Armor wasn’t Jorakai’s only advantage. With his great reach, and even greater strength, he appeared able to halt Thren’s assault at any time. As Haern ran to join in, the paladin swung his sword in another wide arc. Thren dared not block, not after witnessing Haern’s struggle, and instead, he dropped to his knees underneath, then rolled away as the great sword curled back around and stabbed deep into the earth where he’d been. Haern came crashing in while the sword was still embedded in the dirt, both feet slamming into the man’s chest in an attempt to knock him away from his blade and leave him vulnerable.
It felt like ramming feetfirst into a giant. Haern somersaulted off, his feet barely touching ground before he leaped in again, this time slashing toward Jorakai’s exposed face with one blade while thrusting for the gap at the armpit with the other. The paladin tore his blade free, chunks of dirt flying as he whipped it around, blocking both strikes, then continuing its turn to deter Thren’s attempted charge from the other side, again beating him back. Still, they were together now, and Haern swung and stabbed, forcing Jorakai to turn his attention in his direction lest he be cut down.
Jorakai continued to swing in long, wide arcs, his burning blade crackling as it cut through the air. Haern felt himself finally settling into a rhythm, knowing when the paladin would turn his way, and therefore retreating, and when to come rushing back in while his father attacked from the opposite direction. They’d scored no hits yet, but Jorakai was clearly getting frustrated, constantly turning back and forth, sometimes blocking the attacks with his swords, sometimes using the armor on his elbow and arms.
At last, Haern saw an opening. With Jorakai in mid-spin, his back was to him, and in that instant, Haern dropped to one knee, and as the burning blade cut above his head, he stabbed deep into the paladin’s calf. Before he could suffer any retaliation, he danced away, ripping out the saber as he did. Blood flew, and by the scream Jorakai let out, Haern knew the fight was theirs. Rather than press the fight he stayed back, lurking along with his father as they watched Jorakai lean most of his weight on his good leg.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, taking a hobbling step forward. “What wisdom do you think I have that you can take by the sword?”
Thren joined Haern’s side, and shoulder to shoulder, they prepared a charge.
“Don’t worry,” Thren said. “You’ll tell us soon enough.”
Together they rushed him, and as he was unable to properly brace himself, his sword carried only a shadow of its former strength. Haern put both his swords in the way, and as he blocked it, his left foot kicked out, ramming into the dark paladin’s throat. Thren was left unblocked, and he took advantage of it, jamming one of his short swords into the knee of the man’s good leg while slipping the other through a crease at his side. Jorakai crumpled to the ground from the combination of their attacks, and when he hit, the sword fell from his hand. The fire surrounding it faded away, and it seemed the stars shone brighter for it.
Thren was on top of him in a heartbeat, knees pressing on Jorakai’s shoulders to pin his arms, his swords crossed beneath his chin, gently touching the skin of his neck. The paladin’s breaths came ragged and uneven as he tried to recover from the blow. Haern paced before the two, pausing only to kick the great sword out of reach.
“If you’d only surrendered, you’d have spared yourself the pain,” Thren said, bent down so he could stare into Jorakai’s eyes.
Haern had hoped for surrender, maybe exhaustion or hopelessness in Jorakai’s response. Instead, he heard laughter, and he knew they would need to earn their answers that night.
Fingers touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Delysia there, withdrawing her hand to wrap both around her waist as she watched, her upper body hunched as if she were cold.
“Give me one moment,” she said, her red hair taking on a bluish tone in the moonlight. “I will not stop you, but I may at least reduce the torment he must suffer.”
Haern stepped out of her way and gestured for her to continue. Thren eyed her warily, but he said nothing as she knelt down above Jorakai, her hands lying flat on either side of his face. The paladin glared up at her, his smile momentarily fading.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “A priestess of Ashhur come to join the fun?”
She ignored him and instead dipped her head and closed her eyes. Words of a prayer slipped from her lips, soft and indiscernible. Light glowed around her fingertips, then rolled over her hands and onto his face as if it were made of liquid. It settled on his lips, waiting, and then when he breathed in, the light slipped between his lips and vanished down his throat.
“I cannot make him speak,” she said, rising to her feet. “But when he does, he may only speak the truth.”
She walked past them, and Haern reached out to take her hand. She let him, smiling faintly, then pulled away so she could return to the road. Haern watched her go, then brought his attention back to his father, who was gesturing for him to come nearer.
“Your swords,” he said.
Haern hesitated, an irrational fear of a trap soaring through him, but he fought it down and then handed over one of his blades. Thren took it, flipped it around, and then jammed it through Jorakai’s right palm. As the man screamed, Thren gestured again.
“The other.”
He almost didn’t give it to him. Almost.
Now with both of Jorakai’s hands pinned to the ground, Thren rose to his feet, his own short swords twirling in his hands.
“I want to make this perfectly clear,” Thren told him. “You will suffer greatly tonight, though for how long is up to you. If you cooperate, it will only be minutes. If you don’t, it will be hours.” He smiled at Jorakai. “And if you piss me off, I will make it days. I know ways to hurt a man without killing him, dozens, really. If I must, I will try every single one, break every bone, tear every muscle, stab your eyes, your lips, tear your genitals from your body with my bare hands … I’ll do it all, do you understand?”
Jorakai was laughing through it all, just laughing.
“You damn fools,” he said. “Nothing but damn fools.”
Thren smiled right back.
“We’ll see.”
He began his work, starting with dislocating fingers. Haern watched, a rock building in his stomach. He told himself this was a man who deserved no better, a servant of a dark god, but it mattered little as the man’s screams grew louder. Those screams only paused when Thren would ram his elbow into the man’s throat, constantly keeping his breathing ragged and uneven.
“We need to get inside the Stronghold,” Thren told him when he paused for a moment to put away one of his swords. “The building must have a weakness, a secret entrance or a lapse in the patrols. I want to know when and where.”
Still laughing. Jorakai was still laughing.
“You don’t understand,” he said, even as he struggled to breathe. “You won’t break me. You’ll never break me.”
Thren glanced over his shoulder, and his worried look was enough. Delysia’s spell was supposed to keep him from lying. Did that mean Jorakai spoke the truth, or merely that he believed it to be true?
“Most men claim they can’t be broken,” Thren said, taking his other sword and pressing it against Jorakai’s left eye. “Most men are wrong.”
“I am the servant of the Lion, the sharpened claw to rake the world,” Jorakai said. “What you’ll do to me … do you think I have not undergone worse? In the pits of the Stronghold, we are made pure. There we are broken and remade strong. There is nothing you can do, nothing, that will match the black fires that have seared my skin and the teeth that shredded me down to the bone.”