The Wolf Lord's twenty-four-hour deadline had passed, with Bennett flatly denying any accusations the frustrated Lothar had leveled at him concerning Frances' whereabouts. Their last meeting had been tense and uncompromising. The imprisoned warrior could see plainly Lothar's seething anger at his refusal to cooperate, yet Bennett could detect the dour man had expected no less from his proud prisoner. Who during the questioning sat straight backed against the bars revealing little, dwarfing all present soldiery included with his mighty presence.
Lothar had chosen this time to interview his captive from the confines of the cells. He knew this meeting would be brief, even if it was painful for him to attend. Much preferring these days to conduct all his affairs from the comfort of his quarters, or if a task was too demanding physically, through his trusted aide Krosse. After hearing the report of Bennett's near escape, and details of the severe injuries meted out to the last unfortunate man, Lothar decided it was not worth the risk to bring him again to his chambers.
The small statured Krosse was hovering behind his Lord in his spotless black attire, gold buttons gleaming, raven-like. Ever attentive was this man, his bony hands resting on his Lord's wheelchair, eyes vivid with interest looking for the slightest signs of a lie or unease. Bennett had never been more wary of any individual he had ever met than he had of Victor Krosse, marking him at once as a great adversary. Understanding why Lord Lothar had chosen him as his advisor.
His own torturer Pig was pale and none too inventive by comparison, and he wondered what it would be like to have such a clever ally working for him devoted to his causes? Dismissing that same notion in an instant, Bennett was uncomfortable with having such an intelligent man around, seeing plainly the Doctor was the true power behind the throne here, and now even more so since Lothar's virtual incapacitation. The Wolf Lord had to depend on Krosse heavily to gain relief and treatment so he could resume some semblance of his former life.
Bennett was devoid of ideas on how he was to evade his fate, pondering the welfare of his forces on the outside, harboring dim hope of rescue. Each day he scoured the changing guards' faces for anyone familiar in their ranks, but he saw no one he recognized. As the days wore on he was losing all hope of outside help. He had little option but to maintain his stony facade of silence as he sat stoically in his cell. Some days he would pace its steel confines for hours at a stretch, bare feet padding on the cold concrete, the rhythm of his footsteps maddening in the silence. Meal times he would only pick at the bland food he was presented with listlessly, wondering why he bothered to eat at all.
He was a wild thing cornered, taken from his habitat, removed from his purpose. All his reason for existence was gone, the only thing left to him was a bitter sense of resignation. To reveal Frances' demise was certain death to them all, he being the only one who knew of her accidental expiration. Knowing too Krosse would leave him to the last.
Though it was a silence he was beginning to regret at this juncture, the results of which were beginning to unnerve even the likes of one as hard and cruel as he. In his long years of campaigning in the desert, he had tortured many men for their secrets. He had watched on mercilessly whilst each one went slowly to their deaths in agonizing torment at his own hands or those of the much-reviled Pig. Some were very brave in the face of their fate, others terrified and pleading. However he had never been on the receiving end of torture before, and inside he hoped he could be brave and hold out against whatever was to come.
On the outside none would suspect his fear shrouded in a mask of stony-faced resolve, as he sat in his cell staring at nothing. There were times he even wished he had never seen this city, to be lured by its prizes, and he admonished himself for being fool enough to ever enter its forbidding gates. Still, it was done, a thing of the past and he was here in this predicament, but how could it now be undone?
Krosse had not touched him yet, but he had started on the others. Bennett could feel the man's terrible eagerness, and with it came unease. Bennett lord of all he surveyed was acutely unused to this new feeling, knowing it would soon be his time. Time to face what Gareth and Sven already had, time to see what Bennett was truly made of. He prayed he was up to the challenge.
*****
Renard was in a fix, he had dined with Pig and Dwayne that first evening of his return, never suspecting the wine they proffered him was drugged. He had woken much later the next day securely bound hand and foot in the great cave, his head pounding and his senses groggy, whilst he listened to the two nervous men argue just what it was they should do with him, but not reaching a decision on the matter.
This worried the usually cool-headed, fast-thinking Renard. Nervous men were unpredictable men. He had never trusted Dwayne or Pig to do what was sensible or right, and he reasoned his life hung on a hair trigger whilst they fretted and argued about what to do with him. Renard tried to convince them that their fears were unfounded, he was no spy checking on their management of the camp for their leader. However, they remained unconvinced Renard's appearance here was innocent of this motive.
