THE SCREAMING HAD RETURNED.
They say the threat of pain is even more persuasive than the pain itself.
Ferrin knew that whoever “they” were, they had clearly never spent an hour on an inquisitor’s rack!
“Ahhh!” Ferrin’s head slammed back against the metal rungs, flinging
strands of red hair across his face. His eyes squeezed shut, tears swelling at the corners. He hated the sound of his own voice. He knew it offered his
torturers a sense of undeserved satisfaction.
Snapping his mouth shut, teeth grinding against the pain, he watched in helpless wonder as the fat inquisitor worked the stone blade across the tender muscle of his upper left breast, spreading it wide like a loaf of soft bread from a hot oven. The blood was warm and thick as it ran down his muscular torso, saturating the top of his tattered trousers. “Urrrhg!” was the only reply he was willing to muster under the pain.
Ferrin had to say this for the White Tower—they were, if anything, proficient.
He could remember his first induction into the Chamber of Inquisition. They had marched all the new convicts in and made them watch while, one by one, the inquisitors questioned their fellow inmates. It was an experience not easily forgotten.
First, a light whimper could be heard, and from there, uncontrolled sobbing as the Tower guards fastened one unfortunate soul after another to the large wire-bound racks. The arrival of an inquisitor triggered the next phase in this ongoing cycle, leaving the victim to fall into one of two categories: beggar or spitter.
Wrists and ankles were spread and securely fastened by heavy iron clamps, allowing for easy access to the soft inner muscles, which were readily pricked, punched, sliced, or stabbed, or in some cases, ripped from the White Tower’s many occupants. At this juncture, true fear had not yet
manifested itself. That was saved for later, and with it, the only guarantee was that “later” was undoubtedly coming.
The sound of endless screaming and the smell of urine, vomit, and blood was enough to frighten even the strongest of men, dissolving every last bit of courage and replacing it with a sense of helpless abandonment. Once
hope had been destroyed, the only thing left was a complete willingness to capitulate to any of the White Tower’s demands.
From what Ferrin could gather, the Inquisition was comprised of two halves, which formed a sort of symbiotic whole: the Legate and the Inquisition. The inquisitor’s sole responsibility was to glean viable information concerning magic, and the wielders of it, from the countless victims apprehended by the Black Watch. The legates, on the other hand,
were nothing more than glorified bookkeepers, accumulating the record of all practical information collected by the inquisitors.
Ferrin spat a colorful mosaic of red across the front of the inquisitor’s
white robe, earning him a heavy backhand to the face. It’s the little victories that keep us going, he thought. His lips curled into a defiant smile, red teeth bared, and the salty taste of blood building at the front of his mouth.
“Why do you test me, sword-smith?” The inquisitor rubbed at his stained overcoat, further smearing the blood into the pristine garments before eventually giving up the attempt. “Just tell me what I want to know, and all these . . . pleasantries,” he said with a satisfied smirk, “will cease.”
At first, Ferrin had questioned the reasoning behind the Inquisition’s use of white robes. Surely the amount of work that must go in to keeping them clean would be a strong deterrent to using them in the first place, but after having an inquisitor step through the door for his first round of questioning, wearing a white robe spattered with sprays of blood from his previous interrogation, there was no longer any doubt in Ferrin’s mind as to the
horrific effectiveness of their choice in garment.
The fat inquisitor, or Cheeks, as Ferrin so fondly liked to refer to him— since the ones on his face were as padded as the ones below—stared at him through his dark, swollen eyes. The man looked as though he hadn’t seen
the sun in three or four decades. The skin around his hands and bald head held a rather pasty complexion, even against the warm light of the room’s torches.
There were thirteen torture chambers within the Hall of Inquisition. If you’d seen one, you’d seen them all. Ferrin would know. The rooms were
small and circular. A man could stand in the center and walk no more than eight paces before hitting a wall in any direction. As it was, the metal rack took up the central spot, with a small table and stool for the inquisitors to display their tools of choice.
