When the guards cut me loose I fell like an old bundle of laundry onto the stone courtyard, and once again hands gripped my upper arms and yanked me upright. This time I made no pretense of walking as I was borne into a dank tunnel, then down steep steps into an even danker, nasty-smelling chamber.
And what I saw around me was a real, true-to-nightmare dungeon. Shackles, iron baskets, various prods and knives and whips and other instruments whose purpose I didn't know--and didn't want to know--were displayed on the walls around two great stained and scored tables.
A huge, ugly man in a bespattered blackweave apron motioned for the soldiers to put me into a chair with irons at arms and feet. As they did, he said, "What am I supposed to be finding out?"
Behind, the Baron said harshly, "I want to shed these wet clothes. Don't touch her until I return. This is going to last a long, long time." His gloating laugh echoed down a stone passageway.
The huge man pursed his lips, shrugged, then turned to his fire, selecting various pincers and brands to lay on a grate in the flames.
Then he came back, lifted one bushy brow at the soldiers still flanking me, and said in a low voice, "Kinda little and scrawny, this one, ain't she? What she done?"
"Countess of Tlanth," one said in a flat vice.
The man whistled, then grinned. He had several teeth missing. Then he bent closer, peered at me, and shook his head. "Looks to me like she's half done for already. Grudge or no grudge, she won't last past midnight." He grinned again, motioning to the nearest warrior. "Go ahead and put the irons on. Shall we just have a little fun while we're waiting?"
He pulled one of his brands out of the fire and stepped toward me, raising it. The sharp smell of red-hot metal made me sneeze--and when I looked up, the man's mouth was open with surprise. My gaze dropped to the knife embedded squarely in his chest, which seemed to have sprouted there. I thought hazily, as the torturer fell heavily at my feet. I turned my head, half rising from the chair--
And saw the Marquis of Shevraeth standing framed in the doorway. At his back were four of his liveried equerries, with swords drawn and ready.
The Marquis strolled forward, indicated the knife with a neatly gloved hand, and gave me a faint smile. "I trust the timing was more or less advantageous?"
"More or less," I managed to say before the rushing in my ears washed over me, and I passed out cold right on top of the late torturer.
And what I saw around me was a real, true-to-nightmare dungeon. Shackles, iron baskets, various prods and knives and whips and other instruments whose purpose I didn't know--and didn't want to know--were displayed on the walls around two great stained and scored tables.
A huge, ugly man in a bespattered blackweave apron motioned for the soldiers to put me into a chair with irons at arms and feet. As they did, he said, "What am I supposed to be finding out?"
Behind, the Baron said harshly, "I want to shed these wet clothes. Don't touch her until I return. This is going to last a long, long time." His gloating laugh echoed down a stone passageway.
The huge man pursed his lips, shrugged, then turned to his fire, selecting various pincers and brands to lay on a grate in the flames.
Then he came back, lifted one bushy brow at the soldiers still flanking me, and said in a low voice, "Kinda little and scrawny, this one, ain't she? What she done?"
"Countess of Tlanth," one said in a flat vice.
The man whistled, then grinned. He had several teeth missing. Then he bent closer, peered at me, and shook his head. "Looks to me like she's half done for already. Grudge or no grudge, she won't last past midnight." He grinned again, motioning to the nearest warrior. "Go ahead and put the irons on. Shall we just have a little fun while we're waiting?"
He pulled one of his brands out of the fire and stepped toward me, raising it. The sharp smell of red-hot metal made me sneeze--and when I looked up, the man's mouth was open with surprise. My gaze dropped to the knife embedded squarely in his chest, which seemed to have sprouted there. I thought hazily, as the torturer fell heavily at my feet. I turned my head, half rising from the chair--
And saw the Marquis of Shevraeth standing framed in the doorway. At his back were four of his liveried equerries, with swords drawn and ready.
The Marquis strolled forward, indicated the knife with a neatly gloved hand, and gave me a faint smile. "I trust the timing was more or less advantageous?"
"More or less," I managed to say before the rushing in my ears washed over me, and I passed out cold right on top of the late torturer.
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Crown Duel ]
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