Many days he had passed in this way, and with each one Renard was sure it would be his last. It was uncomfortable to be thus tied for this duration, but he could not escape. Either Pig or the lanky Dwayne would watch him day and night. His lot was to lie in the dust at the rear of the cave shivering through the small hours, being fed at intervals by Sarah who in his filthy state did not even recognize him for the Renard she once knew of almost three years past. He was grateful she did not, the poor lass a mere shadow of the happy carefree girl he knew from better days, and he fretted he was running out of time. His objective seemed further away than ever.
*****
Will and his party constructed a makeshift stretcher for the ailing Aran. During the ensuing days, they painstakingly carried him home over the rough inhospitable terrain, employing some old straight, steel poles that the four men were lucky enough to salvage from a ruined settlement. The possibility of finding wood that large or strong here was a rarity, so they were pleased with this find. They then lashed it all together with strips of green leather which they wet and dried in the sun so it would tighten onto the frame forming a very durable stretcher. After this was done they draped some strong goat hides across this ingenious framework. Progress was slow, but the four able-bodied survivors were in high spirits, after all, they were alive and going home.
Despite this, they ran scared. At night they camped under the stars leaving at first light. Sometimes they had plentiful game and water, sometimes they did not, sleeping on growling bellies. All the while casting their anxious eyes over their shoulders, fearing being followed and hoping to sight more stragglers from Bennett's thoroughly demoralized army. As the days wore on they saw neither friend nor foe, just the remains of charred settlements and huts, the twisted iron of rusting vehicles, the long defiled barricades, and the crumbling, bleached bones of the silent dead.
The grievously wounded Aran fought for his life, he would not lay down and die just yet. He was deathly ill though, and for the most part delusional. Aran was running a high fever and the wound in his sword arm was suppurating evil-smelling pus. Will was worried, but he had done the best he could for Sven's brother with very limited resources. He had sewn the wound partially closed with Aran's own hair and a sharp piece of bone which he had boiled fearing infection. All he could do now was wait and keep it as clean as he could. Time would have to decide the rest.
On the eighth day of their trek, Aran's fever broke. The angry purplish wound running full length down his arm from the shoulder to well below the elbow looked slightly better. The young man staggered from his bed at dawn to drink thirstily from the canteen heaped with the other supplies by the dying fire. It was cold and he shivered, he had a desperate thirst that had to be sated, his fine red shirt all but torn away, one sleeve missing from it completely. He clutched the threadbare material to his torso with cold hands in a feeble attempt to keep out the chill. Autumn had brought the nightly frosts and clear starry skies. Promising the days would be fine and warm. This weather pattern would be a steady feature of the landscape from now on, until the heat of next summer, a welcome respite indeed.
Will poked his scruffy head up from beneath his hide blanket on hearing the commotion, thinking an animal was in the camp. His short, greasy, brown hair stood up on end this way and that in an unruly fashion. Running his fingers through it uselessly as it was little improvement to his disheveled state. He grinned seeing Aran finally on his feet.
"I cannot believe it, you are finally up and about. We thought you were a goner there at times, we really did. Glad to have you back."
Will's cheery voice woke the others, and they crawled begrudgingly from their blankets, Clint stoking the fire a little with some dried brush, the hungry coals readily catching alight, giving off toasty warmth.
"I feel like shit," Aran replied.
"You look like shit too mate," Will said, laughter in his voice, knowing his comrade was finally out of danger.
The five men squatted on their haunches whilst Clint slowly fed the fire, the faint glow of the sun a promise of warmth on the rock-strewn horizon.
"Bloody desert," Angus mumbled to no one in particular, rubbing his calloused hands vigorously together over the flames. "It's either boiling hot or freezing cold in this stinking place, no in between."
Aran sat examining his arm gingerly in the firelight artfully held together by strands of his own gold hair, it was still very painful to touch and seeping in some places. He would bear an enormous scar as a reminder for the rest of his days. Moving it slowly, it felt stiff and painful and he fretted he would not be as adept with a blade again.
For some time he was silent, the four others talking quietly about nothing in particular as they casually rolled cigarettes made from almost any paper filled with dubious tobacco, or stoked their pipes. Smokers had learned to smoke almost anything with the demise of proper tobacco. Any kind of leaf was open game, most of the men devising some recipe to sate their habit.
