CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LUNCH OF WORMS

Hidden under the black of the night, sinister smiles emerge in the streets of Union. Drugs, thievery, prostitution, extortion, assassination, and every other criminal activity thought up by the human mind; the ill list goes on for the fortune of the unfortunate and the misfortune of the fortunate. The night passes as the day takes over. The first rays of sunlight shine as it makes the morally questionable turn in for the day; fleeing like demons from light. As the saying goes, all good things must end. Day gives leeway to those who seek to enforce law and order; their brand of law and order.

Deep underground, in the dungeons of Union, Noname sleeps on a patch of old straw hay. She feels an invisible embrace upon her as if fire caresses her body. A silent scream in a dark embrace. Suddenly, she wakes up.

It is cold. Why did she feel fire?

“Damn,” Noname murmurs in frustration at her current situation as her right eye rapidly twitches.

She looks around for something to use. There is nothing. The empty cell exudes desolation. They say hope dies last, but for Noname, it is already dead. Noname is a person of practicality. For her the situation is as it is, there is no point in hoping; she doesn't have the time to waste on hope. If you have time to hope you have time to do something. Anything. This is how she has survived so far. Living in the moment.

In front of her lies a closed door amongst prison bars; she dares not touch the corroded metal. She knows what happened to an acquaintance when he cut himself messing with such iron. No, she will not repeat his mistake.

Bricks cover the walls, but is there an opening amongst them? There is one. She tries looking inside; it is too dark. She grunts. Noname pushes the bricks one by one systematically. Still nothing.

“Damn,” Noname yells again as her right eye twitches and her finger flips off the air

The City Watch searched her from head to toe. They took everything from her, including her prized lock picking set and her old dagger. It may not be of the best quality and sharpness, but it was hers. She takes from others, but not the other way around. This is not something she enjoys. Not at all.

“Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!” Noname blurts out as she throws herself on the straw hay. Why didn’t she listen to her feeling? She grunts as she turns over, trying to fall asleep against the swelling frustration.

***

Noname lies motionless starring at the ceiling.

"Tedious!" a voice says. She hears footsteps. Someone is near.

“What do we have here? Another plaything for me? What luck,” a voice says as Noname turns to it.

In front of her stands, a short, disfigured man with a grin on his face. The grin is uglier than the man.

“Whatcha sort of being are you?” Noname responds with disgust.

“I am the dungeon torturer. A pleasure to meet you,” the torturer says as he laughs. He looks over Noname as if he was appraising a piece of meat.

“You look like you have been living in a cave for most of your life,” the torturer says with a bit of disappointment.

He is not wrong. Noname never bothered grooming herself. A comb never touched her hair, and her rugged demeanor and clothes do not help her in the way of… aesthetics.

“Ya look like ya haw been beaten by da ugly stick every day in ya sad life,” Noname hurls back the insult. The torturer’s words didn’t bother her but she learned on the streets long ago if someone takes a swing at you, you come swinging back. Never show weakness. Once you show weakness you are branded forever.

“Your body seems... good. Even if covered by... all this,” the torturer says as he points at her.

“Wat ya want, Wrongface?” Noname asks as making up another appropriately inappropriate nickname.

“Wrongface?” the torturer blurts out in surprise. He takes a step closer to the prison bars, eyeing her with contempt, “I will enjoy breaking you,” he adds as he steps back watching to not touch the prison bars. He knows better.

“Guards!” the torturer yells as two guards enter, “Take her to the room and prepare her,” he orders as he faces Noname with a vile grin.

The guards open the prison and grab her; she resists, but only for good measure. They are larger and stronger than her, and Noname knows going overboard will serve no purpose but waste her energy. She is going to need every bit. One struggle here and there to show them she has fangs. To rattle them.

Dragging her away, she hides her grin.

It is better for your captors to feel they are in control, otherwise, they could take it out on you; make life even a further inconvenience than it already is. Who needs more inconvenience, she concludes? Ironically ignoring the interaction with the torturer.

They bring her to a large room filled with countless devices. Different tables with simple mechanisms, a rope hanging from the ceiling, a rack with different tools, cages and holes, many whips of different sizes and shapes; all for pain. Noname ponders about the whips.

