Arc 3: Chapter 25: Flicker

Arc 3: Chapter 25: Flicker

Far into the timeless hell of the Bell Ward’s underbelly, a door opened.

They were implements of torture themselves, the dungeon’s doors. Each opened resentfully, with squealing wails that seemed to echo through the halls forever. If I had managed to find a rare period of thoughtless sleep, one without nightmares, the opening of one of those iron-hinged monsters would drag me back into the filthy cell.

More than the sound itself was what it promised. Each time men came, they dragged one of the other prisoners away. I could hear them, their pleas and their sobs. They always returned silent, if they returned at all.

Eventually, I’d be the one taken away. It had happened several times already. I had no way to tell how long I’d been in the dark, and my interviews with the Presider were far enough between as to be useless for determining the passage of time.

He’d used water the first time, boiling and freezing. The second time he’d broken the fingers of my left hand, and only the left.

He’d asked me where the rest of the Table hid, mostly, and who else I’d cooperated with in my role as Headsman. He seemed convinced I worked for some element among the lords — no doubt he still believed I took my orders from Rose.

I gave him nothing, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I broke. I am not immune to pain. No man is.

I heal fast. That in itself cursed me here, because it meant there was more they could do to me, without killing me.

They told me they’d captured Emma, and were torturing her as well. I knew they lied, that it was a tactic to make me talk to spare her if not myself, so I’d kept my silence. Even still, she featured in many of my worst nightmares. I imagined them torturing her, imagined Kross making devil’s bargains she’d be forced to accept.

Every time they took me into the Presider’s office, the threat of worse hung over the questions. Oraise was a patient man, and I knew he hadn’t even started. He’d promised months of this.

Lias never came.

There were other prisoners in the dungeon, though the number rose or dropped on occasion. I knew some from the sounds they made, learning to recognize their voices. I wondered which of them was the elder from the slums, if any of them were. I suspected him to already be dead.

I lay in the dark, feeling a dead man.

And in the dark, she whispered into my dreams. The demon. Those were the worst of my nightmares, because her will lay behind them.

In the distant labyrinth of suffering and fanaticism beneath Rose Malin, an iron door screamed. It almost masked the screams of the one they took away.

It had been a long time since they’d taken me. On my cot, I closed my eyes and waited. I imagined escape, and tried to keep as much of my strength as I could.

I waited for something to change.

***

Many days later, the dungeon’s door screamed. I woke from a dream, and it took me several minutes to convince myself I was still intact. I’d had a dream of scuttling things eating me, carrying my pieces far and wide.

Heavy, impatient boots stomped down the hall outside my cell. Water splashed — parts of the dungeon were still flooded from the recent bout of rain. About a third of my own cell had been filled with inch-deep water. Everything stank of piss and mold. I heard a whimper from one of the other cells.

Another door opened, one of the cells. Taking someone else, then. I closed my eyes, settling back against the damp wall. I listened — in the darkness, my senses grew more keen. My blessings had been doubly a curse in this forsaken place, in that regard.

“Hold her,” a familiar voice said. One of the priorguard who regularly visited my cell, usually to bring food or change the pot. Sometimes to drag me away for questions.

The prisoner, a woman who’d been here nearly as long as me, let out a shriek. I heard a heavy thump, one of the guards spat out a savage curse, and then came a heavy crack. The sound of a body falling limp, a splash of water.

“Bitch had a rock!” A voice I didn’t know, younger.

“Told you to watch out for that,” the first priorguard said. “She dead?”

A moment’s pause. “Yeah. Neck’s broken. Good swing, eh? Shame, though...”

The first priorguard growled angrily. “We’re the priorguard, not some back-fief militia. Have some class.”

"Right, right, all class down here." The younger let out a dry laugh. "What you think's going on above, got everyone in a scuff?"

“Don't know. Let’s get this done quick.” I could hear the disgust in the older guard’s voice, but another emotion overrode it. Impatience?

No. Fear.

They opened another cell, and this time I heard a blade slide out of its sheath. There was a brief cry of alarm, then another thump.

I sat up straighter against the cold wall, tensing. When a third door opened, closer to my cell, I knew I wasn’t imagining it.

They were killing the prisoners. Why?

In the far distance, I heard another shout, and a door slamming shut. Several heavy boots stomping, running, and—

A distant scream.