Aran glanced about him and realized the landmarks were familiar, reasoning they were about two days out from home. "How many days has it been since...?"
"Eight... You were right out of it." Will volunteered. "We had to carry you, and you're no lightweight."
"Eight days!" Aran responded incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. He had lost all track of time only recalling snippets of events between periods of unconsciousness and pain.
Aran was almost too scared to ask, but he had to even though he was sure he already knew the answer.
"The others, what happened to them? My brother...... Bennett?.........." His voice trailed off as he looked squarely at Will, and then at the others, he could already see the answer to his question in the men's eyes.
"All gone," Will replied, shaking his head, his expression glum. "Some died at the gate, burned, most got trapped inside. Your brother and our leader were amongst them. We have sighted no one else, it would appear we were the lucky ones." Will said forlornly, meeting Aran's earnest green eyes with his own. "Nothing for us to do but return home and survive as best we can."
Aran cast his gaze dejectedly at the ground, recollecting the last hectic moments of the battle. Most of it was a blur. Vivid in his memory though his big brother's face as he got him to safety over the wall. In effect buying Aran's life with his own. The young man inwardly winced at the sacrifice, emotion rose in him, and he struggled to fight it down, but he could not express it in front of the others. They had all lost too, he was not the only one to feel such an emotion. The headstrong young warrior felt deep reprehension as he remembered the argument he and his brother had had over Frances on that still moonlit night, and he wished now he had not retaliated with such violence, or uttered such harsh words. Blood is thicker than love sometimes he reflected.
"Come on then, do you think you can walk a while?" Will inquired, tearing Aran away from his rueful reverie and jarring him back to the present. A place he was not sure he wanted to be.
"Yeah," Aran responded lazily, slowly rising to his feet and taking the dried meat Will handed him. It tasted unusually good, noting at once he felt acutely hungry this morning, his nausea had subsided, and he staggered forward trailing the others as they broke camp, heading for home.
It was an effort to walk this day, but the air felt clear and fresh as he inhaled deeply. He was feeling stronger by the minute. The good-looking warrior gazed at the clear blue sky, the colors never had seemed this vibrant, the red sand and the silver saltbush starkly beautiful beneath it as he headed after the others. His mind was busy and this helped him keep his thoughts away from his loss. Despite the realization heavy on him he would in all probability never see his brother again, and that they were now leaderless, numbering but few.
The young warrior immediately thought of Frances, a vague smile turned his stern visage unnoticed by the others who had drawn some distance ahead. Aran knew when he returned there would be no further impediment to taking her for his own woman, and he felt heartened and hastened his steps, pushing aside his weakness. He would have this precious and beautiful prize and cherish and protect her all his days. Yes, there was some salvation and future ahead simple as it was. He would move into his brother's quarters, and give Raissa away to another; perhaps he would even become the new leader? Yes, it felt good to be alive, oblivious to the truth of Frances' fate.
*****
Every day it was the same, his men's screams woke him from fitful sleep chilling him to the bone, terrible screams that lasted for hours without cessation. He could hear Sven's moans and cries, even through the thick concrete walls of the interrogation room, entreating, pleading, voicing he did not know the answer to the question, or citing he was telling the truth. The huge second in command was reduced to tears and muttering unintelligible responses to Krosse's patient, heavily accented questions which droned on and on without relenting.
He could smell the acrid stink of burned flesh and hair, the copper of blood. He could hear the loud snap of voltage being applied to the tenderest of areas, and the blood-curdling screams that ensued. This played on his mind in a way he had never thought it would. They were his men, his responsibility, proof he was leader, proof, he was worthy. He felt he had let them down, betrayed them, and yet he was proud they suffered so for him and his causes. They were indeed the best of men.
Bennett could imagine the cruel Krosse hovering over his friend, using all his medical and physiological intellect to inflict the maximum pain and fear possible, without killing the subject. It unnerved him, he of all knew how tough those men were, he knew what they could take. All those long years together he had seen both Sven and Gareth sporting heavy injuries without complaint, injuries that would incapacitate lesser men.
His mind ran rampant contemplating what was currently happening to them both. He gazed over at Gareth, the heavily inked man was sleeping in his cell, restless in his pain. Bennett let out an audible sigh of despair, they were his men the closest he had ever come to acceptance and friendship. They fought and would die for him, now they took pain for him, as he sat here knowing full well the answers they did not. The answers that would make their torment cease, and he felt like a cur.