Cheeks paced in front of the rack, waving his blade around like a conductor with a baton, encouraging his musicians to give him more. “How many other wielders are there in your city? What are their names? What can they do? Where do they live?” The questions were endless and always seemed to work their way back around to one in particular, “What can you do for the White Tower?”
Like so many others before him, Ferrin fought to safeguard the identity of the wielders within his acquaintance. He was determined not to be the mouthpiece ensuring their future imprisonment and torture. Above all else, he knew he had to keep his mouth shut in hopes of protecting the one good thing left in his life: his twin sister, Myriah.
She was the only member of his family left to him, and he was determined to bear it for her. He also knew the body and the mind could only endure so much before giving in.
In the two weeks since his arrest and subsequent imprisonment within the White Tower, Ferrin had been questioned by every single interrogator within the Inquisition. He wasn’t sure why they had singled him out for such a privilege, but after just one session with Cheeks, he was sure they had saved the best for last.
Ferrin had also been surprised that he still retained all his digits. His only reasoning was that the inquisitor must be saving that particular pleasure for later, and that maybe his method was to start smaller and work his way up. Whatever the reason, Ferrin was thankful that nothing had been severed, at least not yet.
Most prisoners lasted a day or two before breaking, a week at most.
Others were confessing their own mothers were the spawn of the Defiler before the manacles had even had a chance to click shut. Everyone has a
different threshold for what they can endure. Ferrin figured his might have been set a little too high. Thankfully, though, the pain had begun to dull as it did after each of his cuttings, bringing with it the barest of respite and allowing his mind to work its way back to a semblance of coherence before being subjugated to another round.
Cheeks held out the small dagger. A drop of fresh blood fell from its tip and landed on his forefinger. He turned it around with his thumb. “So, what shall we cut today? Hmm?”
“How about my beard?”
Cheeks leaned back and roared with laughter, clapping his hands together in succession. He struggled to catch his breath, quite difficult apparently for a man of his size. “I see your sense of humor is in full force today, smith. Good, good. I have rather enjoyed our time together.”
He wiped the wetness from his eyes. Cheeks’ vibrant blue irises contrasted sharply with the decorative markings that had been tattooed
across the majority of his face and bald head, signifying his upper rank in the Inquisition. Ferrin had no idea what the symbols meant, but one thing was for certain, at that moment he couldn’t have cared less.
The inquisitor’s blue eyes scanned Ferrin’s body. Like a map, it revealed the many afflictions Ferrin had already endured. Patches of white, hardened skin intersected his chest, arms, stomach, and legs, giving clear indication
as to the previously explored territories.
Stepping from the rack, the inquisitor relaxed on a nearby stool. It groaned in protest. Ferrin wondered how much more pain and suffering the poor seat could endure before its legs finally buckled. “You have no idea
how insufferable it can be to attempt to cut on someone who doesn’t quite have the . . . How do I put it?” Cheeks chewed on his lower lip in thought. “The proper constitution, if you know what I mean.”
“I completely understand,” Ferrin said through gritted teeth, “and you have my deepest sympathies.” He fought to hold back the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him.
“Yes.” The inquisitor grinned. “I believe you do understand.”
Swiveling in his seat, Cheeks unrolled a leather satchel across a short wooden table on his left. His fingers slid affectionately over each of the
implements inside, much like a new husband admiring his wife’s curvature during their bonding ceremony—excited and nervous all at the same time.
Ferrin’s eyes hopped from one instrument to the next: a small poker, a short single-edged blade, two pairs of iron tongs, a ball-peen hammer, a heavy clipper, whipping straps, a sturdy saw, and an assortment of wooden wedges ranging in both size and girth. Quite the impressive selection, he thought.
And to think, only a short time ago he would have been going about his own daily routine of igniting the coals to his forge, arranging the hammers and tongs, collecting the strips of iron that needed smelting and the lengths of steel ready for shaping. He loved the blistering heat generated from his quaint smithy in the heart of Rhowynn. Now, here he was, nothing more than fodder for another type of forge, one in which they heated, hammered, and shaped human beings.
