A Cold Place...

Sitting with his back against the cold stone wall, his arms pinned above his head by the bronze manacles, and his legs almost numb as they splayed beneath him on the hard stone floor, ‘Tj’Chin’Ker was truly impressed. Not damp at all…he thought, letting his mind wander. It is certainly not dank. Cold, though… but nobody would ever call this “dank”...With a small fire, this could be a cozy little room. Some rugs, a few furs…a nice down stuffed chair; it could be quite comfortab…

The cracking noise above his left ear came again, what suddenly was left of an arrow shattering against that same dark stone wall by his left cheek, and just inside the bow of his left arm as it hung from the shackles.

A fowling blunt, usually used to take down birds with a quick, hard, fist-like impact, was simply a modified arrow. Instead of the usual variety of sharp, tearing, lacerating hunting points most arrows carried at the tip, this creation had a small lead ball wrapped in leather. Made to break small, hollow bird bones. ‘Tj’Chin’Ker had noticed that several of these blunts had done just that very thing to parts of his body over the last few hours. The last blunt fired, having missed his face by a mere finger’s width, was now in ruins about his person and on the cold stone floor around him. There had been too few misses in this last hour, though, and his body had not gone into shock with any of the breaks, he was sad to note.

On one level ‘Tj’Chin’Ker thought it was sad that a man less than six strides away should miss even once; but being made the target had given him a new perspective on how often someone shooting at him should score solid points. All energy he might have had for such silly things as the adrenaline jitters and shakes had fled hours long passed; but being a dedicated smartass…he vowed to himself, if no one else, would die before he lost that capacity.

“You’re…pulling to the left…you’ll cramp if you keep up that odd stance…” Some blood spluttered from cracked lips as he attempted to smile. “…You’ll cramp up in your right arm soon. Loosen your grip.” A wheezing chuckle followed, punctuated by more misting blood from every hard exhale he made.

A part of ‘Ker had been surprised by the misting of fine blood droplets he was creating, wondering if it should have created a “red snow” effect, rather than a spattering of red gore tinged rain as he breathed or spoke. Maybe it’s just not yet cold enough for all that…?

He had noticed the droplets of his blood that had frozen to the craggy stones of the wall near his head, and the ever growing pool of crimson on which he sat had both developed a delightful pattern of white hoarfrost on dark red; well, it would be pretty were it not done in his own blood.

A glistening glaze of pomegranate forming a mortal veneer; it reminded him of something, but just what he couldn’t quite recall. It was pretty, though. The glisten and twinkle of the crimson glaze in the wavering light of the torches offset the lovely fine grain crystals embedded in the gray stone of the walls. Some kind of quartz, maybe? In the granite?

The drool and blood mixed stain spreading down from ‘Tj’Chin’Ker’s mouth and neck to the top of his now tattered tunic however was not pretty in the least. And the smell of it all started to wear on ‘Ker’s nerves. It was the worst combination of bad breath, and stale injury that he could imagine.

There were at least ten more fowling blunts, each spaced out in a 300 count from one another. ‘Ker didn’t know what count his tormenter was using, but his own count between the shots had roughly worked out to 300, on the whole.

It was one way to mark the passage of time in a room without access to sun nor moon. And well made torches burned at an indeterminate rate, from what ‘Tj’Chin’Ker noticed. A deep twanging thrum sounded, followed by a sharp pain above his right eye.

Darkness swept up around him, and held him for a time.

A slow climb back into his body from the bliss of oblivion gave ‘Ker as many regrets as he could handle. Possibly more. The temperature of the chamber had changed.

Too cold, now, that was why it was not dank and damp…the moisture here is frozen long before it reaches this lovely little dry room. All the moisture in the room now, he and his captors had brought with them.

…I could do with something to eat…maybe some cake…ooh, THAT’S what it reminds me of…shiny cake glaze, when the colored sugar glaze is fresh, and vibrant in the light of the candles at the table head. So pretty, and smooth…but I like the ginger and lemon kinds better…

‘Ker was torn between continuing his thoughts of how the room could be improved, types of confectionery to enjoy, and trying to focus on the arrows on the floor around him; both wondering how long he had been here, and making attempts at guessing their creator based on the craftsmanship.

Food shaped thoughts played havoc and besieged the weaker ideas milling listlessly about in his battered head. More and more he had trouble keeping his thoughts in his head as the distractions became more numerous. Feeling was returning to his legs, and that was unfortunate.

…I know a hundred royals who would give their finest arrows, bolts and blunts

just to know the damned things had been used on my hide…red tapestries would look nice in

here…ginger cakes, ooh I love ginger cakes, and lemon cakes, too. But they're hard to get

this time of the year…maybe if I moved south I could have them any time I wanted…

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The ghosts of an eye and two fingers threatened to deafen ‘Ker with their constant calls for his attention. Broken bones set up their own raucous orchestra, playing a jagged counter rhythm to the other, more immediate pains wracking his battered body.

Every exposed piece of his skin that ‘Ker could see was at once wrapped in tightly swirling blue, green, and red tattoos, each one now torn, broken, and stretched into painful new geometries. The jagged, lightning- like works on his left hand careened madly in new directions around newly modified forms of his fingers. The stately spirals on his right hand he could no longer quite see through the layer of grime and blood; but he knew they were askew. He feared what might have become of the azure geometries that once crawled up from his neck to cross his face and ended somewhere in ‘Ker’s auburn hair. Kaleshow’T, his current tormenter, who everyone just called "Shoat," and his cousin, ‘Lwu’Ong’Gai, were taking their time destroying all of his defenses. Breaking all of the pretty little magic he had spent years wrapping himself in.

