The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (46 page)

The fourth hill was one of the smallest, and the large stone structure that perched on top of it was probably the ugliest building in Ro Leith. It had been designed by a particularly militant knight marshal who had been attempting to replicate the look of a Red church barracks. He had succeeded admirably and the building was a squat, castellated lump, which contained hundreds of gaol cells.

Glenwood had casually wandered round the hill several times and had already identified the cell where Rham Jas had been taken, and the feeding trough that led to it. There was little he could do with this information but, on some level, he felt that by watching the dull light that emanated from the assassin’s cell he would be empathizing with his companion’s plight. In reality, this was horse-shit and all he wanted was to feel composed enough to return to Ro Tiris.

As he drained the last of his bottle of wine and settled back against a tree, Glenwood thought that the Kirin’s twitchiness might be rubbing off on him. He had identified a dozen wind claws patrolling the base of the fourth hill and had noticed a slight blind spot in their guard pattern. If a man was so inclined, he could wait until one was out of sight and the other had not yet emerged, and simply walk past to reach the feeding troughs. Further to this, as the faithful of Jaa seemed only to be worried about the road, and not the troughs behind them, it was likely that a man could remain unobserved once past the perimeter.

The man of Leith smiled to himself and looked at the empty bottle in his hand. He was well aware that a slight dulling of his senses from alcohol was likely responsible for the sharpening of his criminal instincts and that, were he to enact his unwise plan, he would probably need another bottle first. Unfortunately, he didn’t have one, and the forger silently chided himself for even considering so foolish a plan, rather than thanking his luck and leaving Ro Leith as quickly as possible.

The wind claws continued their patrol. As one of the warriors disappeared round the base on the fourth hill, Glenwood began counting down from ten. Without really thinking about it, he stood and ambled slowly away from the grassy verge and towards the street.

‘Eight, seven,’ he whispered to himself, stepping into the dark cobbled street.

‘Six, five,’ he continued, making his way off the road and towards the stone walls of the dungeon.

‘Four, three,’ he muttered, hoping his timing would be accurate and the shadows sufficient to conceal him.

‘Two, one, zero.’ Just as he said the last word to himself he reached the top of the feeding trough. He hugged the stone wall that extended from the outside wall of the dungeon and separated the various troughs. The sound of armoured feet began to rise again and he saw a second wind claw approach from the other direction and continue his patrol. A mixture of fear and elation flooded over the slightly drunk criminal. The faithful of Jaa would continue their patrol, oblivious to the fact that Glenwood was skulking in the darkness at the top of the sloped feeding trough.

At the bottom of the incline were solid steel bars and a dull glow of firelight. The troughs were an anachronism from the days when food had been thrown down to the prisoners. The knight marshal who had built the dungeon had done so with meticulous attention to detail, and with numerous unnecessary touches. It also had a large overhang above, from which, in ages past, criminals would have been hanged. These days, those judged worthy of death were given a slightly more dignified end.

There were voices coming from below, though he couldn’t make out individual words and would have to climb further down in order to find out what was transpiring inside the Kirin’s cell. With the taste of wine still on his lips, the forger slowly inched down the gradual incline. There was no light, except what came from below and he was well hidden beneath the overhang.

He stumbled several times, but used the sides of the trough to steady himself. Crouching down, he took up position to the side of the barred window. Rham Jas was hanging in the centre of the stone prison cell, his hands chained to the ceiling and his feet shackled to the floor. Next to him, in a corner of the room, was a chair with leather and metal restraints. Some kind of torture device, the like of which was not commonly used in Tor Funweir, Glenwood thought. A flaming brazier was positioned next to the chair and a well-tempered knife protruded upwards through the flames.

His wounds had disappeared completely, though his grin was gone too, and he wore only a small piece of cloth covering his groin area. The one scar remaining was on his left shoulder and looked to be from an old crossbow wound. He was muscled but wiry, and he looked pathetic hanging helplessly in the stone room. There were two people with him, keeping their distance as they spoke.

