Shadow Blades (The Cimmerian Cycle #2)

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Various instruments lined the walls and Cormac wanted to return to his previous state. He knew he wouldn't have felt pain even if they chopped his arm clean off.

The guard had disappeared, closing the door behind him. Cormac had finally worked out why he was still alive. They were going to torture him for everything he knew. About the guild, Kiayani, the thieves: everything and everyone. He didn't want to be in pain but he knew he couldn't betray the Guild. Not only would he be murdered in his cell by some assassin who was far more skilled than he, but he couldn't let anyone in the Guild die because of his mistakes. There were the two old woman who had made his robes, the little girl, Rose, who had reminded him so much of Mouse. And as much as he never wanted to see Rider again, he did not want to see him dead. Cormac would have to keep his mouth shut and endure the pain, even if it killed him.

This was his punishment for failing, after all. Under his breath he whispered a prayer to the Ancestors. It made him feel a little better, but hardly did more than that. Prayers wouldn't save him now.

The guard returned with another man who was well dressed and looked down at Cormac as if he was a steaming pile of horse manure. He went over to the tables and ran his hands over the torture instruments.

"Eenie, meanie, miny, mo, should I slice off his leg or his toe?" he chanted, hovering over a saw and a dagger. Cormac gulped, but then remembered that toes were useless once you died.

The man smiled at Cormac's fear but as the guard left the grin dropped, "You don't have to worry about losing an appendage my young friend," he said, "I'll be civil." He turned to face Cormac, holding a small knife in his hands. He didn't look deranged but the precise cuts to his leg made him think otherwise. This man was mad, but he hid it well.

He threw questions at Cormac but Cormac refused to speak, grunts of pain forced from between his lips.

The last thing Cormac remembered before passing out, was the blinding pain of the knife being pushed into his thigh.

He woke in his cell suddenly, overwhelmed with waves of pain. His left leg was neatly bandaged but he was covered in a layer of dried blood. He used his hands to check that the rest of him was intact, but the interrogator had been true to his word.

Cormac ground his teeth as the pain shot through him. He hoped he hadn't said anything in those last moments of delirium. The wound must be proof enough of his silence.

Cormac didn't bother to sit up or even turn his head when the guards pushed something under the bars. It must have been days since he ate but he was by no means hungry. The fire in his leg rippled through his muscles, churning his empty stomach. If he was lucky he might starve himself to death.

As he lay there, Cormac drifted in and out of consciousness.

His next week would follow the same pattern. Every morning new food would be slid under the door and Cormac would ignore everything but the water. The starvation distracted him from him pain. Every evening at around midnight a guard would come for him and deliver him to the torture chamber. The interrogator would whisper in his ears, question him and each moment of silence was punctured by a new painful wound to rival the last.

Cormac screamed in pain so loudly he was sure his raw yells would wake up the entire castle. By the end of the week his clothes hung off of him, far too large for his deprived body. He could count his ribs under bruised skin with little effort. Cormac had lost the will to live.

By that seventh day he was ready to give in.

When he was escorted to the chamber the blood was washed from his body, his clothes were changed and he forced himself to meet the integrators eyes. What is the point? Cormac thought. He didn't think he could take any more pain.