“Shit.” The older guard again. “We’re running out of time.”

The third cell they opened belonged to an old man who’d been taken for questions more times than most. I didn’t think they tortured him, or at least not often — he always seemed calm when they took him away, even chatted with the guard on occasion.

I began to sidle along the wall, avoiding the water so as not to make a sound. I navigated my way carefully to the door along the room’s perimeter, jaw clenched against the spikes of agony in my left leg. I kept my weight off it, using the wall at my back to compensate, and made slow progress.

The old prisoner started to say something, some question — asking what was happening, probably. The priorguard didn’t let him finish. I heard a sharp crack, probably a bludgeon bringing the old man to the ground, then a brief struggle, some gasps and grunts.

They choked him to death, rather than using a blade.

“You done?” I heard the cold anger in the first guard’s voice.

“Not going to wet my cutter with holy blood, am I? Old cunt was a preost, yeah?”

They came to my cell then.

“Gotta be quick with this one,” the older guard said. “Dangerous bastard.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Apparently some kind of sorcerer, and a soldier on top. The Knight-Confessor says he shouldn’t be able to do any tricks in his condition, but let’s not indulge ourselves, aye?”

“...Right.” The younger guard sounded nervous, now.

I heard them put the key in, begin to turn the latch. Before the door opened, another set of boots padded down the hall, and a voice called out.

“Stop!” A woman’s voice.

The latch stopped turning partway.

“Sister,” the older priorguard said, impatient. “What is it? We were told to do this fast.”

“They need you above,” the newcomer said. “Now. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“...By yourself?” I heard the skepticism in the priorguard’s voice.

“You think me incapable?” The third snapped. “There is no time for this.”

The older guard grunted. I heard one of them, maybe the younger, shift a step and disturb a puddle.

“Where’s your veil, sister? And what’s that you got there?”

“Brother Eryn, there’s no time for this. I have been instructed to—”

Something fell into the water with a loud sploosh.

“She’s weaving!” The younger guard. I heard him lunge, a sudden splash, a grunt. Metal skidded off stone.

I heard the low, musical hum of aura, and then a man choking. Feet scrabbled, disturbing water.

She led me through a winding series of dank corridors, and for a time only the sound of our furtive steps, breathing, and the dripping stones above accompanied us. Everything else had fallen eerily silent.

“You don’t know who’s attacking?” I said.

Lisette glanced back. She stood a bit ahead, holding the lantern aloft to illuminate the corridor ahead. “No. It started about an hour ago — I have orders to get you out of here.”

“Orders from who?”

She turned her eyes forward. “A faction that opposes the Priory’s rise in influence. That’s all I will say for now.”

I stopped, preparing to demand more answers. Before I could speak, one of the doors nearby suddenly jumped, causing both of us to tense. Lisette let out a hiss of surprise and fell back against the opposite wall, holding her lantern up like a shield. I tightened my grip on the staff, instinctively putting myself between her and the potential threat.

The doors along this hall weren’t the same as the ones in my block. They weren’t siege doors with reinforced frames, and had small windows barred with iron.

A face appeared in that little window. In the yellow light of Lisette’s lantern, I saw an old man’s features, haggard and dirty. He had eyes too large for his face, blue and ordinary save for their size and the slight yellow tint to the sclera. His hair was filthy and matted like mine, hanging limp from a balding pate.

He blinked into the light, clearly having not felt its touch for a long time. “You, please.” His voice sounded hoarse as my own, at least to my ears. “Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

I glanced at Lisette. She’d led me down a different route than the guards usually dragged me for interrogations — probably the only reason this prisoner had been spared from the two thugs and their purge.

“Inquisition’s under attack,” I said.

The old man’s too-big eyes went to Lisette, taking in her priorguard uniform. They reminded me of a reptile’s eyes — they didn’t blink. “Please,” he croaked. “Don’t leave me here to starve. If...” he swallowed, his neck bobbing. “If you must abandon this place, at least make it quick for me.”

Lisette’s voice hissed behind me. “We don’t have time.”

I ignored her, stepping up to the bars. The old man cringed away from me, retreating into the dark. The way he moved was strange, and his eyes seemed to shine like a cat’s in the dark.

“What’s your name, grandfather?”

“I am called Parn,” the prisoner said quietly.

“Why are you here?”

