David Weber - How firm a foundation

He didn’t know about that, and he wasn’t going to waste his time worrying about it, either. He had two more five-days here in Tellesberg, and he intended to use those days wisely. . IV.

Citadel of Schueler, The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

He didn’t know if it was day or night.

They were careful about that. There was no daylight, no moonlight or stars, to help keep track of time, and they deliberately fed them-if you could call it “feeding”-at irregular, staggered intervals. No one was allowed to sleep uninterrupted, either. Buckets of ice-cold water hurled through the bars of their cells were enough to wake anyone up, although sometimes the guards varied their procedure. White-hot irons on the ends of long wooden shafts were quite effective at rousing sleepers, as well.

They’d been stripped of even the ragged remnants of their uniforms before they’d been consigned to their cages under the bowels of the Citadel of Schueler. It wasn’t part of the original Temple complex, the Citadel; it had been built later, expressly for the Inquisition, and its walls were thick enough, its dungeons buried deep enough, that no one beyond its precincts could hear what happened within.

And that was where they’d been thrown into their cells, naked, deprived of any last vestige of human dignity. Beaten, starved, tortured at seemingly random and totally unpredictable intervals. Perhaps the most horrible thing of all, Gwylym Manthyr thought, was that they’d learned to sleep right through the shrieks of their tortured fellows. It wasn’t that they’d become callous; it was that their bodies were so desperately starved for sleep… and that those shrieks had become a routine part of the only hellish world they had left.

He looked down at his own hands in the dim lantern light. There were no nails on those scabbed, scarred fingers now, but he was luckier than some. Naiklos Vahlain-before his valiant heart finally failed him and he escaped-had been held down by two brawny inquisitors while a third had used an iron bar to methodically break every bone in his skilled, deft hands one joint at a time.

He wanted to put it down to nothing but rabid, unthinking cruelty, yet he knew it was far worse than that. All of it had a purpose, and not simply to “punish the heretics.” It was designed not simply to break them, but to shatter them. To stretch their souls upon the rack, not just their bodies, until their faith in themselves, the courage of their convictions, whatever it was that let them defy Zhaspahr Clyntahn, shattered into a million fragments that sifted through their broken fingers to the floors of their cells. It was designed to turn them into shambling scarecrows who would mouth whatever lies were dictated to them when they were paraded before the faithful, if only they would finally be allowed to die.

It was hard, he thought. Hard to maintain his faith, his trust in a God who could let something like this happen. Hard to sustain his belief in the importance of standing for what was just in defense of what he knew was true and his love for his homeland. All of that seemed far away, dream-like, from this unchanging, lantern-lit slice of hell. Not quite real, like something out of a fever delirium. Yet he clung to that faith and belief, that love, anyway, and their unlikely ally was hate. A bitter, burning, driving hate such as he’d never imagined he might feel. It filled his tortured, half-broken body with a savage determination which lifted him above himself. Which drove him onward, despite the sheer stupidity of surviving another single day, because it refused to let him stop.

He heard iron-nailed boots clashing their way across the stone floor, and the sliding sound of someone’s feet trailing across it as the inquisitors hauled him along by his arms. He stepped closer to the front wall of his tiny cell, holding on to the bars despite the way the guards liked to hammer the prisoners’ fingers against the unyielding steel with their truncheons, and peered through them. He heard the soft moaning as the inquisitors drew closer, and he recognized the prisoner being dragged to face whatever fresh torture had been devised for him.

“Hang on, Horys!” he called, his own voice hoarse and distorted. “Hang on, man!”

The words were pointless, and he knew it, yet Captain Braishair managed to raise his head as he heard them. It wasn’t the meaning of the words that mattered; it was the fact of them. The evidence that even here there was still someone who cared, someone who knew Horys Braishair for who he was, not what the Inquisition was determined to make him.

“Aye, Sir Gwylym,” Braishair half whispered. “I’ll do that thing, and-”

He broke off with a strangled grunt, jerking spastically as the weighted truncheon slammed into his kidneys. The inquisitors didn’t even bother to explain why the blow had landed; to do that would have been to acknowledge that their prisoners had some remnant of humanity that deserved explanations.

They dragged Braishair away, and a few moments later Manthyr heard fresh screams echo down the dungeon’s stone-walled gut. He leaned his forehead against the bars, pressing his eyes closed, feeling the tears on his cheeks, and he was no longer ashamed of that “unmanly” wetness, for it was so utterly unimportant against what truly mattered.

The Inquisition wanted to break them all, but especially to break him, and he knew it. They wanted the Charisian admiral-Emperor Cayleb’s own flag captain at Rock Point, and Crag Hook, and Darcos Sound-to admit his heresy. To denounce his emperor as a worshipper of Shan-wei, a liar and blasphemer, and the Church of Charis as a foul, schismatic perversion of God’s true Church. They wanted that so badly they could taste it, and so they tortured his men even more cruelly than they tortured him. They ground his responsibility to them and his utter inability to do anything for them into his heart and soul and they expected that to break him in the end.

But they’d miscalculated, he thought, opening his eyes once more, staring at the stone wall opposite his cell. Even the Inquisition could do that, and it had, because they weren’t going to break him. Not now, not next five-day, not next year- never. And the reason they weren’t was what they’d done to his men. Men who would have died no matter what Sir Gwylym Manthyr did or did not “confess to” before the watching crowd of spectators. Men he couldn’t have saved no matter what he’d done. Duty to his Emperor, faith in his God, loyalty to his Church-all of those things mattered, even here and even now. They were still part of him. But it was love and the hate-that molten, grinding hate which burned so much hotter for what they’d done to his men than for what they’d done to him-which would carry him to the bitter end. They could kill him, they could-and had, and would again-make him scream, but they could not- would not-break him.

“On your feet!” someone snarled, and a braided lash snaked between the bars to pop viciously against Manthyr’s chest.

His head jerked up, and he shoved himself to his feet, the rough stone wall sliding against his spine as he leaned against it for support. He didn’t scream, didn’t even curse. He simply glared at the inquisitor beyond the bars. He didn’t know the man’s name; none of them had names, as far as he could tell. But this one wore an auxiliary bishop’s ruby ring and his purple habit was trimmed in green and ecclesiastic white.

The bishop tucked his hands behind himself, considering the naked, scarred, burned, and welted man behind the bars.

“You’re a stubborn bunch, aren’t you?” he asked finally. “Stupid, too.” He shook his head. “Surely you’ve realized by now that not even Shan-wei can save you from God’s cleansing fire. Maybe you’re so lost to God you refuse to turn back to Him even now, but why cling to the Mistress who’s betrayed you the way she betrays everyone? Confess your sins and at least you can be spared further Question!”