Chapter 6
Magnus’ Tower:
Magnus took a long and deep sip of brandy from the flask he had hidden in his robes as he stood before the cauldron in the center of his room. The sorcerer was breathing hard in excitement. Putting the flask away, he walked to his desk and opened a strange box with a few softly spoken words.
A small vial containing a dwindling amount of what appeared to be blood emerged, and Magnus carefully took it and cradled it to his heart. He walked back over to the cauldron, his excitement growing with each step he took. Very carefully he let a single drop of the vial fall into the cauldron. Carefully but quickly, he reattached its seal, and began muttering his incantations.
Sweat started dripping from his brow as he continued the mantra. A small flicker of light was born deep inside the cauldron, and with a ravenous hunger it grew. Magnus had finally stopped chanting and opened his eyes. A mountain of flames stood before him, and he groaned in excitement at the voice he heard come from somewhere deep within them.
Magnuuuuusssss…
A look of joy filled Magnus’ face as he heard the sweet whispers in his mind. “I am here,” he said. “I report to you that so far everything is going to plan.”
The flames flickered, showing their satisfaction.
Wheeeeeeeennnn…?
“Soon, very soon,” Magnus said, “the pieces are falling in order, all that is left is moving them correctly.”
Weeee grow tiiiiired of the waiiiiting, Magnuuuussss.
The flames spread toward the sorcerer, and he flinched at the pain. “Forgive me, but you must have patience with me, I swear to you it will be done.”
Don’t forrrrrrget your oath, Magnuuuuusssss.
Magnus dropped his head in submission, something that many thought would be impossible for such a powerful man. “I have not, nor will I ever forget, I am your grateful servant.”
The flames grew warm and comforting again, satisfied once again with its servant.
When the rewarrrrrds are grrrrranted, Magnuuuuusss, you shalllll have a generrrrrrousss shaaaarre
Magnus smiled again and kept his head bowed. He felt a hand caress his face. Beautiful and feminine, despite the talons that ended on each finger, it slowly stroked down each side of his face.
A door slammed behind Magnus, and in a flicker, the fire was gone.
“Gods damn you, I did not wish to be disturbed!” Magnus screamed, his voice guttural and hoarse from the experience that had ended too abruptly.
Creed grinned smugly; seemed he had interrupted personal time. “Forgive me, my Lord, I meant to do no such thing.”
The behemoth of a man bowed mockingly.
“What do you want, Creed?” Magnus asked, walking back over to the box that acted as a safe for the precious contents of what was left in the vial.
Creed leaned against a far table. Seeing an unopened bottle of brandy, he popped the cork and took a giant drink of the well-aged liqueur.
Wiping a hand across his mouth and then onto his uniform, he belched very loudly, ‘I’m gonna start on the runt tonight, break him in a bit to see how tough he really is before we get to the nasty stuff.”
Magnus took a sip of his flask. “Fine; just don’t kill him, Creed, we will need him.”
The half-ogre shrugged, “Not my fault if the runt can’t handle the pain and dies on us.”
He went to take another drink and felt an iron grip wrap around his throat. The bottle shattered on the floor, and Creed started grasping for his neck as the well-hidden iron collar that was wrapped tightly around his neck began choking him without mercy.
Magnus stood over him with a faint sneer. “Do not defy me, Creed, we will need him in time, so I say again: Do not kill him.”
Magnus emphasized each word with a violent squeeze, each one worse than the next.
As Creed’s face began turning blue and his eyes bulged, Magnus released his hold.
Sweet air began filling Creed’s lungs again as he coughed and spat, trying to pull in as much as possible.
Magnus took a seat in the far corner of the room, “Remember, Creed. It was I that freed you from the slavers; it was I that kept you alive; it was I that did the unheard of and made a Half Breed Ogre a officer in the Royal forces, and it is I that can take it all away from you.”
Creed wiped the spit from the side of his mouth on the back of his hand and stared at Magnus.
The sorcerer had poured himself a tall flagon of whiskey and sat back comfortably in his chair. “Are we clear, Creed?”
It was like castrating him there on the spot. “We are clear,” Creed said and after just a moment of hesitation, he added “My Lord.”