Cheeks pushed back from his doting, his seat squeaking nervously underneath him. “I have a surprise for you today, my proud smith.” He reached inside one of the inner pockets of his white garments and pulled forth, with an exuberant amount of theatrical flair, a new instrument. “I call it . . . the wiggler.” He waved it around in a taunting fashion for the benefit of Ferrin’s inspection.
Ferrin had to admit, it was indeed a work of beautiful craftsmanship. It had a robust iron handle with finger grooves for comfort, and soft leather gripping. But in place of a blade, it held a uniquely designed steel poker that curved in a circular fashion along its stem.
“I call it the wiggler, because once I punch it through the gut,” he said with a sharp thrusting motion, “I can wiggle it to the left and wiggle it to the right, and play with all kinds of fun things in there.” He giggled as if it were all a good joke.
“Your happiness brings tears to my eyes, Inquisitor.”
Cheeks’ smile was childlike. “Yes, I thought you’d enjoy that.”
If there was one distinction to be made about Cheeks, as opposed to his fellow brothers of the white cloth and tattooed faces, it would be that he not
only took great pride in his work, but enormous pleasure as well. “I want to introduce you to someone, smith.” The inquisitor hefted himself from the
now wobbling stool and shuffled his way to the single wooden door at the front of the small stone room. Tugging on the latch, he yanked it open.
A young girl stood in the doorway. At least from where Ferrin lay
prostrate on the iron rack she appeared to be a young girl. Her hands were clutched at the waist and her head bowed in an almost reverent manner. Her clothes were all but falling off. She appeared to be half-starved and there
was some large bruising around her left eye. “Come in, come in.” Cheeks held out his arm, beckoning her forward.
With hesitant steps, she slid into the room, never once raising her gaze above the placement of her feet. She was definitely a sad sight to behold.
“This is Rae.” The inquisitor put a sweaty hand on her shoulder and shoved her forward, practically forcing her on top of the rack. “She’s here for you.” Ferrin raised his head, which at the time was about the only motion the rack would allow. “Well, I would give you my hand in proper welcome,” he
said with a forced smile, “but, uh . . .” He wiggled his bound arms inside their shackles. “As you can see, I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”
Cheeks jabbed Rae in the shoulder. “See, I told you he had a sharp wit.” The girl’s head rose in sluggish fashion, allowing the warm light from the walled torches to wash across her face. She wasn’t quite as young as Ferrin had first believed, maybe early twenties. Her malnourished condition had given her thinning frame the impression of a teenage girl. He didn’t figure she had much longer for this world.
Her skin was the color of warm caramel, much the way Ferrin wished his would get during the hot summer months when he went without his shirt, but instead, his fair skin only seemed to redden and freckle. He figured she was Cylmaran, or at least had come from one of the southern islands, Delga perhaps. Granted, he hadn’t had the privilege of being acquainted with any
islanders before, but from what he had seen in passing, most had the same dark hair with eyes to match.
This girl’s hair, unlike his own red mop, looked as though someone had cut it with a dull knife after taking a dip in a barrel of hard ale. It hung at varying lengths. The longest strand nearly reached her shoulder.
Her face held no emotion, but her unusual pale green eyes screamed of loathing.
Ferrin’s forehead creased as the inquisitor’s words sank in. “Wait. What do you mean she’s here for me?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. She’s not here for that,” he said with a dirty wink. “At least not for you. No, she’s here to help me with my work.”
Ferrin sneered. “You’re going to make her watch?” He couldn’t believe
the gall of this pig. It was bad enough to be doing what he was, but to take a helpless woman and destroy her innocence with his dark sadism was more than Ferrin could bear. “Does that make you feel more like a man? Is that
the only kind of satisfaction you can get, you sick spawn of a faerie?” As soon as he had said it, he regretted it. He wasn’t supposed to let them get to him, or at least show it if they had. Keep your mouth shut, Ferrin! He bit his tongue.
