“Break, damn you!” Cray’s scream reverberated against the cellblock’s solid stone walls. The elf stood at the front of the cramped cell, his knees bent, arms raised, with his fingertips dug deep into his temples. He hummed louder, willing his magic to infiltrate his victim’s thoughts. Judge Belfast, the current focus of Cray’s growing ire, merely gazed back at his captor with a purposefully blank expression. The judge didn’t squirm, didn’t scream, not even a fidget. If it weren’t for the occasional blink of an eye, Sascha would have sworn he was already dead.
Cray’s magic wasn’t working. Despite all of his obnoxious humming and posturing, the only thing his efforts earned him was a worsening temper.
Sascha and Dewpetal huddled together at the back of their shared cell, helpless to do anything but watch as the telepath’s cool demeanor steadily slipped further and further into a downward spiral of madness. A handful of nervous yes-men lingered awkwardly near the doorway, looking as if they, too, wished to be anywhere else but here. Aster and Sergeant Windshot were the only ones Sascha recognized by name. The latter was pale in the face and on the verge of fainting. Aster jostled Sergeant Windshot back to attention with a taunting nudge. Despite the warmth of the room, her cowl was still pulled protectively tight over her head. Only her eyes and brief flashes of her face were visible.
Aster’s maniacal smile, however, carried over on her sticky-sweet voice. She, alone, was the only one brave enough to speak up. “He’s making a mockery of you, sir.”
“Excuse me?” Cray’s head whipped around at her. A snarl curled his upper lip. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, Aster.”
Sergeant Windshot pressed flat against the wall, as if the closer he was to it, the greater the chance he and the wall would become one. Cray’s fury was not focused on him, however, but on the stammering witch to his right. A waver of fear betrayed Aster’s formerly cheery voice as she tried to backpedal her way into Cray’s good graces. “I just thought maybe you needed some help—”
“You thought?” Cray repeated.
“—softening him up a little.” Aster finished her sentence. She realized her mistake and yet, for whatever reason, kept desperately digging her hole deeper. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it, sir. I just thought—”
“You keep saying that word like it means something. I do not pay you to think, Aster. I do the thinking. Me!” Cray’s unnerving stare successfully forced his second-in-command into a pitiful cower. “Now do us both a favor and keep your mouth closed before I have it sewn shut, what do you say?”
Aster’s hooded head bobbled in silent agreement.
“Good.” A tight smile pulled at Cray’s thin mouth as he swiveled his attention back to Judge Belfast. He threw his hands out at his sides, shaking his head in exasperation, as he slowly meandered to the front of the cell. “Do you see the effect you have, Trant? What happens when you defy me? It spreads.”
Judge Belfast remained seated on the cot at the back of his cell, studying Cray’s increasingly frenzied antics through tired, solemn eyes. He’d said nothing since the start of the interrogation, allowing Cray to carry on their one-sided conversation all on his own. Sascha wasn’t sure which infuriated their captor more — Trant’s refusal to engage or the fact that the old faun was strangely impervious to Cray’s telepathic abilities.
“You and I both know we can’t have dissension spreading unchecked through the ranks. That would make me very angry, Trant. And you don’t want to see me angry.” Cray was all the way to the bars now. “So work with me here. We can settle this as gentlemen without the need for further bloodshed, yes?”
Trant’s bruised and battered face remained indifferent to Cray’s plea for cooperation.
The elf gripped the iron bars between his hands and pressed against them. “Tell me, where are Oralia and the village herbalist hiding?”
No answer.
“I gleaned the minds of everyone in your service. I found out about the tunnels, the cottage in the woods, and every hideout from here to Adderwood, and still, Oralia is nowhere to be found. No one can tell me where she is except you, Trant.” Cray’s fingers were clenched so tight the color bled from his knuckles. “You and your damned wife, neither of which I can read because — surprise, surprise — someone went and charmed your thoughts! Not very sportsmanship-like, you know. How am I supposed to adhere to Geralt’s rules if you go and cheat, huh?”
Cray had been ranting and raving for nearly half an hour, his temper alternating between hot to cold without rhyme or reason. He’d learned nothing so far, unlike Sascha, who was relieved to discover that Oralia and Briony were still on the lam. Cray had broken everyone beneath Trant, plucking the information needed to flush out wherever the pair might have gone into hiding. And yet, he kept running into the same issue over and over again. No one knew where they were.
No one except possibly Trant and Novera Belfast, that was. According to Cray’s interrogees, the Belfasts alone possessed the complete knowledge of every defunct hiding spot in the territory. It wasn’t something written down, either. They’d committed it to memory. Normally that wouldn’t have been a problem for someone like Cray, but the Belfasts had come prepared. The elf couldn’t access their thoughts. During his rantings, he’d described it as a wall, and no matter how hard he battered and rammed away at it, the mental barrier refused to budge.
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Cray stood back and pinched his nose, filling his lungs with a calming breath. “I just want a location, Trant. That’s all you have to give me. And then this nightmare can end. Your precious village and all its inhabitants will be spared, you have my word.”
Trant stared back at him with the vacant expression of someone who’d buried himself deep, deep down with no intention of ever coming up for air again.
“Don’t test me,” Cray warned. “You know what happens when you test me, Trant. Someone else pays the price for your stubbornness.”
Still nothing.
