Eltain
Deity
"You lost me in Waeran, my young friend. The last place I expected to find you was here."
Sarroth cracked his knuckles anxiously.
"Half a thousand miles north of Toras in the place we started our little chase."
He raised his hand back furiously, threatening a blow. The worst kind were the ones long in coming. He knew from experience.
"How'd you get here, huh? Slipped under my radar. Or maybe you wanta tell me where the scroll is."
Sarroth stared at his young friend, hand held steadfast.
"Took a Curragh up the coast of Sarkov, didja? You fled overland into the wilderness west of Toras, right? Scroll all fancy free and tucked away in your tunic, maybe your sandal?"
He spat bloody phlegm on the boy. The single candle behind Sarroth on the table flickered, casting shadows dancing over the walls, and sillhouetting him in the black of the stone cell.
"Gotchor little contacts there, maybe?"
His silent captive stared defiantly up at him. A young looking Greek fellow, bound at the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles. Cuts and bruises lined the entire front of his body, planted firmly in a 5-legged wooden chair.
"No worries. After I'm done with you here I'll send my boys down there to collect it from them. Hope to the Ancestors they have it, or else someone's gonna pay."
He released the blow hard on the younger man's unprotected face. Blood dripped down his hairless chin onto his bare arms. His right eye was swollen shut and bleeding, the other lost behind a distracting black and purple bruise.
"Somehow."
A single knock came from the only wooden door behind the seated captive.
"Oh good. Seems our time together is up. I had gotten tired of seeing your piss-ugly face. You think long and hard on what I asked you. I want that scroll."
He pulled the boy up from the chair, throwing him against the wall, kicking him.
"I'll be back in a few days with some water for you. Ancestors know it gets deathly hot down here."
He picked up the chair and threw it at him across the room. The boy lay noiselessly on the bare brick floor, dank piss resting in crevices under him.
Extinguishing the candle entirely, he headed for the door in the blackness of the room. Opening it, a single candle flickered beyond in the hall. As the door slammed shut, total darkness encapsulated the prisoner once more.
****
"Sarroth," the old man spoke.
Sarroth gave a wary sigh inwardly.
"Angelus, so good to see you again."
Angelus. A name from far beyond the Rtas, in the ancient homelands of his people. An old bastard scarred with the pox, head to toe.
"I'm glad you think so. What of the prisoner, then?"
Sarroth twitched to wrangle this man's neck. It had been an inward desire of his for quite some time now, ever since he had returned from his travels in the south. Angelus had been appointed the High Executioner while Sarroth had been away. His dislike the the sallow overseer was purely personal - the title meant little nowadays, what with the Vox Populi in control, but it still got you places.
Of course, a sharp dagger could get you all those places anyway, but it was a nice thought knowing you needn't resort to such measures. Not that the Executioner wasn't armed to the teeth with concealed weapons.
Sarroth bowed low, his tortured back screaming for reprieve. He ignored the pain, as he did every day.
"I left him several hours ago in his cell. I plan to return to him shortly, his 'three day solitary' having gone by in the blink of his swollen, deteriorating eyes."
Angelus gave a forced smile, a courtesy mandated by their positions. "I'm glad to see you've gone so far along in the process so very quickly. You're sure it'll work to its full effect so soon?"
"Our time has been well invested in that regard." Sometimes it required no further explanation, and sometimes even the hardest men asked none.
****
The door banged open, startling Jeshook from his waking daze. The candlelight from beyond the door's frame sillhoetted his captor, blindingly bright after hours- or had it been days?- of pitch black. He couldn't recall, and had no indicators other than the robed man who had been pursuing him. An agent of Ctesiphod.
"I had almost forgotten about you, my young friend. Pity I did not."
He had taken to counting his breathing, but after having dozed off so many countless times only to be awakened by his own screaming, he found he could not keep proper track.
The door swung shut, the candle light and its warder flowing effortlessly into the room. Crick, crick, crick, went the man's spine. How dreadful the sound.
"Oh my, my. You are severely dehydrated- why here, look at your lip-" the interrogator said, dragging a small knife across Jeshook's lower lip.
The man clucked his tongue, over and over. "Did you know, a professional grudge isn't what it sounds. It's a grudge, over progessionalized, and rank. You're not being paid to have the grudge."
"Drink this," he said, pouring a foul liquid from a waterskin into Jeshook's mouth. He was not thirsty- a sign of dehydration, he knew. He took as much as he could.
