James Clemens - Shadowfall

Tylar tasted blood on his tongue as he attempted to speak. “So you keep promising… but here I keep hanging, though I keep telling you the truth.”

The eyes of his torturer narrowed. “We’ve barely begun here. I can make this last more than a single night.”

Tylar closed his eyes. “You want the truth…?” He took a deep breath, though it pained him to do so.

Darjon bent nearer.

Tylar opened his eyes and spat with the last of his strength, catching the knight square in the face. “There is your truth!”

With a roar, the Shadowknight reared back. He waved an arm to the whipmaster.

The crack of flying leather answered, and Tylar was slammed into the post. His back flashed with fire, his agony darkening the world to a pinpoint. He did not fight it, but instead sank away.

Somewhere far off, he heard a shout. “Keep that up, y’art going to kill him.”

Tylar recognized Rogger’s voice. The thief, bound in ropes off in one corner, seemed to be his only defender. Of course, his pleas for clemency might be self-serving. Once Tylar confessed and was killed, Rogger was due to be impaled next to him, both destined to be bits of decoration for Meeryn’s tomb. So the longer Tylar held out, the longer the thief drew breath.

As Tylar drifted farther away, acrid vapors suddenly assaulted his nostrils. He struggled to get away from them, tossing his head. Cold water flooded over him, shivering over his flesh. He gasped as the world shook back into foggy focus.

He saw the healer’s face hovering at the tip of his nose. “Here he comes,” the man said, pulling away the crumple of stinking cloth. He glanced to Darjon at his shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of vital humour, ser. Next time I might not be able to revive him.”

Darjon swore. “The whip’s not loosening this one’s tongue anyway. We’ll try other tortures that aren’t so bloody. Cut him down!”

A guard rushed forward and unhinged the hook. As the manacles slipped free, Tylar’s body felt tenfold heavier. He collapsed, facedown, into the bloody mud under the post.

The healer dropped to one knee. “I could put some firebalm on his wounds. It stings mightily, but it’ll staunch the bleeding.”

“Do it! I won’t have him dying on us… at least, not yet.”

The healer rummaged in a satchel.

Darjon twisted a fist in Tylar’s hair and pulled his face up. Limned against the full moon, his countenance was entirely shadow. Only his eyes glowed with Grace. “Before this night ends, I will discover what you did to Meeryn.”

Tylar sensed Darjon’s ferocity. And something darker. There was more to this man’s determination than mere vengeance. While punishments could be cruel, torture was not the way of the Order. But Tylar was too tired to curse the man, so he told him the truth in his heart. “You… You disgrace your cloak.”

Darjon shoved him away.

The healer pulled free a tiny clay pot. “This will sting,” he said under his breath.

Tylar steeled himself, though it had done him little good so far.

The healer’s shadow fell over him. Fingers touched his shoulder. The spread of balm on his flesh did not burn. Not at all. Instead, it was like the sweetest nectar on the tongue, a soothing caress on a fevered brow.

Tylar moaned in relief, unable to keep it bottled in his chest. It was as if every scrap of torture-inflicted pain was being repaid in kind by rapturous pleasure. It rippled over his flesh.

A small surprised gasp escaped the healer. “By all the gods!”

“What?” Darjon asked, stepping around.

“He heals with just a touch of the firebalm.” The healer slathered his back with more salve as proof and demonstration. “Look how the lash wounds glow under the balm, and the skin closes over.”

As Tylar shuddered with the pleasure of the balm, Darjon stumbled back a few steps. “The glow…” He swept out with his shadowcloak to command attention. “It is Grace… the Grace stolen from Meeryn! Here is the proof we’ve sought all night! He heals with Meeryn’s own dying Grace!”

Despite the soothing touch of the balm, Tylar groaned.

Figures closed in to witness the miracle. Guards held off all but those who had been in the hall earlier. The adjudicators watched as the healer repeated his demonstration, treating the last of the lash marks. Sounds of amazement rose from those gathered.

A black-gowned figure fell to her knee beside Tylar. She raised her hands to her face, lifting her veil. She was ashen-skinned, her lips daubed black. “It’s blood Grace!” she gasped. “I would know it anywhere…”

Another of the entourage spoke, a man dressed also in black. He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and explained, “Delia was the maiden who handled Her Brightness’s blood.”

Tears rose in the young woman’s eyes. “It is indeed Meeryn!”

“Can there be any doubt of his guilt now?” Darjon said boldly. “I say we put him to more vigorous tests. Grind the truth from his very bones.”

Fervent agreement met his words. Only the kneeling woman looked confused. “Why does he bear her blood?” But no one heard her.

She was helped to her feet by the man who had spoken on her behalf. The crowd dispersed, making room.

Tylar turned.

Darjon led two men. One hulking fellow carried a stump of wood. The other, even larger than the first, carried an immense iron hammer.

As the stump was dropped in the mud at his feet, Darjon bent closer. “There is more than one way to break a man, Godslayer.”

In this instance, the knight was speaking literally.

“Undo his manacles. Drag his right hand onto the wood.”

Tylar balked, understanding what was intended. They meant to pulp him. He fought the guards as his manacles fell away. Not my sword hand. He had regained his dexterity only days ago. He had not even the chance to hold a hilt again.

“First the one hand, then the other, then we’ll start with your knees.” Darjon seemed to take particular delight in his prisoner’s thrashing, but Tylar couldn’t stop himself. It was not just the pain he feared.

“No!” he begged. “I’ve told you the truth.”

“Your own blood betrays you. What the whippings have hinted, the hammer will reveal.”

Tylar was too weak to resist. Two guards gripped his arm and thrust his hand atop the stump.

Darjon leaned closer. “Tell us how you slew her!”

“I didn’t-”

Even before he could finish, Darjon signaled the giant with the hammer. Swung from the shoulder, the fist of iron arced high and plunged down toward the stump and its pale target.

Tylar cried out. He heard Rogger do the same: “Agee wan clyy!”

The words made no sense.

Then the hammer struck. Tylar felt the rebound all the way up his arm. It shuddered past his shoulder and into his chest. A wave of agony followed on its heels. Blinding… a thousandfold worse than a single lash.

He screamed, arching back, his face bared to the moon overhead.

Then he felt something loosen deep inside. He had already pissed himself, and if he had anything to eliminate, he would have done it long ago. This was something deeper, something beyond bowel and flesh. He could not hold it back, even if he wanted.

From the black palm print on his chest, something dark wrested out of him and into this world. It gutted him, tearing out of his chest, taking all pleasure from him and leaving only pain.

The torment in his hand spread throughout his body. Other bones broke and reformed, callused, then broke again.

He screamed anew, as much in anguish as agony.

Somewhere far away, Rogger answered him: “Nee wan dred ghawl!”

In the heart of his torment, Tylar now remembered those words. Agee wan clyy… nee wan dred ghawl. Ancient Littick. Break the bone… and free the dark spirit.