“Now, now,” Cheeks said with a smile, “no need for name calling.” He waved his plump forefinger back and forth. “Even if she was a sorry excuse for a human being, she was still my mother.” The inquisitor stared at the far wall, obviously contemplating some distant memory. “Anyway,” he said, turning back around. “Where were we? Oh, yes. We were deciding where to cut.”
Stepping to the right of where Ferrin was bound, Cheeks grabbed hold of the large spiked wheel which operated the rack’s mechanisms and cranked it to the right. The bed shifted forward, raising Ferrin into an upright position. “Ah, that’s better.”
Roping off the wheel, the inquisitor turned back to the table and his array of finely assorted instruments. “My young friend here has quite a
remarkable gift.” He pointed the wiggler in her direction. “Don’t you, my dear?” Rae stood in silence on the far side of the rack, watching as the rotund torturer shifted his attention back to Ferrin. “But unlike you, we
have allowed her the use of a transferal. I would hate to think of the havoc you could wreak in here if you had been allowed to keep yours, what with all this metal for you to play with.” Cheeks slid his fingers down the long, thin shaft of the wiggler and around its double coils, coming to a final rest at its pointed tip.
Taking Ferrin’s transferal crystal had been the second order of business the Black Watch had completed upon his arrest, right after attaching a
durma collar to his neck to cut off the flow of magic stemming from the small clear gem. Ferrin had never really understood how the little crystal was capable of allowing him to manipulate metal ore, or why when other
people touched it, they were unable to do the same. He simply took it all in stride, never worrying over questions he could do nothing about.
Leaning forward, the tattooed inquisitor slid the tip of his twisted instrument down the front of Rae’s shirt, tugging lasciviously at her top button. He smiled as he withdrew a small crystal that swung like a pendulum on the end of a sweat-tarnished chain.
Ferrin recognized it immediately.
He had been given one of those rocks as a child after his own magic had become apparent. After his parents had died, his uncle, not wanting the fear of magic under his roof, or the wrath of the White Tower brought down on their heads, sold Ferrin to a traveling peddler named Pinon. It was the peddler who had given Ferrin his first transferal and explained that what
Ferrin possessed was not a curse, but a gift. He had been warned to keep it hidden, especially with the White Tower escalating its search for wielders.
Obviously that hadn’t worked too well for him.
“Yes, she has quite a useful gift,” the inquisitor continued. “I would tell you all about it, but . . .” Cheeks leaned in. His warm breath wreaked of
garlic and rotten meat. Ferrin had to swallow against the bile rising in the back of his throat. “It would be so much more fun to show you.” And with that, the inquisitor lifted the curved instrument and punched it straight through Ferrin’s stomach, ramming it all the way to the hilt.
“Ahhh!” Ferrin’s head flew backwards, his neck wrenching under the weight of its force as it bounced off the metal bars of the rack’s bed. Sweat broke out across his forehead and spittle flew from his mouth. Gasping for breath, he concentrated on nothing, everything, anything but what the inquisitor wanted—names. He must protect his sister. He must protect Myriah.
He could feel the inquisitor twisting his new instrument deep inside. He had never felt such pain before. In the back of his mind, he could hear Cheeks’ voice, “Who are the wielders in your city? Do you have any
family? Are you ready to join the White Tower?”
Nausea swept over him like a tidal wave and he emptied what little remained in his stomach across his bare chest. Looking downward, he could see his blood bubbling out from around the wiggler as the instrument was slowly excised from his stomach. Wrapped around the twisted poker was a snaking of his intestine. Cheeks chortled with perverse pleasure. Ferrin could tell by the look in the inquisitor’s eyes that his suffering was taking
the sadist to an even greater sense of elation.
Everything faded. Sounds became muffled. His heartbeat was deafening.
The pain was beyond what he could bear. Ferrin could feel his body begin to convulse and then everything went black. There was silence, and at last, it was finally over.
Or, at least, he thought it was.
Ferrin’s eyes burst open and his mouth split wide as he inhaled a torrent of life-sustaining air. His eyes darted around the room but everything was enveloped in a thick haze. Sights, sounds, even his sense of smell was muffled and muted as he tried reasoning out what had just happened. He felt nothing, and the only thought that lingered was, I must be dead.
