Shadow War - Deborah Chester [114]
Caelan could not help watching it, his eyes shifting back and forth, mesmerized with horror.
“Man eyes, gone far!” The torturer grinned and let his tongue flick back and forth across the edges of his teeth. “Blackness, hot blind. All time blackness. Speak some!”
Sweat broke out along Caelan’s temples, but he didn’t flinch. After a few moments when the iron began to cool slightly, the torturer growled in disappointment and flung it back in the fire.
Now he returned, pacing and rubbing his webbed hands together. “Man think smart, but not smart. Think, master maybe change, maybe say torture not man. Maybe not!”
He laughed in Caelan’s face, then drew back sharply as though afraid Caelan would spit at him again. “Speak some, or many hurts. Here!”
Drawing a flat, wide strap of leather from his belt, he swung it back and forth. One end was perforated with numerous holes. He brought it around with a rapid flick of his wrist. The leather struck Caelan’s arm with a smack of fiery pain. He drew in his breath sharply, biting off a cry.
The torturer grinned. “Man speak some now. Man scream high!”
The beating commenced expertly, each blow landing on vulnerable flesh in an overlapping pattern of agony that only intensified. It was like a scourging, yet the wide strap inflicted a different kind of pain than a narrow whip did. After a few moments when Caelan felt himself begin to waver badly, he severed himself from the pain and endured it, detached in the cold void of elsewhere, and always waiting for a chance, however slim, to retaliate.
He had confessed hours ago, spilling all that he knew. But he had spoken too soon and too eagerly. The torturer had not believed him and was demanding another confession.
Caelan had nothing left to say. Gritting his teeth, he shut his eyes and tried to endure.
“Stop!”
The voice cried out the command loudly enough to silence the wails of the prisoners. The clatter and racket ceased as the jailers stopped their tasks and looked around. The torturer lowered his strap and turned sullenly, standing almost at attention.
Through the sudden silence, there came only the faint constant sound of dripping water and the soft moans of the man on the rack.
Swinging in place, Caelan struggled to turn his head so that he could see the visitor.
Through the smoke and gloom he glimpsed a figure in a soldier’s breastplate, feet spread apart, head high with arrogance.
“Who is in charge here?”
The soldier’s voice rang out strongly, sternly. It was a voice of command, and it sent jailers and turnkeys scurrying into a motley line as though for inspection.
A burly man, broad-shouldered, running to fat, shuffled forward. “I’m the head jailer,” he said.
“Clear this room.”
“What, of all—”
“Clear the room!” the soldier barked. “Immediately!”
Grumbling, the jailer turned around and gestured. His minions set to work unbuckling the unconscious man from the rack. The woman in the cage was lowered and dragged forth. She couldn’t walk, and the men half dragged her, half carried her out of sight.
In the distance came the screeching of rusty metal as the grate of one of the holes was opened. Caelan heard the woman scream; then the sound was brutally silenced. The other prisoners resumed their wailing, crying out for mercy, pleading their innocence.
The torturer brought a stool and stood on it to reach the hook Caelan was swinging from. He fished out a key to unlock Caelan’s shackles, and Caelan tensed himself in readiness. With even one hand free, he could attack.
“Not that one!” the soldier said, striding over. He paused before Caelan and looked him up and down. “Is this the Traulander? Prince Tirhin’s property?”
“Is,” the torturer admitted. He half turned away from the soldier and drew up a dirty hood over his head. “Not hurt.”
“Leave him where he is.” The soldier looked around, his face drawn with disgust. “Very well. All of you, clear out!”
The torturer glared at Caelan but went, along with the jailer and the others.
Caelan swung alone in front of the soldier, bruised and battered,