Time was becoming a surreal concept, how many days had it been since the deadline had passed? He had no way of even marking in his cell what he assumed twenty-four hours would be, and no way of telling night from day. He had so coolly told Lothar he had known nothing of Frances' whereabouts? However, he was feeling none too cool, calm, or collected now.
Every passing moment he wracked his brain for some method of escape, inside he felt brittle and broken. Fear crept into the usually fearless warrior's soul for the first time since he was a small child, shrinking from the hard hands of his father's cruelty. Remembering when he had tried to shield himself from the frequent savage, beatings, feeling like that frightened child now, though he would never admit it to anyone.
Bennett was secretly despairing, barren of all hope, even resigned to himself it was only a matter of time and he was done for, they would surely come for him soon. This then was to be his inglorious demise in this war-torn world. All he could do now was pray when the time came, he would die a brave man, dignified in death. Readying himself, he wanted nothing more than to be courageous until the last. He owed it to his men.
Part of him wondered if he should just tell all, and this ordeal would be over, his two most loyal men would cease to suffer. However, the stubborn, proud part of him would not allow him to speak out. He could not give up and die just yet. So instead he sat in his cell, occasionally glimpsing the comings and goings of Krosse and his accompanying helpers, and staring with morbid fascination and dread as he laid eyes on his two closest men as they were led after each torture session to collapse in their cells moaning and shivering with exhaustion looking worse for wear with each admission to the chamber beyond.
They did not even look at him now as they had in days past, expressing many things to him with their haunted eyes. They had turned inward trying to survive, everything had ceased to exist. Bennett recognized that as a bad sign, they had given up. Krosse had broken them and was into their minds, he hoped they had revealed nothing of importance.
Sven had taken the brunt of the torture, after all, he had borne the necklace so long around Frances' milky white neck, thus condemning him. Lothar's unique betrothal gift. Lord Lothar was adamant Sven held the answer to Frances' whereabouts and Victor worked on him accordingly and without mercy.
Gareth was a little more lucid, Krosse swiftly deducing he knew nothing about Lothar's bride that mattered. So he was very expeditiously cast aside as they attempted to crack Sven's toughness by slow degrees.
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Bennett too pondered his second in command's possession of the necklace trying to remember if it was actually around the girl's neck when she died, or not. He could not recall one way or the other, it was dark in his cabin. This was a detail he had completely overlooked. All of this bothered him. He had no explanation, and he had no chance to talk to his men on the subject either, nor did it look likely he would have.
It was on a day just like this that Bennett sat in his stark, cold, cell contemplating such matters, when he was shaken sharply from his thoughts by the door to the jail being opened. A thin blond boy entered carrying a tray of food for the warden who was on duty, eyes respectfully downcast. It was none other than his slave Nathan, and Bennett tried ever so hard to stifle his recognition of the boy, fighting fiercely to tear his eyes away lest the warden on duty notice his keen interest. They must have found him on the hillside Bennett wondered, alarm gripped him then as this was the first tangible evidence his force had been thoroughly routed, or had simply disbanded and fled.
The soldier on duty was clearly not enjoying the sounds of the torture emanating from the room beyond. The man looked up from his desk to see the boy approaching with the much-welcomed refreshment. He smiled broadly, at once recognizing the poor mute lad he had rescued from the clutches of the dark, Victor Krosse.
"Good to see you Nathan, I hope life in the kitchens is not treating you too badly. You do look much better?" He said with genuine warmth like a father would to his own son.
Captain Harris could see that color had returned to the pale face of the half-grown boy, and his cadaverous figure had filled out considerably since he had last looked on him a week or more ago.
Nathan briefly met the Captain's smiling eyes as he placed the food and drink on the rough-hewn wooden desk, down amongst the array of disorderly paperwork that lay strewn across its battered surface. Captain Harris smiled again at the boy, he did not believe in the notion of slavery, even in this dark age, everyone was an equal in his eyes, and deserving of respect.
"Thank you, Nathan. I guess you had better go and get the others their food as well." Mentioned Harris as he regarded his tasty meal on the table spread before him, taking up his wine. "Not that I think too many of them will have the stomach for it this evening." His weather-beaten countenance searched the tightly, closed door to the interrogation room beyond, wishing the moaning would cease.
