“No,” Wilam said in a whisper. His body was beginning to shake. Fatigue was overcoming his strength and he wanted to die.
“Don’t be unreasonable. You could be my right hand. Together we can return peace to the Five Kingdoms.”
“Don’t you mean the ‘Two Kingdoms?’”
“Soon enough. Don’t you see that united we will be much stronger and more prosperous?”
“I can see that you will be more prosperous.”
“I did not start this asinine war,” King Zorlan said angrily. “I was content with my kingdom, but Belphan and Oveer insisted. You were not there to defend Yelsia-what were we to think? But now the die is cast and it cannot be taken back. Osla and Ortis are without a king. It is my duty to rule them.”
“Your duty? What about Belphan’s sons?”
“They are children,” Zorlan argued. “And sickly ones, from what I hear. I doubt they will live long enough to fill their father’s role as king of Osla. And if they do, they will need guidance.”
“And you are the person to give it to them, I’m sure, as long as they pay you tribute?”
“Your insolence is beginning to wear on my nerves. I think perhaps it is time that Ebain took a turn with you. Getting stubborn people to see reason is his specialty, although I dare say you won’t enjoy it as much as talking with me. I shall return in the morning to see if you are not more willing to cooperate.”
King Zorlan stood up and walked briskly from the tent. The other man that had come in with the king opened a pouch and pulled out a long metal device that tapered to a point.
“I cannot watch this,” said the healer, hurrying from the tent.
Ebain didn’t speak, but rather laid his instrument to the side and removed a set of leather manacles. Wilam tried to resist when Ebain bound his hands and feet, but he simply had no strength. He struggled, but Ebain subdued him easily. Wilam was panting by the time Ebain had him bound hand and foot, and his vision began to blur. He wanted to be left in peace, to close his eyes and never wake up again, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Ebain returned to his metal device. He handled it lovingly, as if it were the dearest thing in the world to him-a prized piece of art rather than a torture device.
“I won’t bother asking questions,” Ebain said, his voice almost monotone and completely without emotion. “The king will come back in the morning. If you answer his questions then, the pain will stop. For now, that is all you need to know.”
Wilam’s heart was racing. He struggled futilely against his bonds, but Ebain merely watched and waited. Terror of what was about to happen felt like a giant weight had been dropped onto Wilam’s chest. He struggled to breathe and sweat began to pour off of him. Then, moving quickly, Ebain dropped onto Wilam’s stomach. There was a large spike and heavy mallet in his hands. Wilam’s vision narrowed and then he passed out.
Ebain seemed unconcerned. He merely lifted Wilam’s hands over his head and drove the spike into the ground through the links in the leather manacles. Then he returned to his long, metal device. At first glance the tool seemed like nothing more than a highly polished spike, or some type of villainous piece of art, but on closer inspection its deadly nature became clearer. The tip was pointed and smooth for several inches, then two small blades protruded slightly. They were thin and delicate looking, but honed finer than a razor blade. Beyond that, the instrument became serrated with tiny teeth-like edges that grew taller and further apart. Ebain could skin, gut, and dismember a body with the instrument.
He started by driving another stake through the leather manacles binding Prince Wilam’s feet. Then he sat back on his heels and stroked the prince’s foot. Wilam was completely unconscious. They had removed most of his clothing shortly after they found his body on the side of the road. His troops, if they had seen him fall, had either believed he was dead or didn’t care enough to rescue him. They had moved on, leaving the bodies of dead or dying soldiers in the road. Prince Wilam was found not far from his wounded horse, which lay in the dirt too exhausted to move.
Ebain placed the point of the device just under the edge of Wilam’s big toe. He waited for just a moment, his hands holding the foot steady and the torture device ready, his eyes never leaving Wilam’s face. Then he pushed the device down. Blood welled up around the toenail and Wilam squirmed, but didn’t wake up. Then Ebain gave the instrument a sharp thrust. The toenail was ripped from the nail bed with a wet pop, and Wilam screamed. His eyes opened so widely that Ebain could see whites all around the irises.
Ebain watched for a moment, letting Wilam struggle against his bonds again. He watched the prince’s face as it grew red. He ignored the blood running down Wilam’s foot. It was a minor injury and he knew it would clot on its own soon enough. As Prince Wilam’s cries began to die down, turning from screams of pain to whimpers, Ebain took hold of the other foot.
“No!” Wilam shouted. “Let go of me you bastard!”
Ebain moved with efficient precision. He drove his torture spike under the toenail on Wilam’s other big toe. Then he proceeded with the smaller toes, his hands working like a musician’s, seemingly with a mind of their own. Ebain was practiced in the art of pain, never looking down to make sure he was doing things correctly. The toenails were driven from their nail beds slowly, with a wrenching, prying action that increased Wilam’s discomfort.
Sleep was no longer an option. Wilam’s heart was racing, sweat poured from his scalp, face, and underarms. His voice, already hoarse from dehydration, was soon lost from his uncontrollable screaming. For the next six hours, all Wilam knew was pain. Ebain used his instrument and hands to pull each toe from its socket before slowly sawing through the Achilles tendon of each foot. Then, Ebain moved on to Wilam’s knees. He started by tying thick straps around each thigh to constrict the blood flow to Wilam’s lower legs.
“Please, stop,” Wilam said, his voice a ragged whisper. “I’ll give you anything.”
Ebain ignored the prince’s pleas. Instead, he stabbed his device under Wilam’s right kneecap. The pain was so intense Wilam passed out. Ebain dumped cool water in Wilam’s face, rousing him before he returned to twisting and sawing Wilam’s knee with the long metal instrument. What seemed like random actions were actually practiced movements that grated against bones and severed ligaments. There was only one incision point, so bleeding from the wound was minor-although Wilam’s knee swelled to almost twice its normal size, the skin turning purple.
Wilam’s screams sounded more like whispered exhalations. Tears streaked from his eyes. His skin was white with bright red splotches. Somehow the pain grew more intense. The hours dragged on. Ebain crippled first one knee, then the other. Wilam’s wrists and ankles were rubbed raw by the rough, leather manacles until they bled freely. Wilam strained so hard against his bonds that he pulled several muscles in his back, which spasmed and added to his pain. Bile rose in his throat and he vomited, but laying flat on his back he was forced to spit and spew the bile from his mouth. Inevitably some made its way down his windpipe, the stomach acid searing and burning the delicate lining of his lungs and causing him to cough and sputter.
The night seemed to never end, but eventually it did. Ebain’s last act was to use his instrument to pry Wilam’s left hip from its socket. Wilam passed out again, and this time it took more than water to rouse him. The healer was brought in and used thick, greasy salves to stop the bleeding. His feet were swollen and unrecognizable. His knees were gross mockeries of normal joints. And his left hip protruded at an impossible angle.
The healer used a mixture of potent smelling herbs to rouse Wilam. His eyes fluttered open and gazed around weakly.
“It seems you haven’t enjoyed our accommodations,” King Zorlan said. He was standing over Zollin and gazing down at the crippled prince. “I’m afraid you’ll need to start talking or the pain will start again. Ebain has only just begun, really. Soon he’ll work on your manhood. It’s a vile art, torture, but necessary nonetheless. And they say you really haven’t felt pain until Ebain breaks each of your ribs, one by one, so that every breath you take is sheer agony. I don’t want that for you, no, no. You are of noble blood, after all-even if Yelsia is a backward land of lesser people. You could still be king of the stooges, after all. I’ll send you back to Yelsia once I’ve slain your father and taken control of your kingdom. You can be a puppet king, a permanent example to everyone who sees you that I am a master both cruel and compassionate. What do you say?”