“Good,” Magnus said, taking another drink. “Then do your job.”
Creed picked himself up and left the sorcerer alone.
Palace gardens:
The day was drawing late as Ororo walked through the gardens; it was a place that put her at ease and let her forget everything.
Especially a certain Barbarian.
Since seeing him this morning, the Northman had rarely left her thoughts, and it was quickly beginning to bother her. The man was her enemy, for the Lady’s sake. And for what she had heard of him, he was a horrid and merciless killer, and he was well deserving of whatever punishment he received.
Then why could she not get his eyes out of her mind? They were eyes that spoke of many horrors and atrocities, that was undeniable, but there was something else in them. A dignity and honor that Ororo had rarely seen before. The man on the outside spoke of a brute and murderer, but his eyes spoke of a far different person on the inside.
Voices stirred her out of her train of thought. One of them she recognized as Scott’s. She rounded the line of tall Winter Bloom bushes and found him hidden away in the brush with a lovely redheaded woman.
Ah-ha, Ororo thought looking at the two, she was right.
Ororo cleared her throat softly and Scott and the woman jumped at the sound.
“Pardon me,” Ororo said, “I did not mean to interrupt anything.”
Scott was flustered. “Of course not, Ororo, I was just, uh…we were just…”
The redhead saved him. “We were talking of the arrangements of the wedding at the Temple, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, forgive me for the interruptions,” Ororo said.
“NO! I mean, no, no, it is fine, my lady,” Scott said, his face still flushed. “We had finished already.”
Ororo suppressed the smile that was fighting to break free. “I do not think I have had the pleasure,” she said offering her hand to the redhead. “I am Ororo.”
The woman bowed low. “I know, Your Majesty, I do not think any person in all of Aldriah does not know of you; I am Jean Greyhame, cleric at the Temple of the Mother.”
Ororo gently took her hand. “Please, if one more person bows to me like that, I will go absolutely mad! It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“You as well, my lady,” she said, smiling.
She was very lovely, Ororo thought, and seemed a sweet person.
Scott chose well.
Casting one more longing look at Scott, Jean excused herself and was off.
“I am truly sorry if I humiliated either of you, Scott,” Ororo said in earnest.
Scott was still trying to maintain appearances. “No, my Lady, it was nothing, just talk of the wedding is all.”
The man was an unbelievably bad liar.
“It is fine, Scott, you do not have to hide the truth for the sake of my feelings,” Ororo assured him.
Scott began trying to explain that it was not what she thought.
Ororo waved away his attempts. “Please, Scott, a nearsighted ogre could see what is between the two of you.”
Scott sighed in defeat, “Please don’t tell my father, Ororo, it would make a mess of all that he has been trying to make come together.”
The look of pleading on his face was heartbreaking. “No worries, Scott; your secret is safe with me.” She placed a hand on his shoulder to reassure him.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head low, not looking at the elven princess.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
Scott tilted his head to look into her eyes. “I am doing wrong here, I know, I have been betrothed to you, I have a duty that I cannot ignore, but...” He paused a moment, “but I love her.”
Ororo took his hand. “It is ok, Scott, I will not judge you for matters of the heart, no one has the right to do that to anyone.”
“But my father…”
“…is a good man, but even he does not know how you feel,” she finished for him.
Scott slowly nodded his head. “You’re right; thank you, Ororo.”
“I am sorry for all this” she said. “By the Lady, I would not stand between your love if I had any choice in the matter at all.”
“I know that as well, Ororo” he said, “And I would not stop you from your chosen one as well, if the choice were mine.”
Ororo sadly nodded her head at him and grinned.
“Well, I guess we had better…” he began, but he was cut off quickly.
“Oh no, you don’t,” she said now with a full-blown smile,” you do not get off that easy, you and I are going to take a walk, and you will tell me all about the two of you and how you met.”
Scott smiled genuinely and the two began walking.
Dungeons of Aldriah:
The Father Beast must be pissing on me right about now… Logan thought as he scooped up another handful of the gunk they were giving him as food.
Proper food; yea, right, if you’re a fucking diseased mule.