One was the Black cleric. He was now armoured in black plate and wore his longsword in a simple scabbard. The churchman of death had a haunted look in his eyes, though he exhibited none of the telltale euphoria that marked those under the sway of enchantment. Next to him, though, and wearing a figure-hugging red dress, was Isabel the Seductress. Glenwood had never seen her before, but her appearance was similar enough to Katja that she had to be one of the Seven Sisters. Her facial tattoo depicted an elaborate and beautifully designed coiled snake, though its beauty was somewhat diminished by the look of anger on the woman’s face.

The criminal turned away from the barred window, remembering the assassin’s advice to not look too long at one of the sisters.

‘You will answer her question, Kirin,’ said the Black cleric in a monotone rumble. ‘Or you will suffer more pain than you can endure.’

There was a pained chuckle from Rham Jas. ‘Why don’t you get the bitch to enchant me? Oh, that’s right, she can’t.’

A silvery laugh emanated from the enchantress. Glenwood shook his head, desperately trying to remember that she was as malevolent as she was beautiful.

‘My dear Rham Jas,’ said Isabel, ‘you do not know true suffering... not yet.’

There was silence for a moment. The assassin glared at the enchantress. She was clearly not used to this, as other men would never attempt to stare her down for fear of her entering their minds.

‘I have nothing to say to you, bitch,’ said the assassin, spitting on the floor. ‘Just kill me, if you can.’

Another lyrical peal of laughter and Isabel stepped in closer.

‘My lady,’ said the Black cleric, ‘be wary, he is a slippery foe.’

‘I do not fear him,’ she replied, running a single finger down the Kirin’s chest. ‘As he does not fear me.’

Her manner was deeply sensual – in keeping, Glenwood thought, with her title of Seductress.

‘You will bend to my will, dark-blood, whether it takes an hour, a day or a year. You will become my devoted servant, with no mind of your own. You will think only of my pleasure... I will call you my pet.’ She bit her lower lip and Glenwood felt a heat rise in his body. ‘Now, I will ask again, where is the old-blood?’

Rham Jas narrowed his eyes and snarled at the enchantress. ‘Fuck you!’

The cleric stepped forward and struck the Kirin across the jaw with a gauntleted fist, causing blood to spray from the side of his mouth.

‘Hit me again, you fucking coward,’ growled Rham Jas. ‘Do it... hit me as hard as you can... the answer will be the same – fuck you.’

The Kirin’s stubbornness was spectacular, but surely even the famous Rham Jas Rami would break under torture. Glenwood didn’t know who the
old-blood
was, or why the enchantress referred to Rham Jas as
dark-blood
, but he was increasingly of the opinion that the Kirin assassin was the toughest man he’d ever known.

The Black cleric drew his sword and rested it against the prisoner’s neck. ‘I
can
kill you, you know,’ he said in a dispassionate voice. ‘It would be easy... just a slow cut across the neck and we could leave you here to bleed.’

Rham Jas grinned at the bulky cleric. ‘Your name is Elihas, yes?’

The churchman nodded. ‘I am Brother Elihas of Du Ban, Black cleric of the One God,’ he replied formally.

‘So tell me, Brother Elihas, have you officially converted to worship of the Dead God, or are you just on loan?’ His grin was defiant.

‘Silence,’ roared Isabel, displaying her first real sign of agitation.

‘Why?’ retorted the assassin. ‘What will you do to me if I refuse?’

Elihas struck him again, harder this time, causing the Kirin to spit out a globule of blood. ‘Ouch,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Where is Utha the Ghost?’ shrieked the enchantress.

‘Fuck you!’ replied Rham Jas.

Brother Elihas drew back his foot and kicked the assassin squarely in the groin. The blow winded the Kirin and caused him to writhe uncomfortably in his hanging position, gritting his teeth in pain.

‘Well, I won’t be servicing your mother later,’ he barked through a pained laugh.

Another kick to the groin and Rham Jas howled in pain.

‘Harder, you fucking woman,’ he shouted, though his eyes were now watering and a trickle of blood was running down his leg.

Just as Elihas drew his leg back a third time, Isabel stepped forward and placed a gently restraining hand on his armoured shoulder. ‘Enough, my dear Elihas,’ she said in a girlish voice.

The trickle of blood had stopped quickly and she narrowed her eyes. ‘Do all the wounds you receive heal so swiftly?’ she asked.

‘Stab me in the face and we’ll find out,’ was the barbed response from the prisoner.

