Joel Shepherd - Tracato

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“Sasha,” she tried again, “just do what they say. Please. As the fighting grows more desperate, so will they. They believe blood can solve their ills.” She looked again at Sasha’s wounds. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“Don’t,” Sasha whispered. “You’ll not get off that lightly. You got me into this. If anything happens to Errollyn or Alythia, I’ll hold you responsible. I’m Lenay. You know what that means.”

“You’ll not scare me that easily. Serrin are a complex people, Sasha. We can hate and love at the same time.”

Sasha could feel her steely resolve slipping. Through the agony, she felt a pain that had nothing to do with wounds. She swallowed hard, and tried to recapture the steel mask. She needed it. It sustained her.

“You’re responsible,” she whispered. “If the people I love die, I’ll kill you.”

“In the end,” Rhillian said sadly, “we must all do what we must.”

It did not seem like more than a few hours before Sasha was hauled from her cell once more down to the wide, hot dungeon. There, she was hung from the hook, grasping the chains with tight fists to try to keep the manacles from digging into her wrists. She did not see Reynold Hein, but the handsome, dark-haired man was there. Perone, she recalled his name.

She did not think much time had passed since the last session, however deceptive such perceptions could be underground. She thought perhaps the last session had been late afternoon, and now it would be night. Something about Perone’s manner seemed hurried, perhaps distracted. From that, and Rhillian’s visit, she guessed that the Civid Sein might think their time was limited. She didn’t know if that made her less frightened, or more.

The grip on her chains began to slip. She felt beyond dizzy, nearly nauseous with pain. Any more treatment like the last time, and she knew she could die.

More footsteps entered the dungeon, and the sound of something heavy being dragged. Sasha twisted to look…and saw Errollyn, chained as she was, and dragged by two men. Her heart nearly stopped.

“Errollyn!” He twisted, and saw her. He had been beaten, his face swollen, but what he saw enraged him. He lashed at his captors, knocking one to the floor, but others grabbed him, kicking and beating him until he fell. It took four strong men to hoist his manacle chains over a ceiling hook, and winch until he hung nearly suspended, like her. “Errollyn, I’m all right!” she told him in Lenay, trying to be reassuring.

He did not look in quite as bad shape as her. He had taken blows to the head, which she had not, but his shirtless torso bore far fewer bruises, and no burns that she could see. His green eyes burned at his captors, beneath a wild, sweaty fringe. His breath came hard. Errollyn had no love of closed spaces, Sasha knew. He did not fear them, exactly…but he had lived most of his years before becoming talmaad in relative solitude in the foothills of Saalshen. Now, his eyes had that slightly crazed look, like a wolf backed into a corner.

“Your slut has not been particularly forthcoming to our questions,” Perone said now, whistling a cane with expert flicks of his wrist. “She appears to enjoy pain…not surprising, for a Lenay bitch. I hear that lovemaking in Lenayin is little more than a violent beating followed by climax.”

Laughter from one of the other men. Sasha made certain she got a good look at his face. She wanted to recall that laugh, when she killed him. It was with little surprise that she recognised the man-it was Timoth Salo, the young nobleman of the Tol’rhen, Reynold Hein’s prized convert to the Civid Sein.

“Someone had the very clever idea,” Perone continued, “that she might be more responsive to someone else’s pain than her own.” He shrugged. “I don’t hold much hope, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

He lashed with the cane, and a sharp, red line appeared across Errollyn’s stomach. Errollyn made not a sound.

“Rhillian will kill you!” Sasha snarled. “All the serrin will kill you, you neither harm nor kill serrin without setting all of Saalshen at your throat!”

Perone smiled. “Oh, I think you exaggerate.” He signalled to the big, bald man, who drove a fist hard into Errollyn’s ribs. Errollyn barely grunted, swinging on his chains. “Rhillian could have demanded his release, but she did not. Besides, the serrin are fools to think they could rule Tracato. This city belongs to the true patriots of Rhodaan, and we rule here now. All who stand against us are traitors, human and serrin alike.”

His stroll brought him to the horrid little table, picked up a nasty little blade, and examined it. Sasha’s heart galloped. Another fist drove into Errollyn’s midriff. “Stop it!” Sasha screamed at them. “Leave him alone!”

Errollyn’s green eyes were fixed on her. “Sasha,” he said hoarsely. “ No sheth an sary . You tried to explain it to me once. Now I understand.”

Perone strolled back to him, the blade in hand. Tears spilled in Sasha’s eyes, sobs threatening to wrack her body.

“The only comfort,” Errollyn told her, in Lenay, “is in the knowledge that you will kill these men. Concentrate on that, and do not fear for me. Your revenge shall sustain me.”

Perone’s knife flashed, and a new red line appeared, this one trickling blood. Pain flashed on Errollyn’s face, yet he made no sound. Sasha thrashed against her chains, in desperation, crying. Perone slashed again. No one asked her any questions.

Later that night, if night it was, Sasha awoke. It had not been sleep, merely unconsciousness. She lay on dirty straw in her cell, mostly naked, in chains. Her body bore no new injuries, but in her memory, she now carried her last sight of Errollyn as they’d unhooked him from the ceiling. There’d been a lot of blood, drenching his pants. A thin maze of scars across his torso. They’d used salt, which had finally made him scream. She’d never before in her life heard Errollyn scream. It did worse than make her cry, or make her stomach retch-it robbed him of that strength of dignity he’d always carried.

But he’d been alive when they’d dragged him away. The cuts were shallow, designed more for pain than injury. She clung to that hope.

She wanted to think, but could not. Her mind was awash with pain, with fury, with exhaustion and fear. The fever she had feared had not advanced, yet still her skin flushed hot and cold. Her burns seemed to have come up in blisters. Her stomach muscles were bruised, her wrists badly strained beneath the chafing, but most of the injuries were no more than skin deep. Were she to get free, she was certain she could still move fast if she had to. If she could ignore the pain.

She closed her eyes, not wishing to see the dull, grey stone of the cell, lit by a single, yellow lantern. Not wishing the disorientation of feeling the walls and ceiling swinging around her. She would be all right. As would Errollyn.

She might have slept for a moment, she could not tell, but suddenly there was a rattle of keys, and the clank of the door’s lock. The door squealed open. A thud as something was thrown into the cell, and then the door closed once more. Food maybe. One of those big, ugly loaves of stale bread. Sasha’s stomach turned. She was not hungry, but she should try to eat.

She opened her eyes, and slowly focused on the object on the stones before her. It was a human head, facing her, eyes open. Long black hair. The eyes, the features, were Alythia’s.

Sasha screamed.

A long time later, she was still screaming.

There was a commotion when they dragged her next from the cell. The first flight of steps did not go down, as before, but up. Dazed, Sasha realised she was being led out of the catacombs entirely. A cloak was thrown about her bare shoulders, covering her to the knees.