Looking at the food suddenly, he thought that this very well may be where it came from.
Shrugging, Logan still ate. Poison or no, the sick excess of a dying cow or not, Logan had to keep his strength up if he was going to get out of this situation he had gotten himself into.
Seeing the bottle of bourbon on the guard’s desk, not far from the cell door, made his mouth dry. A solid drink would make him feel a world better right now.
Seeing the slumped form of the guard low in his seat, told Logan that escape might be a bit easier than he thought. Getting out of his cell might be easier than planned, but getting out of the city was the real problem.
He knew he could not very well go straight out the palace doors and to the front gates, killing any guard that got in his way, no matter how much fun it sounded.
Logan knew that he would more than likely have to deal with non-military Aldriahns as well, and although he held no great love for the citizens of this nation, he wasn’t going to take the life of a noncombatant.
Slurping down the last of the tasteless mush and draining the small cup of water he had been given, Logan lay back on the bare rock floor. Night had still not fallen yet, and if what that bastard Creed had said was true, then he was in for a long night. He had best get some sleep while it was available to him.
Closing his eyes, he dreamed of the snow-capped mountains of the north and the warmth of a roaring fire with a large tankard of mead in his hand. He dreamed of seeing his sister, her young unscarred face, lit brightly by her large brown eyes, laughing with her over the stories that Drake would tell.
He had dreams of hair as white and as thick as the snow, of eyes as blue as the sky after a storm. Dreams of light brown skin, wrapped in warm pelts, and of lips as soft as the brush of a flower petal. Logan dreamed of a woman with a heart that burned as brightly as the sun escaping the confines of night. A spirit that knew of no yielding, strong as steel but as warm as the flames it was tempered in.
For a few moments, even if only in his dreams, Logan had found something he did not even know he was searching for. Something he did not even know he needed.
“Wakey, wakey, sweet prince,” a slightly slurred voice called to him, waking him from his dream.
Logan stood fast and put his back against one of the cell corners.
Two men stood on the other side of the bars, grinning at him devilishly. One was a short and dirty man with sickly, almost green skin and bulging eyes. The other was tall and gangly, with a mess of blond hair atop his head.
The tall one spoke again, his voice carrying the influence of too much bourbon. “Come on, lad, the boss is gonna be down here soon, and we have to get ya ready for the party.”
They both laughed, their eyes never losing their malice.
Logan stepped forward and laughed along with them, his deep voice overpowering theirs, causing them to stop and back away from the Northman.
“Time already, huh?” Logan leaned against the bars, “Well, I been looking forward to this all day.”
“Just one question.” He pressed his head against the bars and bared his teeth. “Which one of you assholes gets to die first trying to take me?”
The two men were afraid, even though the bars were of the strongest steel, they were afraid. The Northman looked as though he could rip the bars from their base and be on them before they could even start screaming.
Logan scoffed a laugh. “When you have the guts, come on back and give it a go.” He plopped back down on the cell floor, never taking his eyes off of the two. “Until then, let me get my fucking sleep.”
Logan dozed back off as the two men still cowered outside the cell door.
The Gardens:
“So your stepmother and she were close.”
Scott nodded.
They had been walking now for a good hour or more, but neither of them noticed; they were enjoying talking to each other too much.
“My stepmother was High Cleric of the Temple, and Jean was one of her favorite pupils,” he continued.
Ororo thought a moment more, wondering whether she should ask her next question or not, her instilled curiosity clawing at her, “Where is your mother now?”
Scott sighed, “She passed many years ago.”
Damn it, why do I always have to ask the hurtful questions? Ororo thought, kicking herself.
“She was a great woman and a good Queen,” Scott continued. “My father loved her very much.”
“What was her name?”
“Lilandra.”
Ororo repeated the name silently to herself. “A beautiful name.”
Scott nodded. “For a beautiful woman.”
“What happened to her?” Ororo asked; Gods damn her curiosity.
That look fell over Scott again, the one that spoke of blinding degrees of pain. “She was found raped and beaten in the Northlands, with the symbol of the Beast carved into her forehead and her throat slit.”
