Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

There were two other people in the room. A man in a long tunic who was obviously the interrogator, a birthmark the color of eggplant covering half his face that caused Mulldoos to lean close to Hew and whisper, “Plague me-even likes his henchmen purple.” And another figure, naked, strapped down to a heavy table that was stained with every bodily fluid imaginable. It took me a moment to realize this was the priest guard-his face was contorted and unrecognizable. There was a strap with a sharp-looking hook inserted in each corner of his mouth, blood trickling down and pooling on the table. There was also a strapped hook in each nostril, pulling his nose up. Thick leather straps crossed his forehead, neck, and limbs, and he was completely immobile. The interrogator slowly turned a handle on the side of the table and the priest guard screamed again, eyes wide, tongue sticking out, spittle spraying, as Brune took a sip from his goblet.

Then the baron looked over at us and smiled. There was nothing cruel about it-just a warm, welcoming smile. It was horrible. “Ahh, very good of you to join me. Thank you so much for coming on short notice. I must say, Captain Killcoin, you and your companion looked in much better health the other night. And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

Braylar gestured at Mulldoos with one hand and rasped, “This is one of my trusted lieutenants, Mulldoos.” He gestured at me with the other. I expected a lie, but he told the truth. Mostly. “And this is my chronicler, Arkamondos. I admit, as a humble servant of the empire, I wouldn’t retain one myself, but our emperor insisted. And Arkamondos didn’t want to miss an opportunity for an audience with the baron, so here we are. Your powers of recovery are amazing, my lord.”

Brune chuckled. “Gurdinn advised against inviting you here, of course, but our exchanges are so very lively, it seemed a shame not to have another one.” He sat up in his chair and indicated the tortured man with a small tilt of his head. “I believe you’re already acquainted with Henlester’s guard here, so no need for introductions. I would say ‘traitor’s guard,’ but we haven’t determined that definitively, have we, Untovik?”

The interrogator laid his hand on the handle again and leaned in close over the prisoner, who choked on his spit as he said, or tried to say “no” repeatedly without tearing his face further.

Brune raised a finger. “Ahh, my apologies. My chief interrogator, Untovik. Untovik, these are the men responsible for Henlester’s guard joining us.” If Untovik listened or cared, he gave no sign. The baron turned to Braylar. “It’s a pity you weren’t able to deliver the underpriest, though. I do fear the guard here won’t be especially… enlightening. Though that won’t stop us from trying. No, we work with what we have, don’t we, Untovik.”

The interrogator replied by turning the handle a little more. Though they hadn’t ripped his flesh deeply yet, the hooks did their work, nose and lips stretching and tearing just a little more, red rivulets running onto the table. The prisoner gurgled another wet and distorted scream.

“Yes,” the baron said, “Too bad about losing the underpriest.”

Stomach flipping, I quickly looked away from the tortured guard as Braylar replied, “You’re correct, Baron Brune. We went through a great many pains to obtain him, and our losses were not light, I assure you. I was equally as disappointed he didn’t live to see Alespell again.”

I wondered if he’d lay the blame at Gurdinn’s feet, but if he was tempted to, he resisted.

The baron lifted the goblet to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Do any of you fancy mead? We have some beekeepers in this barony who might be the most talented in the kingdom. I’m biased, of course.”

He might not have expected anyone to take him up on his offer, but Hewspear replied, “Thank you, my lord. I’d like to sample some-I’ve heard it’s quite good.”

The baron handed Hewspear a goblet and filled it from a pitcher on a small table alongside him. “Anyone else?”

Mulldoos shook his head. “Too sweet for my tongue.” As he watched the interrogator move around the table, his hand had drifted down to the pommel on his falchion, like a fierce hound with its hackles up.

Braylar accepted a goblet. The baron offered me one as well, and while I was terrified of not keeping it down, I hoped it would help me focus on something besides the awful scene in front of me, and so I nodded and mumbled a thank you.

I lifted it to my lips, hand shaking violently, and took a sip. It was pungent and mellow at first swallow, but then burned a golden trail down my throat. Strong, very strong. That was good.

Brune raised his goblet. “There’s much more to good mead than the quality of honey, of course. The brewmasters here have their closely guarded secrets. Generations of perfecting their craft, and revealed only to guildmasters. Apprentices are kept in the dark for years. Isn’t that something?” He sniffed the liquid. “So powerful and peculiar, secrets. Some are a professional matter. The brewmasters, as an example. Others are personal, closeted on account of shame or fear. I detest them on the whole. Nothing I hate more, really. Because in my experience, where there are secrets, there are usually traitors harboring them.” He called over to his interrogator, “Would you be able to convince the brewmasters to reveal their methods, do you think?”

Untovik’s reply came in the form of his prisoner screaming some more. I took another large swallow.

“Yes. I expect you could.” Brune took another sip. “But you didn’t come down here to hear me prattle on about bees and honey, did you? To business then. Gurdinn had a fair number of unflattering things to report about how you conducted yourself at the temple, and on the road back here. While he accepted responsibility for his man killing the underpriest, he also pointed out they wouldn’t have found themselves in that position if you’d made better decisions. Claimed you jeopardized everyone’s lives, and nearly undermined this little ruse you’d done so much to orchestrate. I’d be very interested to hear your version, if you don’t mind, Captain Killcoin.”

Braylar swirled his mead around in the goblet. “Your captain is staunchly loyal, and stalwart as well. Inspiring bravery, truly. But he’s also something of a tremendous fool, my lord. Had we done anything differently, the odds are good you never would’ve received a report of any kind. Not unless Henlester left our corpses for you to find. And that would have been a murky report at best.”

The baron smiled. “A difference of interpretation then? Not surprising, really. After all, Gurdinn clearly doesn’t trust you or bear you any love. If he had his way, in fact, it would be all of you strapped down to tables just now.” He refilled his goblet slowly. “So, you still believe High Priest Henlester is responsible for hiring you as assassins?”

“I saw nothing at the temple to indicate otherwise, my lord. The underpriest was there with payment for the deed. Which I’m sure Gurdinn delivered.” Brune tilted his head in thanks, and Braylar continued, “They arranged an ambush, wanting to wipe out their co-conspirators. I don’t know for a fact that Henlester ordered all of this, but all signs point in that direction.”

“Such a shame we don’t have the underpriest.” The prisoner was trying to speak. Brune nodded at Untovik, who turned the wooden handle with a squeak. The prisoner gurgle-screamed again as the hooks bit deeper, knuckles white in his balled fists, feet twitching. “He might have been able to confirm some of this. But then again, perhaps not.”

Brune stood and walked over to the table. The prisoner’s eyes were rolling white, the cords in his neck bulging, blood trickling out his nose and his mouth, flowing more freely now.