"I figured you would be dead after three days without water, in this stank-hole."
"A professional grudge gets you killed. You can resent a man for his woman, for his home, but never for his position. Professional grudges get you killed."
"Tis a pity you are not. Why don't you just tell me what I've been trying to find out, and I will give you a quick death, or even let you live a beggar's life."
"Why don't you suck a donkey."
In response to that, Jeshook woke a time later with blood in his mouth. He was missing a front tooth.
"I can kill you, you know. I could do anything I want to you. You are at my mercy."
"I'm still here. You need me. Unbind me, and we'll see what I can do for you. We'll see who can last longer without our armed guards protecting us." Jeshook could not remember the last time he was able to complete a sentence. Maybe there was something in that water. Was it water? Was he given water? He couldn't remember.
"You know, I don't envy you, my friend. You had a long, good life ahead of you. You did some good work for Ctesiphod, but then you went and threw it all away. Now I'm the only friend that hasn't left you- hell, they want me to kill you," he said, crouching low beside Jeshook, almost whispering.
"but I've been standing up for you. I want you to tell them what they want so they can let you go. So why don't you go ahead and tell me who you handed the scroll off to, when and where, and where it's going."
Silence. Had the boy even heard him? Dam Greeks weren't good for anything. If you wanted information, they wouldn't give it. If you wanted something kept secret, no matter how desperately, they would just go ahead and give it away, wouldn't they. Typical. Typical Greeks, typical Valyrians, typical everybody.
"Tell me. Where. THE SCROLL IS, KISRA. TELL ME WHERE YOU HID MY ING SCROLL." Sarroth was shaking the boy by now, more and more violently.
Silence.
More silence.
Sarroth sighed.
He had been sighing more and more recently, he noted silently.
Maybe the Council had been right. Maybe he had been killing too many interogees lately. The Gyrid woman who had sold him the potion said it would make the boy speak truths before he died. Maybe he put too much in all this mumbo jumbo eastern religion crap.
Maybe that was enough maybes.
He strode from the room, leaving the door open to mark to the guards to know to change the prisoners, and bring in the next one. Maybe he could get the council's precious scroll then. Bloody Vox Populi. Bloody council. Bloody Angelus.
Sarroth cracked his knuckles anxiously.
"Half a thousand miles north of Toras in the place we started our little chase."
He raised his hand back furiously, threatening a blow. The worst kind were the ones long in coming. He knew from experience.
"How'd you get here, huh? Slipped under my radar. Or maybe you wanta tell me where the scroll is."
Sarroth stared at his young friend, hand held steadfast.
"Took a Curragh up the coast of Sarkov, didja? You fled overland into the wilderness west of Toras, right? Scroll all fancy free and tucked away in your tunic, maybe your sandal?"
He spat bloody phlegm on the boy. The single candle behind Sarroth on the table flickered, casting shadows dancing over the walls, and sillhouetting him in the black of the stone cell.
"Gotchor little contacts there, maybe?"
His silent captive stared defiantly up at him. A young looking Greek fellow, bound at the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles. Cuts and bruises lined the entire front of his body, planted firmly in a 5-legged wooden chair.
"No worries. After I'm done with you here I'll send my boys down there to collect it from them. Hope to the Ancestors they have it, or else someone's gonna pay."
He released the blow hard on the younger man's unprotected face. Blood dripped down his hairless chin onto his bare arms. His right eye was swollen shut and bleeding, the other lost behind a distracting black and purple bruise.
"Somehow."
A single knock came from the only wooden door behind the seated captive.
"Oh good. Seems our time together is up. I had gotten tired of seeing your piss-ugly face. You think long and hard on what I asked you. I want that scroll."
He pulled the boy up from the chair, throwing him against the wall, kicking him.
"I'll be back in a few days with some water for you. Ancestors know it gets deathly hot down here."
He picked up the chair and threw it at him across the room. The boy lay noiselessly on the bare brick floor, dank piss resting in crevices under him.
Extinguishing the candle entirely, he headed for the door in the blackness of the room. Opening it, a single candle flickered beyond in the hall. As the door slammed shut, total darkness encapsulated the prisoner once more.
****
"Sarroth," the old man spoke.
Sarroth gave a wary sigh inwardly.
"Angelus, so good to see you again."
Angelus. A name from far beyond the Rtas, in the ancient homelands of his people. An old bastard scarred with the pox, head to toe.
