cleaner.

At some point, he was brought a mug of water and a bowl of something that might have been gruel. It smelled rancid and Sorial couldn’t force more than a thimbleful down. He drained the mug and would have done so with a second had it been offered. The fact that it was tepid and tasted of pond scum didn’t provoke even a moment’s hesitation.

Langashin was right about the numbness in his left arm being promoted by a salve. Without its continued application, feeling returned gradually. If he concentrated, he could move the limb. There was pain and itching, and the new cut was almost as uncomfortable as the stump. Sorial was concerned about corruption but, unless he wanted to use precious water to wash it, there was little he could do.

The rhythmic pulsing in his head continued its insistent demand of
comecomecome
. In a strange way, it was soothing - if he concentrated on it, it had a calming effect. He wasn’t sure what to make of the sensation but an instinct suggested it might have something to do with his proximity to an active portal. He didn’t know
how
he knew that; he just
did
. Being close, however, was as useless as being a half-continent away, especially considering his current circumstances.

Eventually, Langashin returned, as was inevitable. He entered the cell while Sorial was dozing. He sniffed the air with disdain. “I thought they were supposed ta clean you up and wash this cell down. Didn’t do a very good job on either count. It stinks worse’n a privy pit. When I’m done today, I’ll have ’em come back. There’ll be some new blood to wipe away.”

If that was meant to intimidate Sorial, it didn’t succeed. He had already steeled himself to expect far worse than during his previous interrogation. It didn’t matter whether or not he told the truth. Langashin liked imparting pain too much to avoid it altogether.

“What you told me yesterday is an incredible story. I lost sleep last night thinking about it. I look forward ta hearing the details. First, though, I think a reminder about honesty’s in order. Yesterday’s lessons may have been too mild ta leave the right kinda impression. My fault, really. But since I don’t want there ta be no room for misunderstanding, we’ll begin today’s instruction with a more memorable demonstration. This’ll hurt but I won’t damage anything permanently... yet.”

For this session, Langashin produced two instruments: the knife he had previously used and a gripping tool with a set of nasty teeth that could clamp onto anything.

For Sorial, the next hour was a blur of suffering. The long-term harm done by Langashin was minimal but the man displayed his mastery of maximizing agony. He began by ripping out all of Sorial’s toenails then employed both gripper and knife to extract one of his incisors. After leaving his mark on the soft flesh of Sorial's earlobes, Langashin cauterized the wounds using the side of the blade after heating it with the torch. Finally, he reached between his prisoner’s legs. Grasping his testicles with one hand, he began to squeeze. As the pressure increased, the pain became intense. Sorial vomited water and bile - since there was nothing else in his stomach - and was on the verge of blacking out when Langashin relented. “Next time, I ain’t gonna stop till you’re a gelding.” His tone implied he was looking forward to that moment. Sorial curled into a fetal position, moaning.

Comecomecome
beckoned the buzz in his mind, offering a bizarre solace in the midst of so much physical discomfort.

“Everything I’ve done ta you so far has been inconsequential. You still got your fingers, toes, eyes, cock, most of your teeth, and the parts of your ears that matter. I’ve given you a few scars and hobbled you for a few days. Going forward, if I don’t like your answers, we’ll move ta more serious methods of enforcing honesty. Now, Sorial of Vantok, explain ta me why such important men as King Azarak and Prelate Ferguson would be interested in the portal of Havenham and why they sent the likes of you and your two dead friends ta find it.”

Sorial’s mind wasn’t so befogged by pain that he missed the key phrase.
Two dead friends
. So Warburm and Brindig had escaped notice, at least thus far. Langashin didn’t know about them, unless the interrogator was laying a trap. That was always possible.

“Vantok is under attack by a fire wizard,” began Sorial.

Langashin nodded. “We’ve heard rumors of him. The Lord of Fire, he likes ta be called. Lives somewhere down here in The Forbidden Lands. Far to the east and south if my sources are right. If I was ta put on airs like his, I’d be The Lord of Pain.” He laughed as if he’d made a joke.