The eyes did blink now, their lambency momentarily flickering in the dark of the cell. “I was an apothecary from the low city, before the veils put me down here. They accused me of witchcraft, and other things. I...” I heard him swallow again. “I do not know how long I’ve been here.”

I took a deep breath and said, “Stand back.”

“What are you doing?” Lisette demanded, as I grabbed Faen Orgis in both hands and took a step back.

“I’m not going to leave him to die,” I said without turning, measuring my swing. Besides, I added quietly, he’s the whole reason I’m here.

I swung, and the sharp crack of wood splitting shot through the hall like a shout. I ripped the axe free, then swung again without hesitation.

I felt unbelievably weak. I cursed, already beaded with sweat, and swung again.

“Stop!” Lisette sighed heavily. “Let me get it.”

I glared back at her, annoyed at the interruption. It had felt good to hit something, to feel like I could affect anything.

Then I saw the key in her hand, and inwardly winced. “Ah. Right.”

She scurried forward and unlocked the door. When it opened, the changeling stepped out into the hall tentatively, as though afraid of some trick. I empathized with him.

He was small, walked with a stiff gait, and looked human save for his odd eyes. He wore rags similar to my own, though he’d been in them long enough they’d started to rot in the damp environs.

“I don’t understand,” he said weakly, glancing again at Lisette.

“I’ll explain later,” I said. “If you want to get out of here, follow us.”

Lisette’s jaw clenched and unclenched in a nervous rhythm. “We must hurry!” She insisted, turning. “I have no idea how—”

She fell abruptly silent as we both heard a sound ahead. A heavy noise of impact, like a body falling down a flight of stairs. Thump-thump-thump, then a wet crack. Then silence.

Lisette took a step back. Her face beaded with moisture — not all of it from the dripping ceiling.

“Get behind me,” I said, moving before she did. I got in front of the adept, putting myself between her and the hall ahead. “And dim that lantern.”

“But—”

“It’s not helping me,” I said.

Lisette hesitated a moment longer, then slid the lantern’s hood down so the corridor fell into darkness.

“Where are all the guards?” Parn asked quietly.

“Hush,” I murmured. I stepped forward a bit more, squinting into the dark.

Without the mundane light, the aura in my eyes brightened as I poured my concentration into them. I focused, and the hall ahead cleared into pale, crisp clarity.

Or, that was what I’d expected. A distance of perhaps fifteen feet or so became clear, and I could make out the outline of the corridor a ways beyond, but it seemed too dim. The further distance of the hall remained in impenetrable black.

My aura had been weakened from three weeks of malnutrition and injury, the inner furnace of power cooled down to mere embers.

Shit. If I had to fight in this condition...

Movement drew my attention. The hall ended in a flight of stairs, which I couldn’t see the top of.

A limp form lay at the bottom of those stairs. That’s what we’d heard fall, I guessed. I caught a glimpse of twisted limbs and a bent neck — dead in the tumble. I turned my attention up, and took another step forward.

Then froze as the hall filled with the sound of a manic chuckle.

“Whoopsie!” A light, whimsical voice giggled.

The body at the bottom of the stairs climbed to its feet. It did so with a faint crackling sound, like it had to rearrange brittle bones in order to make the right shape to support its own weight.

It was a man. A large one, with pallid skin and a bulbous, sagging belly. He was naked, hairy, covered in grime and half-dried blood, his skin gleaming with an oily shean. He had no light to see by, but his eyes fixed on me.

Blind eyes, milky and pale. Yet, somehow, I knew they could still see. His lips peeled back into an impossibly wide grin, revealing too many teeth.

“Ah, good.” He had an oddly high voice, completely at odds with his appearance. “There are still more!”

“Alken...” Lisette could hear the man, or the thing shaped like a man, but couldn’t see him as I could with her lantern shut.

“Stay back,” I said, taking a step back myself. “When I tell you to, run.”

“...What is it?” She asked, her voice tight with fear.

An old fear, and an old hate, bubbled up in me. I forgot all the pain, the weakness, the piteous sense of hopeless, powerless failure which had accompanied me through my incarceration.

I could hear my own heart pounding in my head. The dulled fire in me flickered, stoked by the surge of emotion, of rage, I felt.

The scars over my left eye burned. I bared my teeth and lifted my axe.

“It’s a demon.”