The thought of such brutality made Ororo gasp. “Scott, I am sorry, Lady damn me for my wretched questions!”
Scott placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ororo, I do not fault you a bit for the asking. If you’re going to be queen, you will need to know these things, and as far as bringing up old wounds, as I said, I have come to grips with it.”
Ororo thought of King Xavius; some had obviously not.
“So that is the reason why Aldriah called for the War with the North.”
Scott shrugged. “War had been brewing for a very long time between our people and the Northmen; my Mother’s death was just the catalyst. My father was overcome with grief at the time, and it was Magnus that made the push for war.”
There was that name again and the shivers that accompanied it. “Who is Magnus, where did he come from?”
Scott shook his head. “No one really knows, not even my father. He does not share much of his past with anyone. The most I know is that he spent a great deal of time in the Shadowbourne hills of the Northeast, After that, my father and he met on an expedition and the two have been joined at the hip since, it seems.”
The lack of background on the sorcerer did not improve Ororo’s opinion of him any. “He makes me uneasy.”
Scott laughed softly. “Believe me, you would not be the first, the servants will go nowhere near his tower if they do not have to.”
Ororo smiled thinly; that really was not making her feel any better.
“Do you hate the Northmen?” Ororo asked, wanting to change the subject.
Scott did not speak for a moment. He rubbed his hand along his chin, thinking.
“I hate war and I hate what was done to my mother,” he said, his voice firm. “I hate that so many die, be it from our blades or theirs, and I hate that neither side will try any other path than that of battle, but do I hate the people of the north?” Scott shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
Ororo was surprised. “Even though they killed your stepmother?”
“The entire Northern people did not kill my stepmother, I will not cast wrath on an entire people for the actions of a few.”
Ororo was correct again about the young prince. He was indeed a good man.
“Do you think that makes me naïve or weak?” he asked.
Ororo shook her head, grinning. “It makes you a good man, Scott, and it shows the qualities of a fine King.”
Scott smiled and the two kept walking.
Dungeons of Aldriah:
If the world were to shit on him anymore, Victus Creed was certain that it would reach the top of the battlements by morning.
With Magnus being the bastard that he is, Creed thought, absently rubbing his neck, and the old man having his dogs sniff about, tonight’s entertainment would have to be more lax than what he would prefer.
He would at the very least have to leave the runt with all of his limbs. Creed hated when he had to do that. It took so much away from the experience.
Oh, well, he thought, reaching the door that lay on the other end of the dungeon complex. Something was better than nothing, and there were still many ways of making a man suffer.
Opening the door and finding the room empty was the last scratch on already raw nerves.
Mort and Allder, the two who were supposed to bring Logan to the interrogation room heard the roar of a very upset Creed from the other end of the complex as clearly as if he were standing beside them.
They shifted around nervously, knowing they were going to more than likely feel the bite of the whip before the prisoner did.
All the while, Logan snored loudly.
“The boss is pissed,” Mort said, rubbing his hands together over and over again.
Allder looked down the hall nervously, “So are you gonna tell him why you didn’t get the Northerner to interrogation?”
“Me??? You were supposed to be the one to knock him out first, I told ya we should have used the Quirary, but noooo, you said you could handle it! Great foresight, oh, great seer!”
Allder sneered and was about to say something when Creed arrived like an angry bull.
The gaze he gave them could set fire to a holy man’s robes.
“Are you two idiots not supposed to have the prisoner chained and secured in the interrogation room by now?” Despite his obvious temperament, Creed’s voice was amazingly calm.
It only added to the fear already bubbling over in their stomachs.
“Well, sir,” Allder tried to explain, “the old boy seemed to be a handful, and we…”
“You were just too chicken shit to get the job done, because the Northman would have taken you and hung your innards on the cell walls, is what it basically boils down to; am I correct in this assumption?” Creed tapped the wall patiently.
Mort and Allder did not know what to say in their defense; all in all, it would not matter much, anyway.
Creed sighed, “When we are done with the runt, then I’m going to give you idiots a lesson in being punctual with your duties.”
Mort and Allder both winced, not knowing in whose shoes they would rather be in, theirs or the Northman’s.
