Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 3 Darkest Dungeon

*Logan

While Logan knew that breaking into the bedchambers of the current head-honcho in the fifth level of hell in order to partake of the luscious delights within those rooms, and not just the lonely, wanton ladies who were happy to share their beds with a newcomer, but also the thirty year old, single-grain Scotch, had probably been a mistake, he had only one regret.

That bastard Ziegfel caught him in the act. Well, he caught him in the act of drinking, but it was right after the act of spreading joy and happiness to several of his concubines.

Damn, the whisky was good.

He'd stayed too long in that particular den of inequity. Surrounded by gorgeous women, sipping the whisky. Zeigfel had walked right in, days early from the skirmishes on the western front.

Logan could almost taste that whisky—the burn on his tongue and throat, the smoky aroma, the earthy aftertaste...

Ever since Zeigfel's soldiers dragged him down here for his crimes, every day was basically the same. Pain for about twelve hours, a few scraps of food and drink if he was lucky (not that he needed it to survive, but it did help him regenerate faster), and then another twelve hours of darkness and cold when he could sleep. Not that he got much sleep.

Logan groaned. They liked it when he groaned. The torture was just getting started for the day, but who knew? Perhaps they would get bored and leave early if he gave them what they wanted. Dirk, one of the many torturers, usually worked alone on him, but today there was another.

Scratch that. The second one left after admiring Dirk's technique with a scalpel.

Logan could hope Dirk would get bored, but he doubted it would happen. Dirk was bred for causing pain, it was his sole purpose and desire. He was also a petty, ass-licking, peon in the demon world. But that didn't change the fact that Logan was tortured to the near end of his existence every day—if there were days down here—by him.

But Logan lived for hope these days. Scoffing at his own sentimentality (living for fucking hope? Maybe he deserved the Pit), he scanned the room. The tools for extracting the most amount of pain in the least amount of time were in place, and Dirk, who loved to torture his fellow demons, was grinning in his face. The stench of his decrepit breath turned Logan's stomach. There were not many things in the underworld that bothered him, but little by little, Dirk's smell was one of them.

"This little piggy went to the bucket," Dirk said. He sliced off a toe.

Logan grunted as the pain lanced through his foot. It would grow back and it would hurt just as much while doing so. Regeneration was a bitch, that was sure.

"And this little piggy joined him," Dirk said in a sing-song voice. Obviously, there were many things wrong with his mind.

Logan was holding onto his own sanity by threads. It had been months, at least, that he was in this dungeon for his crime against the hierarchy. He kept telling himself that soon, he'd be back out there. He was a tough fighter, the best. He had friends and had been noticed by his superiors before the bedroom incident.

Which had almost been worth it...

"And this little piggy was eaten was by the big, bad wolf." Dirk tossed one of his toes to the hell-hounds at the door, who snapped it up.

Logan bit his tongue. Insults only made the torture worse. Every demon knew better than to let the hounds get a taste of your blood, though. He'd be hunted by the damn thing for the rest of his existence. For the thousandth time, he swore silently to break Dirk over his own wrack for as long as he was down here, himself. He would make this psychopathic demon pay.