Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

Glowering down at his raw chest, Lothar lamented his bad luck. He could only imagine the wondrous services those endowed creatures might have plied on their clients, had they somehow been convinced to follow Mary’s chosen profession! And with extraordinary selling prices, to match! But he would never know. Not only had the girls slipped through his fingers, but several guards had burned to death during the escape. The guards would have to be replaced, and that was always expensive. It wasn’t just anyone who was willing to work here.

Lothar reached across the desktop to unbutton his shirt, then pick up a bottle of balm the neighborhood healer had given him. He poured some into one palm, and reached beneath his bandages to rub more onto his badly scalded torso.

The girls’ bolts had nearly killed him. After lying unconscious for several hours, he had finally awakened, screaming in agony. The guards had called for a healer. Lothar would live, but would be scarred for life.

But ever true to his nature, his grief had quickly turned to greed. This was a new day; there was work to be done and fresh profits to be stolen. Despite his painful condition he intended to make the most of it.

Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he placed the lotion bottle back atop the desk, then gave the torturer another nod. The man in the black mask was the same fellow who had performed the public dunking and provided him with the debtors’ next-of-kin list several days before. As the torturer resumed his work, another scream filled the air, then wafted its way down the prison halls.

Lothar sat in a dank stone room. Four leering guards stood nearby. Near one wall a man sat behind another crude desk. His left arm lay tightly stretched across the desktop and his body was tied to his chair.

The hooded torturer sat across from him. Bolted down to the desktop, a manacle encircled the prisoner’s left wrist. A hinged iron device encased his left thumb. A broad, rusty turnkey protruded from the device.

Several of the debtor’s relatives sat in chairs on the other side of the room. Selected from the prized next-of-kin list, they had been “asked” to attend this session by Lothar’s guards, and told to bring all their money. They knew that Lothar could be vengeful. Not one dared refuse, lest something even more dire happen.

The point of this gathering was simple. Unless they paid off not only their relative’s debts but also their own, they would soon find themselves sitting in the torture chair. It was the morning following the girls’ escape, and Lothar could afford to take his time.

Realizing their plight, some of Lothar’s “guests” had tried to pay up even before the session had gotten started. For them, the mere sight of the muscular fellow in the black hood had been incentive enough. But because of his foul mood, Lothar had decided to give them a demonstration anyway. Because he had to suffer, so did everyone else. Smiling, he nodded at the torturer again.

Grasping the thumbscrew key, the hooded man gave it another quick turn. This time bones snapped. Blood ran from the device to drip lazily onto the table. Screaming madly, the prisoner jangled in his chair. But the jailor was not in a forgiving mood. He glared at the cowering relatives.

“Shall we continue?” he asked. “We have lots of time. After all, he has nine digits left. Nineteen, if one counts his toes.” Sitting back, Lothar lit a cigar, then sent the smoke toward the ceiling.

“Then again, we could stop,” he added, casually regarding the cigar’s glowing end. He looked over at the cowering relatives.

“If you agree to pay a bonus-say, an extra twenty percent above and beyond your current debts-you may all walk out of here right now,” he offered. “For those of you who do not have enough kisa on hand I will accept a signed promissory note, certifying that the adjusted sum is now the legally recognized amount. Interest adds up, after all! So do we have an arrangement? Or do we keep going?”

Tired and beaten, the weary relatives started shuffling toward Lothar’s desk. One by one, they paid all they had. Those who could not meet the ludicrous extortion demands signed detailed documents obligating them to make regular payments to Lothar or be immediately incarcerated. As the travesty continued, a smiling guard witnessed each signature.

Just then Lothar heard shouting from down the hall. It sounded like guards’ voices, mixed with others that he didn’t recognize. An explosion followed, shaking the prison. Dark smoke started filtering into the torture room, making it difficult to see.

Coughing, Lothar rose gingerly to his feet. He glared at the guards. “Don’t just stand there, you idiots!” he shouted. “See what’s going on!”

The guards drew their swords, and rushed into the hallway. Lothar followed them as far as the door, where his guards disappeared into the smoke.

Soon Lothar heard more shouting, followed by clashing sword blades. Silence reclaimed the prison. Holding his breath, Lothar waited. As fear gripped him, his cigar fell to the floor and his knees trembled noticeably.

Suddenly a dozen Minion warriors rushed into the room. Holding their dreggans high, they quickly ringed the walls. Some of their blades were bloodied. There was no sign of Lothar’s guards. The startled jailor glared at the warriors.

“How dare you!” he shouted. “You have no business here! Wait until the Conclave hears of this intrusion!”

Just then more people stepped from the smoky hallway. Lothar saw an old man in a gray robe, several more Minions, and a tall blond woman. Suddenly recognizing the First Wizard and the princess, he nearly choked.

Wigg calmly walked to stand before the fat jailor. Waving one hand, he caused the smoke to disappear. The First Wizard’s eyes bored directly into Lothar’s. Swallowing hard, the jailor tried to smile.

“Do you know who I am?” Wigg asked quietly.

“Uh, er…of course!” Lothar stammered. “The First Wizard himself! This is indeed an honor!”

“I cannot say that the feeling is mutual,” Wigg answered dryly.

He looked around the room. When he saw the torture victim his face went scarlet with rage. Pointing to the thumbscrew, Wigg called the craft. The device unhinged itself. Then the bolts holding the wrist manacle to the tabletop ripped loose, freeing the debtor. Wigg moved his fingers, causing the thumbscrew to fly across the room and into his palm. He held it before Lothar’s face. It was still dripping blood.

“And this?” he asked. “A tool of your trade, I presume?”

“Certainly not!” Lothar protested. “Time after time I have told my guards to never use such things, but they won’t listen! In fact, I had just entered the room! Now that we’re both here, together we can put a stop to it!”

Tossing the thumbscrew aside, Wigg pursed his lips. “I see,” he said. “And what about slave trafficking, eh? I suppose you have never pursued that dubious practice, either?”

Lothar held up his palms. “On my life, no!” he shouted. “I am a sworn officer of the court! I would never do such a thing!”

Glowering, Wigg stepped closer. Knowing that it would hurt, he poked an index finger into Lothar’s chest. The jailor winced. “You’re no longer an officer ofour court,” Wigg breathed.

Another warrior entered the room, walked up to Shailiha, and clicked his heels.

“Your report,” the princess said.

“This place is a madhouse!” the warrior answered. “The prisoners are being held in deplorable conditions. Many are close to death. The surviving guards have been locked away. Torture rooms abound. But there is some good news.” The warrior grinned straight at Lothar, then back at hisJin’Saiou.

“We found that fat bastard’s ledgers,” he announced proudly. “We also have the safe in which he keeps his fortune. After some Minion inducement, it opened easily. It holds more high-denomination kisa than we could count in a fortnight.”