Nathan managed a vague smile, he was unused to showing such emotion and scurried off obediently to get the rest of the food. His heart was pounding rapidly, deliberately keeping his eyes averted from the sight of his true Master in the steel cell beyond, and trying not to let the moans and wails of the tortured Sven unnerve him.
The boy was frightened but he was hopeful, now that he had glimpsed his lord alive and healthy it further fired his resolve to escape. Things would be put right again and very soon he would have his strong protector by his side, ran the boy's simplistic musings, but he would have to hurry. He had it all planned out, the past days in the kitchen seemingly engaged in his chores, he had observed, plotted, and planned carefully. Only waiting for the right time. Now that Robbie had made the mistake of letting him take the food to the prison each evening, he could enact his plans. Nathan was Robbie's favorite boy and he got all the light duties, ever since his scalding at Geoff's hands.
Nathan hastened back with the prisoner's food, the metal plates and cups rattling on the tray, wishing he could present his Master with something a bit more suited for his repast than simple soup, stale bread, and water. The boy reviewed in his mind the route he would take as he had learned it running his miscellaneous errands, to the place where he would lead them all to freedom. A ventilation shaft he had discovered that ran all the way to the surface world. He could see its faint light high above, it would be a squeeze for those big men but he was positive they could make their escape this way. He had no idea where it emerged sadly, but he was sure that once on the surface they all had a very real chance of freedom. It was the best he could come up with.
Butterflies filled his insides and a lump rose in his throat, as Nathan fretted that he would be forced to reveal to his Master that he could actually write this day, but there was no other way, and so be it if his Master chose to punish him for keeping his secret he would accept the admonishment. Just like he accepted the sting and itch of the burns as they rubbed against his shirt, painful and red with his every movement. He hoped his Master could read, as many men could not, and he wondered what to do if this was an eventuality. He prayed his Master would understand his intent, and his plan would go smoothly.
Nathan reemerged through the prison portal with the remaining meals. He steadied himself as he walked toward the bank of shining steel cells. Furtively he glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes flashed with fear noting Captain Harris was buried busily in his paperwork, absently chewing at his meal and sipping on his wine. The sounds of torture were softer now but nonetheless still emanating from the room beyond. Nathan placed the tray in the slot almost upsetting the water pitcher as he did so, his anxious eyes meeting Bennett's questioning ones. Bennett burning to know how his boy came to be here in this place.
Nathan glanced meaningfully at the tray, swallowing hard in his nervousness. Bennett caught his meaning at once glimpsing the tiny edge of the paper protruding beneath the enamel bowl. The big man took his food, and Nathan paused for a second to look at him again hoping for approval.
If there was any he could not tell, his Master's face was as impassive as the steel bars that surrounded him. He wanted to linger in his Master's presence, he wanted so badly to touch or be touched again by this fearsome specter of a man. Instead, pulling himself away he hurried off to deliver the remaining meals to the other cells and left the room swiftly, darting out the door, as Krosse may emerge any moment from the room beyond, and Nathan had no desire for another face-to-face meeting.
Bennett glanced down at the tray, checking again to see if the man on duty was looking his way. The same man who had betrayed him and led him into this trap in the first place. He would kill him slowly he ruminated, no one deceives him, and lives long. The barbarous prisoner gazed at the officious Captain Harris who was at this moment quite oblivious, pen in hand, filing reports and sipping his wine from a battered metal tankard. The fierce leader scowled removing the tiny piece of paper from beneath the still-warm, chipped enamel bowl. The words were written in neat black script.
"I will rescue you tomorrow night." Then beneath it a childishly drawn heart and the name Nathan housed within it.
Bennett proceeded to eat the message along with all his food unsure if the note was real or just some contrived cruelty on Krosse's orders. He had never considered the possibility that that boy of his could write, let alone possess the courage and ingenuity to rescue him. Still, he had to believe, and he would be ready if his chance came and Nathan was truly on his side.
*****
Sven shivered and moaned, the cold steel and the hardness of the operating table beneath him quite forgotten. The brightness of the white tiled walls all but blinded him in concert with the glare of the harsh overhead lighting. He had slept very little in the past days and was fast losing his lucidity, his usually very rational mind had begun to play tricks on him. His voice was so hoarse with screaming and throat so raw Sven did not think he possessed the ability to scream more, yet somewhere still he found the voice to do so.
