David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Haern felt a numbness spreading from his stomach, tickling his other limbs as Carden knelt down and gripped him by the neck one more time.

“Do you know who I worship?” the paladin asked as he pulled Haern closer so he could whisper into his ear. “ Karak. ”

At the name of his god, power flared through his hand, this time with the pain focused solely on Haern’s neck. Every muscle in his throat constricted, robbing him of breath, straining his neck, whipping his head back with terrible force. Haern did everything he knew to push it away, to put himself into a different place where the torture was a distant, foreign thing, but there was no way, not against that pain. Unconsciousness was his only hope, and he tried to let himself go, to fall back into the empty embrace, but Carden was far too skilled for that.

The pain relented, Haern sucked in air like a drowning man, and then to the ground he dropped. On his back, he groaned, staring up at the flat stone ceiling above him. What was it Tarlak had told him before he left? Damn it, Haern, I’ve heard horror stories about their dungeons …

“It’s interesting, the way you break a man,” Carden continued, deep voice calm as ever. “Some you can break through fear. Fear of promised pain, fear of death, fear of a return of the pain they’ve already experienced. That’s the easy kind, though you have to be careful. Some men try to trick you, pretending to break easily, thinking their lies will both protect and spare them. Time and patience root out those deceivers.”

Carden tapped a mailed finger at his lips as Haern’s heart finally returned to a normal pace.

“Some, though, are too strong to give in to fear,” he said. “Some find a way to endure the pain. Hope, you see. They cling to a hope, no matter what it is, and hold on tight against every punishment imaginable. Sometimes, it’s hope for escape. Sometimes, it’s hope for a better life. Sometimes, it’s gods or a belief in their ceasing existence come death. Which means pain becomes pointless in breaking this type of man. Instead, I must break their hope.”

The paladin’s cold, hard boot pressed down on his chest.

“So, I ask again … what is it you believe in, Haern?”

Don’t tell him, thought Haern. Tell him nothing. Deny him everything.

Smoothly, as if terribly pleased with himself, Carden bent down, reached into Haern’s shirt, and pulled out Senke’s emblem of the golden mountain. He casually twirled it in his hands, the slender chain still around Haern’s neck. A gleam seemed to shine in Carden’s eye.

“And there it is,” he said. “Did you think we missed it when we searched you? Come, now; think better of us than that. Ashhur’s symbol of endlessness, his reminder of humanity’s inability to reach his own holy heights. You surprise me, Haern. Is this merely a good luck charm? Your cloaks, your sabers … you have the look of a man from the thief guilds of Veldaren. They tend to view themselves as gods, with no patience for others. Chance is their friend, guilt a thing to be mocked and ignored. They live in sin, and they love every minute of their squalor. Is that you, Haern? Does this emblem mean anything in your shadowed life?”

Haern wanted to deny him even the slightest information, but to lie meant to deny the god he worshipped. He couldn’t decide if it would be right to do so, so instead, he kept his mouth shut. At least with silence, he told no lie.

“Well, then,” Carden said, shrugging. “I take it you won’t mind if I destroy this.”

His fist tightened, dark fire sparking from his fingers. Seeing the emblem starting to bend, Haern could not help himself. Before him was the last remnant of his friend Senke, the last reminder of the risks the man had taken to help him and of how integral he’d been in pulling him out of the streets and into his new family, the Eschaton. Through everything, he’d kept it with him, always around his neck, always reminding him of all the things his father would have him reject.

“Stop!” he cried. “Just … leave it be.”

Carden tilted his head to the side.

“So, you do believe,” he said, his fist easing its pressure. “Not some trinket, then. Good. This will make the breaking that much more pleasurable.”

The paladin drew his sword, and across its enormous blade, fire immediately burst to life. It was dark as night, if not darker, with the very center a deep violet that made Haern’s stomach twist just looking upon it. Releasing the emblem, Carden lowered the blade so the fire burned mere inches from Haern’s neck.

“Your god is one of weakness,” he said. “An imprisoned child whose dreams cannot live in this world, and whose hope is a pathetic excuse for reason and sanity. Eternity will roll forever and ever on, and one day, the brother gods will war again. Those children, those souls who think themselves safe in his embrace, will kneel before the Lion and face true judgment for their sins. And you … what sins do you hide? I’ll find them all, Haern. I’ll listen to every last one. You’re in the heart of the Stronghold, a place of tremendous power sworn to the true deity of this land.”

The fire began to sear into his skin. Strangely, it did not char the flesh, only ignite horrible pain. He fought, but the magic of it held him still, tightening every single muscle in his body so that he could not run, could not turn away. Even screaming was denied to him.

“Every day you will feel the pain of Karak’s anger,” Carden said, voice like a demon, words the condemnation of a furious god. “Every night, you will weep and cry for salvation. Keep your pendant around your neck. Stare at it. Hold it. Caress it while you weep. Feel it against your flesh as the pain rips through you. Day after day. Night after night. Tell yourself that is your hope. Tell yourself it must mean something. But I know what will happen, know it like I know the sun will rise, come the morrow. I’ve seen it a hundred times before, and in your eyes, I will see it again: the realization that no matter how greatly you suffer, how loudly you pray to your god, he will do nothing. ”

The fire was leaping off the blade like water now, curling around him, seeping into his skin like rain into a parched landscape.

“He’ll love you from afar,” Carden said. “Love you as you suffer, love you as you die. That is the sickness you worship. That is the impotence you’ve given your life to serve, you poor damn fool.”

The paladin leaned down so his lips brushed against his ear.

“You may scream now,” he whispered.

Haern did, howling at the top of his lungs, releasing every bit of his pain and rage. The sound echoed within his cell, and to his ears, it belonged to a wild animal. Certainly not to anything human. At last, his lungs gave way, and the pain became something he could bear as Carden stood and sheathed his blade on his back.

“Watch carefully,” he said, and it seemed as if the previous tortures were but a dream, and he was a kind host describing an offered room. Touching the wall, Carden closed his eyes, whispered something in prayer, and then suddenly, a wall of flame rose from the floor, sealing Haern inside his stone cube. It burned, shimmering, black and violet, swirling like water running upward to the ceiling. Just looking at it made Haern sick, no different from the fire that burned around Carden’s blade. The paladin examined the wall of fire, and he nodded, pleased.

“Only the faithful can pass through unharmed,” he said. “Even our younger members find it difficult to endure. The other walls are solid stone, so your only exit is through the flames … but there is no hope beyond, Haern. Here in this dungeon, there is but one door, and it can only be opened from the outside. There is no escape, I promise you. In case you thought to take your chance with the fire, I thought it best you know the pointlessness of such an action.”