“Go get some Quirary and get your asses back here fast,” Creed told them.
Allder and Mort both ran down the halls, escaping their boss’s wrath for the time being.
Shaking his head in disgust, Creed turned back to see Logan on his elbows, smirking at him.
“Some fine help ya got there, Creed” he said, standing up. “I mean, if I had a few dozen men like that, I could really bring the walls down.”
Despite all else, Creed smiled. “They’re idiots and worthless, but they do as they’re told; I ask for nothing else from my men.”
“Loyalty doesn’t seem like it is high on the list of virtues of the type of men you command,” Logan said, leaning against bar doors. Creed didn’t flinch away from him, he didn’t expect him to. They were sizing each other up, and neither were going to come up on the short end.
“They know I’m waiting on the other side if they choose to open that door and disobey me,” Creed growled.
Here was a man who led through fear and threat of force, Logan really hated that kind.
“You know Creed, I was wrong,” he drawled, “I thought you were a low, dirty, son of a bitch, venomous, scum-sucking bastard, but I was wrong.”
Logan moved a little bit closer to the bars, his eyes on level with the leaning Creed. “You don’t rate that high to me.”
Their eyes were locked and in them they were ripping each other to pieces.
“Boss, we got it.”
Mort and Allder returned, carrying a long hollowed pipe and a small pouch; Neither Creed nor Logan acknowledged them.
“It’s time for screaming runt” Creed said, gashing his teeth
“Come right on in and get me, then. I’m right here, Creed, all it takes is you opening the door,” Logan shrugged.
Creed snorted, “Mort.”
The little man grinned and brought the pipe to his mouth and blew.
Logan felt a sharp sting on his neck; he reached up and pulled a small dart free and intently examined it.
“Quirary,” Creed supplied. “You should be feeling it now.”
Logan had begun feeling his legs give way and his arms go limp even before Creed had finished speaking. He fell to the floor like a marionette that had its strings cut, his arms and legs no longer under his control.
The cell door opened and Mort and Allder came in and lifted Logan up while Creed still stood against the bars, “One of Magnus’ little tricks, made form some damn flower he grows, makes you lose all motor function without any sensory deprivation.”
Creed leaned in close to Logan’s face as Mort and Allder came out from the cell. “In other words, runt, you can’t move, but you are still gonna feel.”
His limbs could not respond, true, but Logan still could move his head. He crushed his forehead against Creed’s nose and brought a great spurt of blood from the half-ogre.
Mort and Allder slammed Logan against the wall, as Creed wiped the blood from his obviously broken nose. “Good. I like that, runt, I like when a man still fights even though he’s beaten; makes breaking them so much more fun.”
Creed slammed a fist into the side of Logan’s head, and once again he was brought to darkness.
A few moments later, Logan raised his head to find himself in a small room with only one lantern hanging from the ceiling. He was strapped down on a long, upright table and his pants had been taken. He could move his hands a bit now, but only slightly, not nearly enough of his strength had returned to rip the bindings free.
Creed stood smiling before him, the light reflecting off of his tusk-like fangs.
“Welcome back, Northman,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “The time is now.”
Walking over to the only other thing in the room he could see, an old table, Creed emptied the contents of the bag onto the desk. The small bit of light caught the bright silver of some of Creed’s tools.
“Ya know what this is, runt?” he asked, holding a large, steel-wooled comb in his hand, with several serrated teeth clearly visible to Logan. “It’s called a carder, ya use them on wool, but I find that on the tender flesh of, say the mid-chest,” Creed viciously raked it down Logan’s chest, taking a fair portion of flesh with it, “it was way underrated in its use.”
Logan grit his teeth hard, he had not cried out, and would not. He knew that Creed wanted his screams. They were the true measure of pain, not the amount of blood that was spilt, but the volume of the cry of anguish.
Digging through his tools, Creed brought forth a large, saw-toothed blade. “Oh, this is a favorite of mine, won’t be for you, at least not any time soon. This is called the Blood Eagle saw, ya see, I use it to cut your ribs along the spine and then, I break them and fold them outwards and slowly pull your lungs away.”