“Ferguson wants a wizard of his own and, for that, he needs a portal.”

“And all the portals in the civilized lands were destroyed. Yes, I remember my history lessons. So the prelate hopes the portal in Havenham might still be active. I dare say it is. People living in The Forbidden Lands ain’t so foolish as ta destroy relics of the gods. They nurture them and give them the reverence that’s their due. But why you, Sorial of Vantok? Why only three fools, ill-equipped ta make such a journey? Far as I’m concerned, a half-truth’s as bad as a lie.” He thumbed the knife’s blade.

Sorial swallowed, tasting blood. “King Azarak believed a small group might do better’n a larger one. Whole armies sent into The Forbidden Lands have been lost...”

“That’s sooth. I’ve seen a few of the boneyards.”

“And it had to be unofficial. People don’t believe in magic no more and the king feared if it got out that he was looking for a portal, the ridicule might lead to his losing the throne. Our mission was simple: get to Havenham, avoid contact with tribes and settlers along the way, find the portal, and return with the information.”

“Three men traveling all that distance just to have a look-see, one of who’s the target of the biggest bounty I’ve ever heard tell of? You’ll forgive me, Sorial of Vantok, if I ain’t convinced. Give me a reason not ta be skeptical.”

Sorial fought down a sudden wave of dizziness. “Lamanar, the priest, was accused of heresy. Darrin of desertion. And me of horse theft. Three crimes punishable by death. The king said he’d pardon us if we did this thing for him.”

“Three criminals on their own? You’d have fled the moment you were out of Vantok’s jurisdiction. Your story gets worse with every word.”

“There was a reward as well - a handsome one.” Sorial worried at the socket of his missing tooth with his tongue. The salty tang of blood was strong in his mouth.

“How handsome?”

“Five gold each.”

“Handsome, indeed. Let’s be open with each other. I believe a pinch of what you’ve told me, but you’re hiding things. Changing your story every time I find a hole. Shall I tell you what I think? Azarak and Ferguson sent you here ta find the portal and, once found, ta use it. Horse thief or not, you’re their chosen candidate. Why else would a warlord like Maraman be so desperate to get his hands on you? He wants you for his own.”

“Ain’t got nothing to do with the portal. I’m his son.”

One bushy eyebrow shot up. “Ahhh. Nothing ta do with the portal, indeed! So much makes sense now if this ain’t another lie. I remember some o’ his stories ’bout the women he lay with. Ferguson trying to make a wizard. Maraman trying to make a wizard. And you, their mutual choice, are my prisoner. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t remove any useful parts. But there’s still one thing for you ta answer. How do they know the portal will transform you rather than kill you?”

Sorial gritted his teeth in frustration. The humming in the recesses of his head, the pain, the sensation of having lost his arm... everything was interfering with his ability to think, to plan, to reason. He was convinced that, had his mind been unencumbered by those things, he would have been able to weave a story to deflect Langashin’s interrogation. Instead, he had unwittingly led the man to the heart of the matter. At this point, further subterfuge seemed pointless. “They don’t
know
. They
believe
. They can risk me ’cause I ain’t important and, if I die, they don’t lose nothing. If I live, they got a wizard.”

“As a thrall?” Langashin snorted in derision. “What does it take ta enslave a wizard, I wonder? You don’t seem in love with any of these men - the king, the prelate, your father. You don’t do this out of loyalty or amity. Maraman wants you delivered ta him. But Azarak and Ferguson sent you here with only two handlers, which means they believe you’ll be
their
wizard. Why is that? What have they offered? And none of this ‘five gold’ horseshit. That might be enough for a common thief but not for a wizard.”

Sorial said nothing. He knew there would be a painful price for silence, but his tormentor was too close to learning about Alicia, the only truth Sorial intended to protect. He cursed himself for having already revealed too much.