Almost as painful to think about how many hours of labor it had been to earn each

tattoo; more so too, to think on the pain of getting each azure, crimson, and verdant scribble in place.

…the ones on my face most likely fair no better…the ones on the left side are the

worst…the two right hand entwined dragons…they’ve ignored my right side to some extent…

The cold bronze manacles, chained to an iron staple in the thick stone wall above him

chafed, and burned with each move he made, reopening older cuts made yesterday and

last night. He sighed as he saw no easy escape, and sores grated on sores and his shoulders screamed against the slight upward pull. Numbness, when it would set in, would be a relief, however brief. He scanned the room again with his good left eye, his right occluded by the surrounding swollen flesh.

Gray stone chamber. Beneath the main hall of the Kings’ Caer, most likely. The stones cut and fitted in patterns guaranteed to dissipate any magical attempts made in the chamber, for any reason. Very effective way to keep ‘Ker from being able to leave.

New torches in the plain iron sconces, high up on the walls. They had to have been replaced while he had been blissfully unconscious. A large wooden chair sat in the farthest corner from where he was chained to the wall. It was made from planks wider than a hand length, and thicker than his own wrists, it was much larger by far than the frame of the petite, well dressed, idiot who sat staring at ‘Ker, while he loaded another blunt, and readied to shoot him again.

Pity they haven’t asked me any questions, I have my lies all lined up and ready to

march for them… he thought. I wonder when I will be charged. And for what.

Though he had an idea of what his enemies had caught him at, based on the bloodied stumps where two of his fingers had been torn away; but they had never actually said for what crimes he was being held.

` Before the arrows, rough hands and thick soled boots had begun the work. Hours of personal punishment dealt out from just before dawn, to gathering dusk. Through the night, he guessed, to what might be the approach of another dawn. Shoddy. Just absolutely shoddy workmanship, it’s been most of a day and a half now and I haven’t told them anything…they haven’t asked, but I haven’t broken, either…and some nice braziers in that far corner would

warm this room up…would work well with some lighter furs on the floor…but these

blood stains are going to be hard to scrub out anytime soon…

He glanced at the idiot in the outsized chair. Shoat’s bloodied knuckles

and Gai’s scuffed boots could not do enough, it seemed. Not when a closet filled with

such hunting gear was at the head of the very hall holding this cell.

...I guess ginger cakes are too much to ask at the moment…

Someone had drugged his drink last night, or some night recently depending on

how long he had been under the drug’s effects. Whoever had done the job did it well. ‘Tj’Chin’Ker had been at his home, and had had no visitors in the long, oppressive year since his wife…

Pain.

A quick buzz and thud sounded as another fowling blunt struck him.

Oh, good…he didn’t fall asleep in that chair… nor has he died… nor has he been gored by a sow…

This latest blunt had cracked against his right shin, or possibly it had cracked his shin. But, the shaft had splintered, and ‘Ker didn’t hear a deeper accompanying cracking noise and so assumed those leg bones remained intact. Rolling his remaining eye up from under the swollen brow he saw Shoat, the one of the two tormentors who was on duty at the moment, leave the room again for yet another quiver; a smarter man would have brought in as many full quivers as his capacity would have allowed him to carry. Only Shoat’s mother had ever thought him smart, but ‘Ker doubted she thought that of him now. A mother’s blindness to her children’s faults couldn’t have held up this long, not under the constant assault of the idiocy that was Shoat’s life.

Lazy boys make for stupid choices, and stupid choices tend to pile up against one another, and eventually avalanche into a full cascade of the walking regret that is a fully stupid, mean spirited adult. And for as long as ‘Ker had known Shoat, and his cousin, Gai’, the two had been the pettiest of bullies, and of the lowest, dimmest sorts.

Pain.

The bow thrummed again, and the shock of another crunching impact jarred his body.

More agony lancing through his ribs as another fowling blunt sailed from out of

the far darkened corner of the small cell.

He’s not spacing these shots out any more, he's just shooting to shoot at me. It must be getting nearer to whatever is going to happen next... I hope it involves cake…

A tittering giggle skittered across the room as the erstwhile archer enjoyed the

sound of another rib breaking. The harsh wheeze of the prisoner’s breathing deafening to

his own ears as he attempted to stay focused. Oh, yes, don’t want to miss a moment of

this, do I?…

His thoughts began a strange dance through his head, stopping at odd places and meeting new ideas as lances of agony and fire made old safe roads into new dark places.

“Muuuuhhhhh…” his exhale was laced with more pain than he thought, making the closest thing to a cry "Ker had made since waking up in this cell.

Oblivion, again. And finally awareness again.

Another figure, this one tall and pretty, now leans beautifully, languidly, in another corner of the dark hole, trimming elegant nails on very long fingers, musicians fingers, stopping only to occasionally pick imagined dust from fine purple and lavender clothing. With a languorous and long suffering sigh, he straightened his lovely trimmed mantle, and removing a small polished bronze disk from a pocket on his belt pouch, began to preen in the tiny, orange-yellow reflection. “The Father is coming, Shoat. Put up the toys. He’ll want his turn at making our little ‘Ker scream.”