Flashes of memory showed on his demented face. Creed was enjoying this. “I have all kinds of ways to get you to scream Northman; it’s only a matter of time.”
Logan spat in Creed’s face.
A thunderous right hand smashed against Logan’s temple.
“Okay, runt, how about I pull out the big toys.” Creed walked back to the desk and pulled out a pair of long iron shears. Unlike other ones that ended in standard blades or jaws, this one ended in pair of hemicylindrical blades that formed a long tube; even closed, Logan could see the spikes that lined the inside…
“The shears of the Gator,” Creed said, setting the large iron device down and walking behind the table that held Logan to a small fireplace. Creed struck the flint and tinder and a small flame rose to life on the dried wood, “I never used them before, even I have limits, but I think I will definitely make an exception this time.”
Creed placed the jaws of the shears into the fire. “Got to let it get hot first.” He walked around and faced Logan. “Then I wrap it around your manhood and I yank it off by the roots.”
The blood froze throughout Logan’s body, but he made no outward show of any emotion, other than anger.
“Until then,” Creed cracked his knuckles, “I gotta keep my self occupied.”
He began hammering on Logan’s body, blow after blow, sent shockwaves of pain in all directions.
Logan bared it all with grunts and a hard grimace.
Outside Allder and Mort snickered sadistically.
“Boss is really going off on this one,” Mort said.
Allder nodded his head. “Yea, I haven’t seen him this pissed in a while, he might even…” He froze mid-speech as he looked down the hall. An expression of fear plastered itself on his face.
“What” Mort asked, and followed Allder’s gaze.
The little man froze in terror at who stood before him.
The interrogation Room:
Creed was wearing himself out, and the Northman had not even moaned yet.
Wiping the blood from his hands, Creed laughed. “I will admit, you are one tough bastard.” He went to the table and put on a pair of smithing gloves. “But we ain’t done yet by a damn sight.”
Creed pulled the shears from the fire; the tip was glowing red from the heat.
Logan’s breath hitched as he felt the head of the iron along his groin.
“Hope the last cully you had was a good one, runt,” the ogre sneered, “’cause it was the last.”
As the shears opened, Logan braced himself for a pain he never knew before.
Two large dark arms grabbed Creed around the neck, before he could close the shears around Logan, and hurled him against the far wall.
Creed roared and turned back around to see who had interrupted him and came face to face with the point of a sword held by Lucas Bishop.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Bishop?” Creed snarled. “I have orders.”
Bishop didn’t flinch. “Your orders are to interrogate the prisoner for information, not for your own sick pleasure.”
Creed growled at him. At the door stood four armed guards holding Mort and Allder at sword point. “I don’t question your methods of doing things, so don’t question mine.”
“Your are still Aldriahn military, Creed, and I outrank you, even if you do report only to Magnus. I will not have this kind of treatment of the prisoners.” Bishop’s voice was like granite.
“You fucking hypocrite,” the half-ogre ground out. “I know you of all people would do the same thing to a Northman, if you had the chance, ya know, get a little payback for the wife and child that they took from ya.”
A backhand blow sent Creed reeling to the door. “That is the last time I ever want to hear that from your mouth Creed. If you ever do so again, I will put my sword through it.”
Looking back at the beaten form of Logan, Bishop never let his look waver. “My personal feelings are irrelevant in this. This man is to be well treated, and any who do not follow through with those orders will answer to me.”
Creed stood silent, his teeth still bared at the Easterner.
Bishop sheathed his sword. “You will be going on report to the King, Creed, and I will see to your punishment myself, that you can count on; now, take your dogs and get out of my sight.”
Creed snarled at him, but left with Mort and Allder following closely behind.
“Get him down, and to the Medics,” the marshal ordered, sheathing his sword.
Logan gritted, as the bonds were released and he fell to the floor, hands helped him to his slowly feet. He had regained most of his control, but he was weak from the beatings.
Bishop met eyes with the Northener, and Logan nodded. “I won’t say thank you to an Aldriahn officer for this, but I will say thank you to the man underneath the uniform.”
Bishop said nothing; he just nodded to him as the guards carried him out.
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