The big man struggled vainly in his bonds in a futile attempt at escape, but the tight, broad leather restraints bit further into his flesh numbing his circulation as he again sought to avoid the pain coming to him. Blood and sweat ran from wounds on his strong body staining the white tiled floor, darkening his golden hair, and mingling with the blood of many others who had lain in this place before him in the floor drain. The dark melodious voice of Victor Krosse was constantly in his ear, velvet in its persuasion as the Doctor kept up his line of questioning, relentless.
Victor Krosse was plainly frustrated. He had been interrogating this stubborn man for six solid days using every trick in the book to loosen his tongue. Still, he had very little to go on, and his Lord Lothar was growing highly impatient with the lack of results. Renard had not returned from his mission either, the search for Frances was not proceeding very well.
Every evening Krosse dined sumptuously with his Lord, and every night he had no more of import to reveal to him. The shrewd reader of minds knew his Lord was not pleased with his progress on the matter and he dreaded each evening's approach, trying ever harder to extract the much-needed information in anyway he knew how. The branding iron, electricity, sleep deprivation, drugs, nothing could seem to elicit any more information than he currently had.
He was only too happy to depart to his own private chambers and his beautiful slave's charms, often wishing he could just stay there. Yes, this unyielding project was getting him down. On the morrow he had already decided he would have to begin on his prize, the stoic giant of their leader who sat in his cell in the next room, yet untouched by Krosse's cruel art.
The expert torturer was by now most sure this brute was telling the truth of where he got the pendant. Babbling between his screams of torment something about a man called Aran who was supposedly his brother. So where was this Aran then? Dead on the battlefield, or had he escaped? Perhaps at this moment hiding somewhere in the desert? Krosse had closely questioned Captain Harris and every member of the detachment who went out that day to bury Bennett's dead. Every man amongst their number agreed they had buried no one who looked even remotely like Sven. So Krosse was almost sure he had the whole truth of the matter even if he did not like the information thus garnered.
The sadistic torturer had one more surefire thing left to try, something that had never failed him yet, and he felt an evil glimmer of pure joy wash over him, as he fondled his array of scalpels glinting and ever so sharp, meticulously laid out on the table beside his victim. The man would be executed soon after, everyone knew that, but even in that light, it was amazing how this procedure could affect and extract every remaining vestige of a secret. Completely demoralizing the bravest of men.
Sven turned his head with much difficulty the restraining leather strap around his thick neck hindering him badly, trying to see what the man in black was up to now. His grey eyes on Krosse, like those of a mistrustful wolf.
"I am tired of this." Krosse purred, partially with regret and partially with pleasure, his pitiless pale eyes gleaming as he took in the fearful man spread naked before him, helpless to avoid the impending mutilation.
"You realize I have the power to take anything I desire away from you, don't you? Your sight perhaps, or maybe something else?"
He said it as though he was speaking to a frightened child. His usually grim lips curved at the edges into a slight, sadistic smile. Sven writhed and struggled, muscles knotted, trying to pull away. Krosse seemed unaffected by his victim's trepidation, but inside he was exultant. Taking the wicked little instrument lovingly in his steady bony fingers, he was calm and assured. This was his favorite part, the part he had been waiting for.
There was no one else present in the small impersonal chamber. Krosse for the most part preferred to work alone, and there were very few who wished to witness any of the horrors that occurred behind these doors.
"Have you ever heard the term, nullo?" Krosse inquired of the shuddering Sven, reveling in the huge man's fear.
Sven lay there confused and hurting bad, he had never heard the term and was not so sure he wanted to really know what it meant. Krosse went on close to his ear in almost a whisper.
"It is, brave soldier, a man who is no longer a man, a eunuch, every vestige of his maleness completely gone......."
Sven swallowed involuntarily, he was seeing very clearly the intent now, heart pounding loudly in his chest, his terror mounting with every passing second. No, this cannot be happening he panicked. I would rather die than this.
Krosse took the scalpel resting it ever so delicately on Sven's private parts. Sven jerked, taking a sharp breath as the cold metal bit into his hot flesh, his sizable body rigid with tension, drawing a pinprick of crimson.
"I have told you all I know!" He panicked, the words coming to him in ragged bursts. "You have to believe me!"
