The mage opened a door on the second floor of the hospital. What had once been a bedroom for a single patient was grown over with the paper coverings of a many beehives. The bugs buzzed around the room keeping watch over their prisoner. An older man with a long grey beard was left on the blood-stained bed. His arms and legs had been removed so that he would not be able to escape. The old man turned his head from staring at the ceiling above him to the mage. His eyes filled with fear as he looked upon the pail form of Albie. The mage sat in a chair next to the bed.
"Spirit of vengeance," he muttered.
"I am no spirit," responded the mage stroking the mans face. "I have come here tonight to get a base line of your mind. There seem to be very few people in the city who know anything. You crafts men being by far the best educated."
"A base line for what?" asked the grey beard scared of the lunatic mage standing over him.
"Ah yes you see I have found in one of my books a method to craft a trainer of undead," responded the mage. "Your hands and arms proved most nimble on the corpse we installed them on, but it could still not create or build anything. As it would be beneficial to my children to manufacture our own shrapnel guns, I would first need to know how to make such a thing. You where pulled from a workshop dedicated to building such guns, so I thought it might be helpful to pick your brain for the necessary information. Well what I really want is the recipe for gunpowder, but I can work on that once I perfect the process."
The pail mage placed a glass jar on the bed just above the old man's head.
"What are you trying to perfect?" asked the old man. He tilted his head to see the jar above him.
"In my book about blood stones it says that thoughts come from an organ in your head," explained the mage. "So if I can extract that organ keep it somewhere safe and keep it somewhat alive without the rest of you, I can in theory use it to connect to a number of undead and get them to build things. Muskets and gunpowder are on top of my wish list."
"What?" asked the old man confused and afraid.
"I am going to put your brain in this jar," explained the mage. "Use magic to keep your brain alive and to control undead."
The grey beard looked at the mage horrified.
"Why would my brain do any of this for you?" asked the old man.
"Because," said the mage touching the old mans chest. "A brain in a jar can not get up and walk away without help. If your mind in in a jar you are in truth very helpless and very board. At my complete mercy physically and magically."
The mage connected to the old man like he would with his familiars and sent the pain of having a hand chopped off to the old timer.
"AHHH!" the old man screamed.
"You can normally only feel the pain of loosing your right hand once," explained the mage. "Unless you have someone to reattach it so it can be cut off again. You can only loose a hand once. But you might be able to remember that pain. If you have a mind, I can remind you as many times as it takes in as many ways necessary to get you to cooperate. I have felt many deaths most of which are not mine, but I can share them with you. I just need your mind to stay together and your expertise unforgotten. That is the real challenge here. Can I separate your mind from your body without breaking it? Wont this be fun?"
The mage sent the sensation of losing a hand again into the old man. The od guy wailed as he felt his hand be cut off for the second time tonight.
"So I have some questions for you," declared the mage as he pulled a note book and pen from inside his cloak. "This way I can check if anything is lost in the process. What is your name?"
"Rorke."
"That's a good strong name. Rorke!!! We might decide it appropriate to change your name after the procedure but please try to remember it once you are a brain in a jar. Next question how old are you Rorke?"
"Fifty seven."
"What a grand old age. The oldest man in my village was fifty-five. HE did not get around half as well as you did. You know before I had your arms and legs chopped off. Still old man Winston was burned alive in his house with his wife and granddaughter. Say how old do you suppose they would have lived had the queen not ordered my village be purged."
The old man was beginning to cry as he looked at his captor's pail face. The cracked lips where smiling but his one human eye was furious.
"I don't know."
"I suppose you wouldn't. not like you ever met old Winston. The story goes that he got his limp when he took a musket ball to the leg. He served in the yellow coats you know. A member of Her majesties Army of Glade. That might have complicated things, but he rarely came to me for medical advice. Next question. How did you come to serve Lord Brand in his purge of Yourz?"
"I had heard that Craftsmen where needed to set up new factories in Yourz. I was promised I would get to own a factory for my services."
"AH! you are a factory man, an industrialist. Do you know how to set up and run a factory?"
"Yes."
"That's fantastic! I sure hope that information doesn't bleed out of your noggin when I cut it open. My family could sure use some industrial know how. What is your favorite color?"
"Blue?"
"I hope you still know that when I'm done with you tomorrow. Do you think your brain would last longer if I used embalming fluid or vinegar?"
"Embalming fluid."
"Good that is all the questions I have. Remember this number to the best of your abilities, 213. I shall ask for this number again before I cut you open and after. If you forget the number before cutting time tomorrow, I will make you feel like you are burning to death for an hour before beginning."
Cough!! COUGH!! COOUUGH!!
The mage suffered a coughing fit spiting black liquid onto the floor. The mage stood to leave from the room.
"Rorke it has been a pleasure talking to you and I can not wait for our appointment tomorrow night. I must go find someone to eat now so please do remember 213 and please do try to get some sleep. Its good for the mind."
The mage left the room leaving Rorke alone with the bees. The old man sobbed afraid of what was coming.
"Two hundred thirteen, two hundred thirteen, Two hundred thirteen."