"I'm glad you think so. What of the prisoner, then?"
Sarroth twitched to wrangle this man's neck. It had been an inward desire of his for quite some time now, ever since he had returned from his travels in the south. Angelus had been appointed the High Executioner while Sarroth had been away. His dislike the the sallow overseer was purely personal - the title meant little nowadays, what with the Vox Populi in control, but it still got you places.
Of course, a sharp dagger could get you all those places anyway, but it was a nice thought knowing you needn't resort to such measures. Not that the Executioner wasn't armed to the teeth with concealed weapons.
Sarroth bowed low, his tortured back screaming for reprieve. He ignored the pain, as he did every day.
"I left him several hours ago in his cell. I plan to return to him shortly, his 'three day solitary' having gone by in the blink of his swollen, deteriorating eyes."
Angelus gave a forced smile, a courtesy mandated by their positions. "I'm glad to see you've gone so far along in the process so very quickly. You're sure it'll work to its full effect so soon?"
"Our time has been well invested in that regard." Sometimes it required no further explanation, and sometimes even the hardest men asked none.
****
The door banged open, startling Jeshook from his waking daze. The candlelight from beyond the door's frame sillhoetted his captor, blindingly bright after hours- or had it been days?- of pitch black. He couldn't recall, and had no indicators other than the robed man who had been pursuing him. An agent of Ctesiphod.
"I had almost forgotten about you, my young friend. Pity I did not."
He had taken to counting his breathing, but after having dozed off so many countless times only to be awakened by his own screaming, he found he could not keep proper track.
The door swung shut, the candle light and its warder flowing effortlessly into the room. Crick, crick, crick, went the man's spine. How dreadful the sound.
"Oh my, my. You are severely dehydrated- why here, look at your lip-" the interrogator said, dragging a small knife across Jeshook's lower lip.
The man clucked his tongue, over and over. "Did you know, a professional grudge isn't what it sounds. It's a grudge, over progessionalized, and rank. You're not being paid to have the grudge."
"Drink this," he said, pouring a foul liquid from a waterskin into Jeshook's mouth. He was not thirsty- a sign of dehydration, he knew. He took as much as he could.
"I figured you would be dead after three days without water, in this stank-hole."
"A professional grudge gets you killed. You can resent a man for his woman, for his home, but never for his position. Professional grudges get you killed."
"Tis a pity you are not. Why don't you just tell me what I've been trying to find out, and I will give you a quick death, or even let you live a beggar's life."
"Why don't you suck a donkey."
In response to that, Jeshook woke a time later with blood in his mouth. He was missing a front tooth.
"I can kill you, you know. I could do anything I want to you. You are at my mercy."
"I'm still here. You need me. Unbind me, and we'll see what I can do for you. We'll see who can last longer without our armed guards protecting us." Jeshook could not remember the last time he was able to complete a sentence. Maybe there was something in that water. Was it water? Was he given water? He couldn't remember.
"You know, I don't envy you, my friend. You had a long, good life ahead of you. You did some good work for Ctesiphod, but then you went and threw it all away. Now I'm the only friend that hasn't left you- hell, they want me to kill you," he said, crouching low beside Jeshook, almost whispering.
"but I've been standing up for you. I want you to tell them what they want so they can let you go. So why don't you go ahead and tell me who you handed the scroll off to, when and where, and where it's going."
Silence. Had the boy even heard him? Dam Greeks weren't good for anything. If you wanted information, they wouldn't give it. If you wanted something kept secret, no matter how desperately, they would just go ahead and give it away, wouldn't they. Typical. Typical Greeks, typical Valyrians, typical everybody.
"Tell me. Where. THE SCROLL IS, KISRA. TELL ME WHERE YOU HID MY ING SCROLL." Sarroth was shaking the boy by now, more and more violently.
Silence.
More silence.
Sarroth sighed.
He had been sighing more and more recently, he noted silently.
Maybe the Council had been right. Maybe he had been killing too many interogees lately. The Gyrid woman who had sold him the potion said it would make the boy speak truths before he died. Maybe he put too much in all this mumbo jumbo eastern religion crap.
Maybe that was enough maybes.
He strode from the room, leaving the door open to mark to the guards to know to change the prisoners, and bring in the next one. Maybe he could get the council's precious scroll then. Bloody Vox Populi. Bloody council. Bloody Angelus.
Map of the influence of Ortun and Aramya on the eve of the "Second" War of Levean Supremacy