Hoarse and desperate was the plea, emanating from cracked lips, beads of perspiration on his forehead ran stinging his eyes as he tried to look at Krosse. Trying urgently to convey he was really telling the truth. Swiftly he went on trying to avoid the inevitable horror to come.
"I got the necklace from my brother Aran, the girl gave it to him. You have to believe me! I have told you all this before. He was injured in the battle........he made it over the wall. I got him over there. He was hurt bad...I do not know where he is. He probably doesn't know where the girl is either. Our leader hid the girl to keep her safe. She has supplies for a month. I do not know where that would be!"
He was babbling, he was saying anything to make it stop. All pretense at bravado and ego gone, he was truly broken and Krosse knew it. The barbarian was telling the truth, he didn't have anything more to divulge. He had spent days on this man, plying him with a cocktail of drugs, eliciting pain in every way possible, still, the answer never wavered, and the content of the story never changed.
"Wrong answer." Krosse sighed, itching to do it anyway, the scalpel biting in.
"Noooo...........!" Sven's shrieking screams reverberated from the walls until unconsciousness finally quieted him.
*****
Bennett fought hard to control his ragged nerves as Krosse and his soldiers approached his cell. It is time he thought. He drew in a deep breath trying to relax, pushing panic aside which was threatening to cloud his reason. This time there were ten men and Krosse had his taser drawn. Bennett wrestled with the urge to chance escape, he could not afford to be badly injured now, not if Nathan really meant to rescue him tonight. He would have to at least take this one day of Krosse's torment, and hope his slave had spoken truth and escape was imminent.
The irons went on, making freedom irretrievable. Krosse gloating all the while.
"I am pleased to see you have learned something since last time." He purred.
The snide comment was ignored by Bennett as he was marched to the chamber, outwardly calm, eyes forward, the press of armored bodies on either side directing him. The goading threat of the taser firmly against his side. He wanted to glance at Sven but he kept his eyes averted, what had been done to him Bennett worried? His second in command had not moved since he had been returned to his prison, he was in bad shape.
Escape should it come this evening was going to be difficult he fretted. Gareth eyed his leader as he passed, he looked hollow and worn. Bennett did not return his look. Krosse did instead, a twisted smile of gloating satisfaction on his evil countenance. Gareth looked away like a beaten dog, all defiance gone. Bennett suppressed a shudder at his man's demeanor and braced himself for the horror to come. Then they were gone through the metal portal. The soldiery emerged shortly after and departed for their posts in silence.
His eyes rolled upwards and his mighty body heaved, he took another deep shuddering breath. The mind is stronger than the body was his mantra at this moment. He was repeating this over and over trying earnestly to stay calm. Blinding light flashed through his head and somewhere small, very small and deep inside, wondered just how long he could take this and not tell all. His admiration for Sven became greater by the minute, as he bit down hard willing himself to silence.
Momentarily he panicked, could he do this for many days? Sven had broken in six, would he? Hard on the heels of this internal fear came his reason, you will not have to, my boy will free us tonight. He will, he just will. However the seeds of doubt were there, Bennett was partly sure Krosse had put Nathan up to it, all part of the torturer's art, the giving of false hope. He would have done the same. Still, he had to grasp at something, and that was his hope. That seemingly worthless boy will come tonight, after all, he is my slave. I have conditioned him, he will free us, he is loyal to me. The thought was at least a comfort.
Bennett could no longer feel his feet or hands, or the places where the leather had cut and bruised into his flesh in his struggles. Movement was minimal, and there was no option to avoid the pain. Another bright flash behind his eyes as the voltage was again applied, searing the skin as it arced hungrily seeking ground. Bennett screamed involuntarily as his body arched and shuddered, then promptly clenched his teeth. He would reveal nothing this day or the next. He would die rather than give in to the hellish little man who hovered above him, entreating him to tell all, in his persuasive German accent. Yes, he would give him nothing.
*****
Lothar moved slowly and awkwardly in his wheelchair about his luxurious apartments. The chrome and rubber wheels creaked ever so slightly as he made his way over the plush rugs and carpets, the cavernous beamed rooms dwarfing him in every aspect. He was proud of what he had achieved here, it had been no easy path to build and hold this fortress in the desert. Lothar was not a man to quit when the going became difficult, instead he just tried more doggedly until he won out.
