The hulking body of Nastar loomed
over the half-dead captive, who only wished that he was dead entirely. Then
that hideous voice, that sounded like a million souls screaming as they were
siphoned into an eternal flame, growled out again, “Where did the rebellion
come from? Who instigated that foolery?”
The burnt, humanoid, chunk of flesh
that still shook with its own heartbeats and breaths could not find strength to
answer. Then Nastar seized the victim’s shoulders with obsidian black hands,
which began to glow as they turned molten, but there were no screams, only
unutterable gasps from a man whose pain senses had been so fried of late that
they no longer sent any orderly message to his mind, instead randomly firing in
frightening intensity and duration.
Nastar hoisted the man up above the
glowing black lump that was the demon’s head. Sensing that the human could no
longer feel the pain he was inflicting, Nastar turned for a new angle, “Look
into my eyes. What do you see there?”
The eyes of the tortured man
fluttered barely open, as much as they could any more. He answered, “The body
of a mother, contorting as you slew her. The voice of a thousand daughters
screaming as their bodies were burned to satisfy your hate for all mankind. The
silence of a million gravestones, marking shallow graves with no names
inscribed on them. Ten thousand fathers who have children no more, and will
live only as long as they clear slag from your furnaces.”
Nastar smiled a hideous grin, which
was distorted to any man’s vision by the heat that radiated from his body when
he was angry, or when he was glad. Then
Nastar went on, “Now answer me, lest your fate be like theirs. From whence came
the rebellion that shook my whole empire?”
The man could no longer resist the
terror that filled him, “The South,” he dribbled out. His mouth had become so
dry it was nearly unintelligible.
Nastar smiled again, and spoke to
the man in his attendance, “Ratachar, give him a drink.”
Ratachar picked up a bucket of
water and walked toward the tortured victim to refresh him to answer questions.
Before he reached him, though, Nastar placed his hands in the water, and
instantly it was boiling. Ratachar could scarcely hold to the bucket as his
hands were burned, but he dared not drop it in the presence of his master.
Nastar then took the bucket of boiling water and splashed in the bleeding face
of his victim, who with open mouth received the little mouthful of water that
was not steam.
Nastar continued questioning, “The
South? Of which of my worlds?”
The man began a lengthy answer,
knowing which questions would come, “The South of the Red World. A man named
Reiyen, a wizard by trade, a rebel by will. He organized them all, he gave the
word.”
Nastar bent down closer to his
informer, and so that the informant might not die Nastar allowed his body to
cool somewhat, “Them all? Tell me who they all are.”
The victim spewed out as many names
as he knew, the list coming so rapidly that it was nearly unintelligible, as he
slurred names together and lost syllables, “Kar… aven… trenit, Muichthil,
Raeward… thugn.” By nature, Nastar could recall all he ever saw or heard, so he
was not afraid of the garbled information.
Content with this draw of
information, and seeing that his victim had told all he knew, he turned from
intelligence gathering to play. Seizing his victim by the throat with his right
hand, which coiled all the way around the victim, he spoke, the heat of his
breath burning away the few hairs that remained on the man’s head, “Do you wish
you were dead?”
Without awaiting response Nastar
clenched his hand so tightly the bones of the man’s neck could be heard
breaking, the whole of his neck turning to a bruise. Then he threw the human
across the room, breaking his bones against the thick pillar that acted as the
wall between the throne room and the desolate landscape of Nastar’s abode, the
Shadow Realm, a sub-sea level island rimmed with mountains beyond which flames
towered into the sky, holding back the sea.
Nastar strode over to the helpless
victim and placed his foot on the limp body. Even through his metal boot there
was enough heat to melt the victim’s flesh. Seeing the mess that would make
Nastar withdrew his foot, instead grasping the man about his waist with hands
he allowed to cool a little. The body bent over backwards lamely, having not
even bones enough for support. Nastar drew the body close and bent over it his
face inches from that of his victim. “Look into my eyes again, and tell me what
will be your last sight.” He anticipated no response, expecting that the sight
of his eyes would end the man’s pitiful life.
But to his surprise, the man
struggled on, “I see three men, one with a sword, one with a staff, and one
with a spear. I see the White Cross shining, and I in its blessed realm. I see
your body lying hewn into pieces on the balcony of your tower. I see our last
best hope, standing over you with a sword as your body freezes. Our king is
come.”
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