Cheeks’ pale face suddenly popped into view. “Ah, there you are.
Almost lost you,” he chuckled.
Ferrin’s shoulders sank in despair. “Wha . . . What happened?” His voice was barely audible as he twisted his head around to where the inquisitor stood watching.
Without warning, all the pain and agony he had suffered from his previous cuttings came flooding back. It was overwhelming.
“Quite the rush, isn’t it?” The inquisitor evidently had been waiting for Ferrin’s senses to catch up.
Even through the pain, Ferrin felt something soft and cool slide across his chest. He tilted his head. Rae had the palm of her small hand pressed against the open wound from Cheeks’ stone blade. Her eyes were closed in
concentration. Ferrin found himself caught in a confusing mix of emotions. He knew he should be screaming out in pain, but, at present, the only sensation he seemed to be holding on to was more intimate in nature.
The look in the Inquisitor’s eyes as he studied Ferrin, no doubt trying to determine where next to hurt him, should have overwhelmed Ferrin with fear, but as long as Rae’s gentle touch caressed his skin, he could think of nothing else.
“What is she doing?”
“Wait for it,” Cheeks said with a smile.
“Wait for wha—” A freezing sensation washed across Ferrin’s upper torso, and he gasped in shock. He had been completely unprepared for such a contrasting sensation. It was like hot and cold, night and day, two
opposites colliding. He felt it burn, but at the same time it was soothing.
Looking down, he noticed a soft lavender glow had enveloped her hands. The light spread into the muscles and tissue of his upper chest. He watched in wonder as the sinew knitted itself back together.
The pain that had threatened to overwhelm him moments ago subsided to a dull ache. Much like the use of laudanum or cannabis, it left his whole body with a raw sense of euphoria. It was the most amazing feeling he had ever encountered. Her hands felt cool to the touch and left him at the point of almost being willing to go back under the inquisitor’s knife just to feel her magic once more.
Watching as she removed her now bloody hands from his chest, Ferrin noticed his skin had been completely resealed, leaving only the smallest of
markings behind. Glancing at his side, the damage caused by the wiggler had also been healed.
He looked up and into the little healer’s pale green eyes. He was about to thank her when her legs buckled and she collapsed to the floor.
“Oh, for pity sake!” Cheeks wiped the remaining blood from the twisted poker. He took great care to make sure each tool was properly cleaned
before placing them in their correct pouch within his satchel. He obviously cared more for his tools than he did for his help, Ferrin mused, glancing at Rae’s unkempt condition on the cold stone.
After finishing up with his tools, the inquisitor waddled across the cramped room. He opened the door and called out to one of the Black Watch members in a white cloak. “Take Rae back to her chambers and make sure she gets something to eat. We can’t have her dying on us, can we?” Ferrin watched as a guard hoisted her limp body over his shoulder and carried her away. “Just think of all the amusement I’d miss if our detainees keeled over every time they received a bit of encouragement.”
Waddling back to his table, Cheeks rolled his leather satchel back into place and secured the straps. “Looks like we’re done for today, my dear smith. Tell me, how did you find my new device? Be honest now—did it live up to its name?”
Ferrin scoffed, his brown eyes burning with anger as he held the inquisitor’s gaze. “Why don’t you release me, and I’ll show you.”
The rolls of Cheeks’ belly jiggled with laughter, his hands resting on his waist for support. “I do so enjoy our time together, smith. More than any other, I dare say.” He started toward the exit, but turned back over his shoulder, “Be sure to get plenty of rest, won’t you? I want you good and ready for our next session.”
And with that, he was gone.
Ferrin stretched his neck and wiped the blood from his mouth onto his bare shoulder as he waited for the Tower guards to come and return him to his cell. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. *I’m definitely wearing them down.*
He chuckled to himself with a dark sense of amusement that bordered dangerously close to madness, listening to the approaching sound of heeled boots.
