David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

That silence only drove Turock to try harder.

He pressed his other glowing hand to the prisoner’s temple.

“You say I’m a good man,” he said. “That might have been true at one point.” The gray hair on the bound man’s right temple burst into flame. “But we have lived in turmoil for a year, Warden. A year !”

He snuffed out the flames, took a step back, and then offered a few more words of magic. From the cracks in the stone floor rose tiny vines, which danced before the prisoner’s feet, then plunged their pointed tips beneath his toenails. The man squirmed, grinding his teeth in obvious pain as they drove deeper and deeper into the quick, drawing blood.

“Men, women, and children perish while helping to forge the weapons we need to defend ourselves. I have been kept awake at night in expectation of the next assault. Nature was once full of wonder, but now every bird’s caw, every bat’s tweet, every insect’s chirp might be a signal to rain fiery death down on all I created.”

The vines withdrew, retreating into the cracks that had sprouted them. The prisoner huffed for breath.

“I understand how you feel,” Ahaesarus said. “You forget where my kind came from.”

“Yes, you brave Wardens who hid like children in your cages while winged demons slaughtered your loved ones. Forgive me if I don’t have that kind of restraint.”

“That is unfair. We were not given a choice.”

“You’re right,” said Turock. “But we have been.”

With a snap of his fingers, needlelike shards of ice formed in the air around the prisoner. Turock waggled his hands, and at once the shards drove into the bound man’s flesh. He struggled in his restraints, a human cactus prickled from head to toe with crystalline barbs. He uttered the first sound Ahaesarus had heard from his mouth since his capture: he moaned.

“I am a father,” Turock said as he slowly went about grinding his palm against the ice shards, one by one. “I have not seen my three youngest sons for so long, I have forgotten their faces. They were only supposed to be in Mordeina for a month, to tutor under Howard Baedan and spend time with their grandmother. Byron is a man now, eighteen and full of vigor, with Jarak not far behind. And Pendet…our baby…do you know what a year means to a seven-year-old? It is everything. I fear I may never see them again, and even if I do, Pendet might look at me as a stranger.”

“Yet you still have your children here, children who love and need you just as much as they.”

Turock cackled. “Ha! Lauria is married, Cethlynn soon to be, and Dorek is as much my apprentice now as he is my son. I need them , and their partners, more than they need me.”

“Does that not count for something?”

Turock finally turned around, and spittle flew from his lips when he spoke. “Something? Something? I want everything , Warden. I want my children, my wife, my people to be safe!”

“Make it so, then,” Ahaesarus said, a hard edge entering his tone. “If you think your soul is an acceptable price, then so be it. But I will not be an accomplice to this torment. You have turned your back on Ashhur’s mercy.”

“What, you wish me to bake him a cake? Or perhaps draw him a bath and dangle grapes over his mouth?” Turock pointed an accusing finger at the prisoner. “This man would kill us in a heartbeat should we give him the chance, and you wish for me to give him mercy ?”

Ahaesarus folded his arms over his chest. “Should he or any of Karak’s children attempt to take the life of myself or any of my Wards, I would strike him down without a second thought. But I would strike him down , Turock, not prolong his suffering. That is the mercy I speak of.”

Turock shook his head. “We need to know.…We have been trapped here for so long.…”

“If you are trapped, it is of your own doing,” laughed the prisoner.

Ahaesarus and Turock both wheeled around. The man was upright in his binds, head cocked, staring at them. The ice shards had melted, leaving him soaked and covered with tiny, leaking red wounds. He winced, flexed his jaw, and then seemed to shake off the pain.

“Your isolation ended when Uther Crestwell died,” the prisoner continued, and he chuckled even as a bit of blood ran down his lips.

Ahaesarus was too shocked to answer. The same could not be said for Turock.

“So those are your first words to us? We’ll see how much you laugh when your balls are gone.”

The spellcaster stepped back and cupped his hand. The blue glow around it intensified, and the prisoner doubled over, finally screaming. Ahaesarus forcibly grabbed Turock by the arm, spinning him around, and the spell died in a cascade of slaps and curses.

“Out!” Turock screamed at him. “Leave my tower now! Leave my fucking lands as well!”

“I will not, Escheton,” the Warden shouted. “The man is telling the truth!”

Turock stared at him, but at last there was a hint of comprehension in his eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“You wanted me to tell you if he spoke a lie or not. He is speaking the truth now. Allow me to question him.”

Turock rolled his eyes. “Fine. You think you can get more of a response than me, then be my guest.”

Ahaesarus approached the prisoner. “What is your name?” he asked “What is your purpose?”

The man closed his lips and shook his head.

Ahaesarus sighed and leaned in close, whispering in his ear.

“I can end this quickly if you cooperate,” he said. “There will be no more torment. Your death will be painless.”

The prisoner’s eyes lifted to him, and for the first time there was no hardness in them.

“My living torment might cease,” he said, “but my soul will burn in the abyss for all eternity should I betray him. My god is noble and mighty. All I have, all I have become, I owe to the one who created me. I would rather hurl myself into the flames than turn on Karak.”

“You want to burn?” Turock asked, stepping closer, fire on his fingertips, Ahaesarus struck him with the back of his hand. The spellcaster stumbled away, holding the side of his face and cursing. The Warden picked up the sword he had laid on the ground, grabbed Turock by the loose collar of his cloak, and pressed the tip of the blade to his throat. The spellcaster’s eyes grew wide.

“No more,” growled Ahaesarus. His menacing tone scared even himself. “This ends now. Leave this tower. Leave the prisoner to me. If he cooperates, you will know all you wish to know. If he does not, he will not see the sunrise. Am I understood?”

Turock nodded, though his entire body looked ready to explode.

“Good,” Ahaesarus said. “Now leave.”

He spun the dazed, red-haired man around and guided him to the door. Opening it, he pushed Turock out to where his son-in-law Uulon stood guard, blond hair matted and eyelids at half-mast. The young man was shocked to attention by their sudden appearance. Ahaesarus gave Turock a shove and shut the door quickly behind him. With that done he leaned against the wood, breathing heavily. What he’d done was rash, dangerous. Turock had proven himself to be powerful in the ways of magic. Had he not been taken off guard by Ahaesarus’s sudden aggression, the Warden might have found himself set ablaze, transformed into a mudskipper, or worse. Breathing out a sigh, he barred the door and returned to the prisoner, who stared at him, an odd look of gratitude on his battle-scarred face. With a twinge of sadness, the Warden remembered something Eveningstar had told him one evening, after Ahaesarus had expressed frustration about his progress with Geris. The boy had been drifting in his studies, but each time Ahaesarus lashed out at him, the child would draw inward and stop speaking.