Nael

Nael - Chapter 2

Nael's confinement and seemingly never-ending torture—in this rankest of rooms—had done little to ameliorate his confusion over recent events. Each time his thoughts brought him back to Jayna and Red—those toad-humping traitors!—he strained involuntarily at the heavy, mage-crafted links of chain binding his chaffed wrists behind his bowed and sore-ridden back. His rage flowed unabated, bubbling from his bleeding and broken toes, up through his ruined ribs and cracked collarbone, finally arriving at his shaven head in a swirling tornado of anger. From there, it bled through his eyes and coated his teeth with a sour taste that stung the insides of his cracked lips. If only Jenar were here, he thought wistfully. His wandering train of thoughts was brought to an abrupt and crashing halt as the door of his cell suddenly opened and slammed back against the interior wall, splitting the silence with a bang! Piercing daggers of light assaulted his heavily-dilated pupils mercilessly, like spears of fire thrown by the God of Light himself. He could just make out the silhouette of a short, hunched figure. Although small, the figure pulsed with menace.

Gods...take my life, but first, let me kill this thrice-damned imp. I beg you, he cried out silently as the diminutive figure stood in the doorway like the world's smallest sentinel of evil.

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This is the day the dead-man breaks...or the day the dead-man dies, the aged torturer said to himself with a child-like smile on his wrinkled features as he thrust open the door of Cell Two. He was pleased by the grimace etched into the dead-man's face as the light burned his dilated and disturbingly-colored eyes. He stood for a moment, basking in his impending joy as he was blessed with another chance to show one of Her wayward children out of the darkness and into the purifying light of Her forgiveness.

The room was quite hot and his bare, stubby forearms and bald pate already showed a sheen of sweat where his ash-grey tunic and hood failed to cover his almost translucent, liver-spotted skin. He gave a little clap of his hands, briefly. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the delicious scent of fear. "You look a bit piqued, dead-man. It's not a bad time, is it?" His thin gash of a mouth stretched into a hideous, black-gummed grin as he regarded the kneeling prisoner. Not waiting for a response, he strode purposefully into the cell and unslung, then rolled out his pouches across the surface of the crude, rough-hewn table nestled against the far wall.

"You're not still upset over losing your ring, are you dead-man?" He asked Nael with a mocking smile splayed across his hawk-like features. "Are you ready to tell us about the Shadow Queen—your benevolent patron?"

"Fornicate...with a phoenix....you little...bastard," Nael replied with bated breath.

The old man suppressed a chuckle. "Of course...when we're done—when you're done rather—I'll see if I can make some time for that...in the meantime..." He had selected one of the vicious-looking tools. He turned the pointed instrument he was holding over in his hand, admiration and something like lust rising up in his eyes as the light glinted off the sharp metal's edges. It fit the palm of his hand snugly; its soft, leather grip just felt right to him. Protruding out from the grip was several feet of sharp, slightly-curved steel; barbs and miniature corkscrews of rusted iron poked out an inch or two on each side. He quickly extended his arm and drew it back a few times as if stabbing an invisible adversary.

With a soft sigh, he walked forward until he was standing before Nael as he kneeled; the two of them were eye to eye. "I do have something very special planned for you today, dead-man, but first..." He began passing the instrument back in forth in front of Nael's eyes slowly. With a swift, practiced maneuver he reversed his hand on the grip and rammed it through the meat of Nael's thigh, twisting it as he did so.