She chuckled and glanced over her shoulder to the chair in the corner of the cell. ‘Do you know what
inching
is, my dear Rham Jas?’

The assassin clearly did know what it was, even if Glenwood did not, but he showed no particular fear of the word.

‘I saw a man inched in Kessia,’ replied the Kirin. ‘Before I got kicked out for shooting one of your sisters in the face.’

‘You’ve killed four of my sisters, dark-blood.’ Isabel allowed a predatory curl to appear at the corner of her mouth, again revealing that she was not quite as calm as she wished to appear.

‘True,’ replied Rham Jas casually. ‘One of them was a long time ago... Actually, now I think about it, I’ve killed two separate people called Lillian the Lady of Death. The name seems so apt.’

Isabel didn’t change her expression as she slapped the Kirin in the face. It was not a heavy blow, and caused little damage, but it made Glenwood smile. Rham Jas could extract a reaction from the most controlled of people.

‘Elihas, please transfer the prisoner to the chair,’ said Isabel, a look of imperious mania in her eyes.

The Black cleric released the chain holding Rham Jas to the ceiling. His hands were still shackled and Elihas pulled on the chain to keep him subdued as he locked the leg-irons to the shackles. The assassin fell forward and let out a groan of pain as he struck the stone floor. In a moment, he was bent double with no room to move. He was then dragged across the floor and dumped in the large metal chair. His arms and legs were placed in leather and steel restraints, securely fastened to the chair. His head was wrenched back and held with a tight leather band, forcing him to sit upright.

‘This is the most comfy I’ve been for hours,’ said Rham Jas, trying to flex his neck and ease the soreness of being hung in chains.

Isabel walked round him, drumming her elegant fingers demurely on her chest. ‘We found your daughter, you know?’ she said quietly, causing the assassin instantly to become alert.

‘Young Keisha was a pleasure slave in Rikara. She’d been servicing a pestilent merchant prince when my sister bought her.’ The enchantress breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. There was pleasure on her face and she moved side to side in a sensual dance.

Rham Jas clenched his fists and tensed against his restraints. For the first time, Glenwood saw real doubt in the assassin’s face, as if the news of his daughter was one of the few things that he feared. As he skulked at the bottom of the feeding trough and listened intently, the forger found himself surprised to hear that Rham Jas had children.

‘She’s alive?’ asked the Kirin, without further bravado.

‘She is... and she will remain so, as long as you behave,’ replied Isabel, opening her eyes again and smiling with intense pleasure. ‘We can be... excellent allies.’ Walking round to stand in front of the assassin, she ran a seductive finger along his bare shoulders and down his chest. ‘Perhaps you will even enjoy being my... ally.’

‘I have enough friends,’ replied Rham Jas.

‘But only one daughter,’ retorted Isabel. ‘Do not let her die as you did your son. I saw Zeldantor at the end, you know.’

The Kirin bowed his head as best he could within his restraints and tears appeared in his eyes. His normal bravado was gone, replaced by the anguish of a father confronted with news of his child’s death. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to remain calm. Glenwood thought the assassin would crack soon. It was emotion, rather than pain, that achieved the best results.

‘Zeldantor and Keisha would understand,’ said the Kirin, closing his eyes.

Isabel laughed once more, a beautiful sound that cut deeply into Glenwood’s mind, causing him to turn away for a moment to gather his thoughts.

‘Do you know, Rham Jas, in Kessia a skilled incher can command a great salary. The trick is to cut an inch, and only an inch.’

The forger turned back and saw Elihas take the red-hot knife from the brazier next to the chair. It was designed to hold the knife up into the flames so as to heat it evenly. The Black cleric had to reach under the flame to remove the blade from its sconce.

‘I’ve only done this once,’ said the cleric coldly.

‘I’m going to kill you both,’ replied the assassin, keeping his eyes closed and his teeth clenched.

The smoking knife was placed against his fingertips. Rham Jas howled in agony as an inch was removed from his left hand with a smooth, sawing cut. He’d lost the ends of three fingers, but Glenwood guessed that the procedure would not stop after the first inch.

‘Do you think they will grow back?’ asked Isabel, clapping her hands together excitedly as the Kirin struggled against his restraints. ‘I’m sure you’ve not had the leisure to test your healing abilities.’