Jeff Crook - The Thieves’ Guild

He suspected several ribs were broken, because whenever he coughed up blood, he nearly fainted from the pain. His back felt as though he’d had a family of dwarves dancing on it. His joints ached as if he’d been racked for several days, his neck throbbed as if he’d been hung for twice as long. He was swiftly growing sore in other places from sitting for a night and half the day in a stone chamber neither tall enough to stand up in nor large enough to lie down.

A voice at the iron door roused the elf from his musings. Looking up, Cael saw the round face of a city clerk peering through the three-inch-square hole in the door, but the man wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his eyes were lowered, as he read, “Cael Ironstaff, elf, homeland unknown, age unknown, parents unknown. You are accused of five counts of murder of her Dark Majesty’s soldiers, one count of burglary, one count of breaking and entering, one count of possession of an illegal weapon, seven counts of use of an illegal weapon, one count of possession of an illegal magic item, seven counts of use of an illegal magic item, one count of disguising your person for the purposes of subterfuge, one count of traveling without proper identification, and two counts of assault with the intent to commit bodily harm. You stand before his most dread lord, Sir Arach Jannon, Knight of the Thorn, judge of the city of Palanthas. Prepare to plead your innocence or declare your guilt.”

The clerk stepped aside. The tiny window remained empty for a moment, then the narrow, rat-eyed visage of Sir Arach appeared, glaring down at the thief. “Stand up before your judge,” he snapped.

Slowly, Cael struggled to his feet, his chains rattling. He had to stoop, the ceiling was so low.

“So, we meet again,” Sir Arach said. “This time, you do not have any friends around to help you.”

“No, but you do,” Cael said through his swollen lips.

“A pity we cannot meet, one to one, to see who is the better man,” the Thorn Knight bragged.

“Truly, a pity. Perhaps another day,” Cael said thickly.

“Alas, I fear your days are numbered.”

“Where there’s fear, there is also hope, as my shalifi used to say.”

“Not much hope, considering your life is soon to end.”

“Don’t count your draconians before they hatch,” Cael responded. “I could stand here and trade cliches with you all day, but these chains are heavy. Do what you will and be done with it.”

“Very well!” Sir Arach snapped. “You have heard the accusations. How do you plead?”

“Guilty on all counts,” Cael said, adding, “I’m proud to say.”

“Good! I like a man who owns up to his deeds. Shame is a foolish thing. Clerk, please note that the prisoner declared his guilt of his own free will and without coercion,” Sir Arach said, turning to the scribe. The pen scratched on the page.

“Of course, you realize the punishment your crimes warrant. An assault upon the Dark Queen’s agent is an assault upon the Dark Queen. The usual punishment for the murder of her Dark Majesty’s soldiers is death by slow torture,” he said as he returned his gaze to the interior of the tiny cell. Cael stared at him.

“The slowest torture possible, mind you. I have servants steeped in the arts of exquisite pain. They can draw out the torture of a man for months, even years. I imagine that a long-lived elf such as yourself could be made to endure for several decades.”

Still, Cael stared, saying nothing.

“Yes, it would be most horrible for you, rest assured. Yet, I could be persuaded to reduce the sentence to a quick, painless beheading…”

Cael blinked, his face as yet displaying no emotion. “I thought that might get your attention,” Arach Jannon chuckled. “All you have to do is reveal to me the secrets of your staff, and I’ll see that you do not suffer.”

Cael looked away.

“Think about it, my dear elf.” Sir Arach said. “Unless you have a will of iron, eventually you’ll tell me everything I want to know anyway. Why suffer days, nay, months of agony, when you can end your suffering in one swift moment?”

“One might think, your lordship, that the court is more concerned with my staff and the acquisition of power than with the administration of justice,” Cael said blandly, not looking at him.

Sir Arach spluttered a string of oaths and curses. “Strike the prisoner’s last remark from the record!” he shouted at the clerk, then turned one last time to the elf.

“I offered you mercy, elf! You will tell me every secret of the staff. Do not imagine for a moment that I cannot break your will, for I have done it many times and to stronger elves than you. Now you have made your own bed, and I have no more patience for your prattle. The sentence shall be carried out as ordered.”

Cael lowered his eyes, his head sank to his chest. He slumped to the floor, exhausted.

“Death by slow torture!” Sir Arach shouted, striking the door angrily with his fist.

A peel of mad laughter woke Cael from a dreamless reverie. He jerked awake, rattling the chains on his wrists and ankles. The Screamer, as Cael had named the poor demented soul locked in the next cell, loosed another cry of self-induced horror that ended in a series of hyenalike twitters, warbles, and whoops. A little farther down, from yet another cell, a voice harsh with thirst shouted, “Shut up, you giggling idiot!”

He was answered by yet another series of bloodcurdling shrieks.

“Shut up! Shut yer stinkin’ mouth!” the other inmate shouted. “Let me get my hands on… by the gods! Get me outta here! If I… I only… by the gods!”

“Rats! Rats! Oh, I ate one. There’s another! Rats!” the Screamer cried. “Oh… no! Not that. Not again. Not…” and so on, until the screams came again.

“Just shut up, will yer just shut up,” the other inmate wept. “Please, for Gilean’s sake, won’t somebody please kill me?”

Cael kicked at a rat nosing about his feet, then adjusted his position against the wall. A little rotten straw barely softened the wet stone floor beneath him, while a tiny grate next to the floor allowed his waste, as well as the water seeping from the stone walls, to slowly escape. Very slowly. Above him, a tiny window in the iron door was the portal through which light sometimes shone and his food, when he was lucky enough to get any food, was lowered.

He had no idea how long he’d been in this cell since his “trial.” The only way that he had to calculate time was by his feedings and by the regular torture sessions he endured. Tomorrow, or the next day, or perhaps the next, they would come for him again to question him with the rack or red-hot iron or something new. Again and again.

At each session Sir Arach reminded him how simple matters between them were. If Cael would only answer his questions, it would all end, quickly, painlessly. That was the one thought that kept the elf alive. The Thorn Knight couldn’t kill him until he discovered the secret of the staffs powers.

Ironically, it was only in the last few days before his capture that he’d begun to suspect and experience the full extent of its magical powers. The staff had been given him by his shalifi , Master Verrocchio, the greatest swordsman in all Krynn, a little less than a year before. With the staff came knowledge of some of its powers, including its ability to become a sword with a magically keen edge, to merge into a solid surface so that it might be hidden, and to lengthen or shorten at will. Because it was made by sea elves, it also gave its owner the ability to breath underwater. However, its seeming power against magic and undead were new to Cael’s experience. He wondered if these two new powers were somehow connected to his location, to Palanthas.