This evening like many before he was in severe pain, moving with much difficulty, stopping to rest periodically, gazing at his horde of precious possessions as he maneuvered about the room. Lothar's dark, hard eyes alighted on the portrait of his betrothed, young, golden, and delicately beautiful in this despoiled and dusty world. The Wolf Lord wondered if he would ever see her again?
Yet love her he did not, she was of all things merely a prize to him, a trophy wife. Something simply to be had because he could. A symbol of his power and a medium for producing an heir. Frances was little more than that, a token, a bauble, something that would interest and endear the masses, someone to care for his person and give him a semblance of a home. He had nothing in common with the young woman. He had met her fleetingly on a few occasions and found her insipid and fragile, but he surmised she would look good on his arm, and be gracious enough to become his self-styled queen.
Lothar sighed audibly with disappointment, stroking his neat goatee with his thumb absently, as he fretted if it was at all possible to find a replacement for her anywhere. She was after all unique, such a sheltered protected soul was a rarity. What would he do if she was not returned to him?
Doctor Krosse stood almost invisible and motionless in the dark recesses of the room, his straight back to a tapestry of majestic proportions featuring a battle scene, complete with charging knights and dying men, awaiting his Lord's pleasure. The physically diminutive man missed nothing and knew well his Master's thoughts at that moment. Yes, she is beautiful he mused, but not nearly as beautiful as my daughter is. Relishing the fact no one even knew she existed, or had set eyes on her and lived to tell of his hidden prize. The slightest trace of a smile touched him then and was gone in a fleeting instant, unnoticed.
Lothar seemed for a time not to heed Krosse as he fondled this and that trinket arrayed on the shelves in petulant thought, but Krosse was clever enough to know that was not the case. His Lord missed nothing, even since his illness. Not the slightest detail escaped his ruler's keen interest. In fact, disability seemed to have made the man sharper than ever, as Lothar strove to overcompensate for his loss of physical prowess. It was a new trait that Victor was finding hard to live with at times.
"So how goes the interrogation?" Lothar said almost casually, his eyes elsewhere admiring his curios, voice distant and soft.
This had been the seventh night he had asked this very same question of his aide, and he was fed up with the lack of results. Krosse could hear both the weariness and sarcasm in his voice.
"My Lord." The diminutive man paused, in an attempt to add importance to the title, then continued. "I have started on their leader today, he will take some time to break, he is a strong and determined one. I think even more so than the last one, and he took six days..."
"Of that, I am well aware." Lothar shot back hastily, his annoyance evident, cutting off Krosse mid-sentence, causticity evident in his inflection. He was not afraid to put pressure to bear, to get what he wanted. The results were already too long in coming.
"Yes, my Lord," Krosse replied, trying to keep his cool. He too, becoming jaded with this recurring conversation of every evening past.
"How will I replace her?" Lothar spoke to the walls covered in velvet sumptuousness, his hands raised in frustration. The thick wall hangings muffled his usually strong, resonant voice. "She is surely dead or soiled by now beyond redemption. That shifty brother of hers Renard has still not returned either. I do not like this at all. I demand answers and soon!"
"Yes, my Lord. You will have them." Was all Krosse could add, as he bowed and turned on his heel glad to depart from his Lord's mounting displeasure.
*****
The big man felt nothing but waves of relief, and the refreshing cool of the concrete floor as he came to in his cell. He had endured one day at the hands of Victor Krosse, the dread Doctor of torture, and he had held his secrets for now. That was all he could tell himself. However, it was too early for self-congratulation as Bennett realized Nathan did not show as he had promised. Instead, a sickly wan-featured, pubescent girl had delivered the prison rations for the day. Bennett's heart plunged at the sight of her, and he was hard-pressed not to spiral down into a morass of hopelessness and resignation. Now he was unsure, perhaps the promised escape had been a contrived ploy after all to falsely raise his hopes.
The sight and smell of the food nauseated him, deciding he had no appetite he pushed the metal tray aside, sipping a little of the water was all he could stomach. It somewhat quelled the pain in his raw throat and sharpened his addled wits. He ached all over and still, his heart raced in his breast. He breathed deeply trying to bring his racing body under control as he sat gathering his senses and thoughts. Tomorrow would arrive too soon and he would have to suffer more, this time without the hope of Nathan's rescue to cling to. He sighed, getting slowly to unsteady feet, drawing on inner reserves of strength and solidarity, clutching his mantle of hardness about him that none may know of his despair.