A Secret Man of Blood

Chapter Fourteen

The room in which Squad awakes is cold, with no windows and he quickly surmises that it's a basement of some sort. He's tied to a chair affixed to the floor and looks around, catching the scrutinising gleam of Sig's eyes. Sig is also tied to a chair.

"Hello, sleeping beauty." Sig looks the worse for wear, with bruises under each eye and a big cut vertically slicing his lip.

"Where are we?" Squad asks.

"It looks like a sex dungeon," Sig replies. "But, then, everything looks like a sex dungeon to me – I'm an optimist."

Squad smiles at his friend. "We've been beaten, tied up and we're almost certainly going to die here."

"Yes...that really is very irksome."

"Did you see who captured us?"

Sig shakes his head. "Hopefully some lame-ass virgin that I can seduce into letting us go."

"...And if that doesn't work?" Squad asks, shaking his head with a smile.

"When has that never worked?"

"When has that ever worked?"

"Don't answer a question with a question, you mind-bender!"

Remembering some of Sig's past endeavours, Squad smiles. "Well, you've not always been the best at flirting..."

*

A night-time party on the beach and revellers dance barefoot by torchlight as the gentle susurrus of the waves beats upon the sand. Sig is in the middle of it all, dancing with a kind of grotesque inner glee, several colourful necklaces hanging from his neck.

He spots a beautiful woman and their eyes lock. He's entranced by her. They draw closer and their gazes lock; the rhythm of her movement contrasting with the motionless dance of her eyes. The passion locked there. The dance grows more intense, their hands touching. Sig shivers as if his fingers have discovered some new world of pleasure.

He leans in, strong, masculine, almost to the distance of a kiss, whispering.

"I can see you don't shave your feet!"

*

Sig is indignant at Squad. "I don't even know what you're referring to...and that was three weeks ago! I'm a changed man! I've turned a corner—"

"Then driven off a bridge."

Sig laughs and shakes his head. "I'm not some comic book character, you know," he protests. "I've got feelings! Just because I like to socialise sexually, doesn't mean—yes! I've got an erection! Perhaps I can use it to burst through my trousers and pick the lock on these chains."

"I think I'd genuinely rather die than see that happen."

While wriggling his crotch in every direction, Sig offers Squad a lesson in geopolitics. "My people get screwed all the time. How many Dwarves do you think are in the emperor's security council? That's a rhetorical question." After a few moments, Sig loses patience. "...Well, how many?"

"You said it was a rhetorical question!"

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't answer it!"

Looking Sig right in the eye, Squad states bluntly. "Sometimes it's hard not to be your murderer."

Ignoring this, or taking it as something that is said regularly to him, Sig presses on. "One – one Dwarf in the emperor's security council!"

"Well, how many do you think it should be?" Squad asks, adding. "And what's the group plural of Dwarves anyway? With lions it's a pride, with sheep it's a flock, but I don't know the group pronoun for a bunch of Dwarves—"