“Fine, have it your way. The hard way it is.” Cray spun around on his heel and gestured to the cluster of yes-men arranged near the doorway. “Fetch the judge for me. It’s time to remind him that disobedience has consequences.”
Aster pushed away from the wall, eager to prove her worth, only to be stopped by Cray’s outstretched hand.
“Not you,” he said. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to attend this time. Your talents are needed elsewhere.”
Aster opened her mouth to question his order and then remembered herself. She sealed her lips, trying not to openly tremble as she awaited whatever cruel fate Cray had in mind.
“My pet has been in an unholy uproar since we arrived. One can only handle so much shrieking before they snap, you know. Be a dear, Aster, and go up to the manor house and bring its crate here.” Cray’s gaze wandered the room before settling on Sascha and Dewpetal’s huddled forms. “I think it’ll feel more at home in the jailhouse. Give my little monster a chance to get familiar with its next playthings.”
Aster went ashen in the face. “Sir?”
“Sergeant Windshot, you may accompany her,” Cray ordered as he swept out the door, calling over his shoulder to his remaining lackeys. “Collect the judge, gentlemen, if you would. A public hanging’s no good if he’s not there to witness it firsthand. It’s important that his people can look him in the eye while they dance from a rope.”
Aster and Sergeant Windshot filled out into the hallway in Cray’s wake, leaving the remaining goons to carry out their master’s bidding.
Trant’s stoic composure finally broke. He staggered to his feet and readied himself for a fight. The old faun lowered his horned head and watched, warily, as Cray’s goons approached the front of his cell. The goons were not ordinary soldiers. Given their extravagant cloaks and lack of uniform, they were members of the Division of Divination’s magical order — thugs with magic, as Oralia used to describe them.
Unlocked, the barred cell door swung open with a slow, grating groan. The pair filed inside. “Watch him close,” the taller of the two warned as he flexed his hands, anticipating a fight. “And don’t let his age fool you. Mortan got his leg shattered the last time we had to wrangle the old goat out of his cage.”
Trant didn’t give them the satisfaction of pleading for mercy. He bent his knees and lowered his body into a defensive crouch, watching for openings as the pair closed in.
“Forget that. I’m not risking my life for niceties.” The shorter thug called to Trant, “You hear that? Hands over your head, old man, right now. Or you’ll regret it.” Magic rippled down his hand, proving he meant what he said.
Judge Belfast stomped his hoof, silently daring the young buck to try his luck.
The witch happily obliged him. Shouting an incantation at the top of his lungs, he swept his hand in front of him, sending forth a spray of frost and ice. The stone-tiled floor cracked and buckled as the wave of frozen particles barreled toward the judge.
Trant timed his move with practiced precision. One moment he was in range and, in the next, he was gone, his movements cloaked by the glimmering ice crystals clouding the air. His dark shape came hurtling out of the swirling frost and slammed head-first into the ice witch’s unsuspecting chest. The witch collapsed with a wet gurgle, writhing and clawing on the slick floor as he fought for a breath that wouldn’t come.
The second thug hollered as he willed a spell into the air. Only the first two syllables escaped his mouth before the incantation morphed into a scream. Trant gave no quarter. He focused the force of his kick in that tender spot where the gentlemen’s legs connected. The witch went down in a sobbing pile, unable to sound the alarm around his own choking wails of agony.
Trant flew out the open cell door and made a break for the exit. He barely made it beyond the doorway before his body came hurtling backward, propelled by a roiling wave of black shadow. The old faun was flung clear across the room. He struck the bars and went limp, body sliding helplessly to the ground.
Aster’s light footsteps echoed softly as she strode confidently back into the cell block. “Stupid old man,” she cursed as the room fell unnaturally dark around her. “Did you really think that would work? Did you think you would get away? All you did was make this worse!”
Aster raised her gloved hand into the air and clenched her fist. The room went pitch black as phantom shapes leapt from the shadows and descended over Trant. His pained screams lit the air.
Every hair on Sascha’s neck lifted on end as he leapt to his feet. “Call it off!” He reached the front of the cell but could do little more than pull uselessly at the heavy iron bars. “You’ve made your point. Let him go!”
Aster’s eyes blazed bright green beneath the dip of her cowl. She ignored Sascha’s pleas and continued to manifest beastly shapes from the darkness, exacting her pent rage on the old faun.
“Aster!” Sergeant Windshot’s willowy frame broke from the protection of the doorway and bounded inside. “Stop before he’s dead. Cray wants him alive!”
Sergeant Windshot’s command fell on deaf ears.
He seized the shadow witch by the wrist and tried to shake some sense back into her. “He’ll take it on you, and you know it! Cray needs a neck for the chopping block and if you don’t stop this instant, it’ll be yours!”
His words got through to her. Aster dropped her magic with an undignified snarl. The phantom shapes slunk back into the shadows as the dark veil lifted away, allowing light to return to the room. Judge Belfast’s trembling frame stayed curled on the ground. The stone tile around him was covered in blood and frayed strips of torn fabric.
“You feel that, old man? The cuts in your hide. The blood? The cold fear running down your spine?” Aster drew her gloved hand under her nose, wiping the small trail of blood that trickled from her left nostril. “That’s only a taste of what is to come. Cray will see reason eventually. He’ll use me, just you wait. And when that time comes, I’m going to make you and your missus sing like canaries.”