Small ones and long ones, some with many tails, others with one, and some have added tiny pieces of metal on them; for more pain?. Why so many kinds, she wonders?

By all logic, one should be more than enough. Shouldn’t it?

Perhaps not the most important aspect to ponder about when you are about to be tortured, but then again it is not like there is an excess of options left.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The guards place her face down on a table as they tie her up; the torture goes to the whip rack as he stands and thinks.

There he goes, thinking about the whips. Why is he thinking about that? Does it matter? If he only had one there would be no need to think, Noname concludes. I wonder which one he will choose?

The torturer goes for a whip as suddenly he hears a voice yelling.

“Lunch of worms! Lunch of worms!” Noname blurts out with a twitching right eye as the torturer turns in her direction, confused. He has worked for quite some time in the dungeons, but this comes across as new to him.

Lunch of worms? What? He shakes his head as he takes the small whip with many tails.

He faces her as he inspects her lean figure tied up and lying on the table; he licks his lips. He will enjoy this.

“Almost a perfect sight. But something is missing,” the torturer says as he approaches.

“Da new face?” Noname says as she laughs.

“Still throwing insults. I wonder how long you will last?” the torturer asks as he pulls out a knife. He gently places it on her back as he crawls it further down. Stopping for a moment he grins as he cuts her shirt.

“Whips feel so much better on the open flesh. Your friends had the pleasure of knowing their delights. Now, it is your turn,” the torturer adds with a vile grin on his face.

“Get on with it, ya Wrongface. I dun mind a good whipping. I've been naughty. Could use somma discipline,” Noname says as she laughs out loud. She minds it but if she can steal the smallest satisfaction from someone, then she surely will. Noname is a thief, after all, and stealing is her trade.

The deformed torturer smiles as he squeezes the whip and raises his hand in the air in readiness to strike; he strikes. Noname holds the pain inside.

It hurts! Don’t yell, do not give him the satisfaction.

The torturer raises his whip for the second time as he opens his eyes, ready to strike with an ear-to-ear smile on his face- he stops as someone coughs. Another person?

“What?” the torturer blurts out, “WHAT!” he screams.

His hands shake as he drops the whip.

“No, no, no, no...” he repeats as he runs away.

Leaving Noname tied at the table in confusion.

What is happening, she thinks?

***

The torturer returns with another man. Tall and bald, wearing overly fancy robes with an expensive amulet on his neck and a ring on each finger; a noble? Noname grunts in disgust.

“Stinky nobles,” Noname murmurs.

The old man rushes to her as he looks at her back; inspecting it with as much detail as possible.

“Can this be true?” the old man blurts, his voice trembling with excitement.

“Is it real?” the torture asks in a whimpering voice.

“We have to check. We must authenticate this!” The old man says as he signals the torturer to cut her loose.

What in blazes is going on in this madhouse, Noname thinks to herself?

She stands as her cut garments reveal her naked back. There is an overly complicated birthmark. A circle with a circle inside a circle.

“Your birthmark? Is it real?” the old man asks.

“Whatcha talking about, ya baldy,” Noname asks as she looks at the confused expression of the fancy old man.

“You don’t know? Yes! How would you know? That mark you have is the birthmark of the house of Garniot. The leading house of the city of Union,” the old man says with an ear-to-ear smile.

“Wat?” Noname blurts out as her right eye twitches again.

“That birthmark is the proof of a noble bloodline. It is proof of the successor to the throne of Union,” the old man says.

“Wat?” Noname blurts out again, unsure of what exactly is going on here.

“We need to check it, but I believe you are the one,” the old man says as he takes a step closer to her; a tear runs down his eye.

“Da one?” Noname stares as if she was looking at a madman.

“That red hair and those green eyes! It has to be you! I was there when you were born. It is me, uncle Belmon.

"I was there! It has to be you. Princess Valima of Garniot,” Belmon says as tears flow from his eyes.

“Princess?” Noname blurts out as she looks at the crying old man and the torturer quaking in fear. He whipped her only once, but once is as good as a hundred times.

Fear takes over as his once dry pants turn wet. If she is the long-lost princess and he whipped her, there was only one fate left for him. Without any doubt, he would end up deep in the ground as lunch for the worms.