SMALL MEWLING SOUNDS arose from a crumbling dark room. The air was sour with a wretched stench and whenever a wind blew in from the small barricaded windows near the musty stone ceiling, the air would grow humid with the smell of wet piss.
In the shadows of the room, a heavy fist rose high in the air. It moved quick as lightning, slamming into another shadow before it, this one unmoving. Another muffled groan broke into the dank cell. The fist lifted high to strike again and small noises moaned in protest. The fist was descending when a loud voice stopped its fury.
"Wait!" The rumbly voice growled.
A clank of metal sounded hard in the dark cell and a beat later, Latchlon cleared out from the shadows. He walked straight to the source of the whimpering noises.
"Quiet, coward!" He thundered. The noises faded to a terrified heavy breathing. "Bring me a torch," Latchlon growled once more in the shadows and his voice boomed off the slippery stone walls.
The sound of an opening lock echoed in the empty chamber and a kingsguard strode in, scarlet fires leaping off the wood in his hands. He neared Latchlon's solid bulk, handing it over. He gave a brisk nod and quickly walked back out.
Latchlon gripped the torch in a tight fist. He slowly lowered it to the whimpering figure in front of him. The orange glow illuminated a haggard man sitted on a rusty metal chair.
His head was swollen with angry red bumps and his eyes shone in terrified pools. His hands and feet were bound by abrasive shackles. The rough surface pulled at his skin, peeling it off at the slightest movement, and dark red blood ran down his wrists and ankles to the icy floor of the cell.
The light also shone on a giant figure standing beside Latchlon and the tortured man on the creaking seat made small noises in fright.
Latchlon immediately sent his right fist into the man's nose.
"I said be quiet!"
The bone shattered on impact and blood immediately overflowed. The man would have screamed but the tight dirty cloth shoved into his mouth prevented it.
The tall man beside Latchlon walked closer and his bulky form was revealed more in the light of the flames.
The man was called Illishan: a name only his mother called him. She was dead so no other person knew he bore such name. The soldiers only knew him as the BLEEDER: the hooded assasin from the desert lands across the Emerald sea.
The wilderness of Irkalla.
No one had ever seen his eyes but he was rumored to have total black orbs; the result of the horrors he had to endure for tormenting so many souls.
He was called upon during dire circumstances when a spy needed a good beating or when the King required the secret mysterious disappearance of an enemy. Most times, it was a man from the Iron clans. But the man Illishan tortured moments ago was no foreigner.
He looked slowly to Latchlon, wondering why the man would torment his own people. Latchlon was tall but Illishan was a giant. His shoulders spanned a great width and his arms were big as alder trunks. He always wore a black shawl over his form and his rumored black eyes stayed in. The Blue Cloaks were satisfied with that as long as their contracts with him remained secret.
Illishan had been torturing the prisoner for hours, breaking him down to a terrible state but holding back when the man eyes turned white in stupor. His heavy fists were bloody with the prisoner's sanguine essence and his eyes were dark under his hood. He knew the prisoner knew nothing. He was just another unfortunate farmer from the borderlands.
The little information the farmer hurriedly spewed during Illishan's first hour with him indicated the man knew nothing of what Latchlon asked. He knew no Wytcher.
Illishan had never seen an Iceland wizard. He had only heard of the formidable Valkalon sorcerers in moonlight tales told by his bastard sailor father. It was rumored they possessed strange hair coloring and a unique pair of eyes.
The whores of Calipsos also spread word that the Wytchers were the spawn of a fremd affair between humans and the Fae Princes. The women were obviously paid by jealous patrons, mostly Blue Cloaks. Illishan had always wanted to meet the wizards; see if the tales were true. It was the only one thing he loved.
Adventure.
Latchlon wanted the Wytcher for an entirely different reason. He wanted to capture the cold mongrel, use Illishan to bleed the truth of how he crossed Eracuse from him, and finally burn him at the stakes, or flay him. The latter thought seemed more fitting to Latchlon.
The coward cowering before him was a farmer the soldiers had accosted in a tavern along the northern hamlets near the Blood Forests. The Blue Cloaks scraped the pub for a drooping face. A man with something say. No one said a word. They threatened to burn down the drinking-house when the barkeep, a buxom plebeian came forth with information.
The woman ratted out the farmer. She said she had spotted his daughter walk into the village with a strange white-haired man wielding a Wytchwood staff and wearing winter clothes. She said his eyes gleamed like the frost and his silver mane shone like the stream. The Blue Cloaks had instantly strode to the man's house, dragging him away amidst his wife's cries and his little girl's confused eyes.
Latchlon frowned at the prisoner. He hated what he was about to do. He never used children to torture. That was one line he did not dare cross. He could burn men and flay traitors but children were his weakness. But also dire threats warranted absolute measures.
He slowly bent over the farmer quivering in his iron cuffs.
"I hear you have a daughter..."
As soon as the words left his lips, the man's already wide eyes turned shimmery and tears ran down his cheeks. His lips quivered in a plea he couldn't voice. His swollen eyes, running nose, and bloodied face begged Latchlon for mercy but the Syverian Commander felt nothing.
The Blue Cloaks did not ascend to become the finest army in Adramon out of forgiveness. They were the best because they were ruthless, merciless, and skilled in battle. They were the Silver Knights.
"...Tell me where the Wytcher is and she will stay alive."
The man's lips trembled in a reply and Latchlon loosened the gag in his mouth. Thick blood immediately rushed out from the man's mouth, spewing onto Latchlon's pristine blue cloak. He would have hit the bastard but he figured any more blows would kill him. He needed the farmer alive.
"Are you going to speak or do I have to burn your wife too?"
The farmer immediately shook his head in protest. He took in deep breaths and struggled to loosen his tongue heavy with being clamped in his mouth for so long. His throat still ached with every swallow and he figured something must be broken down there but he formed words nevertheless. Pain rushed up his guts bludgeoned by Illishan's fists but he dragged the words out. Painfully. He would die before he let the evil Commander take his daughter.
"Please, Ser... I know nothing. " Latchlon rose at the man's word mumbled to him. He could clearly see the man still suffered. His tongue was bloated as a pig's snout. But the farmer was wasting his time. He hated cowards.
His father, Vaster the Third had always called him one, and he had vowed to always prove him wrong. Seeing the farmer cowering like a chicken before him was like seeing his reflection. He cowered before Vaster too.
"You should ask the Barkeep..." The farmer rasped, struggling to form words in his destroyed mouth. "...She served him ale..."
The rest of the man's mumbling dissolved away. Latchlon only focused on the words he wanted to hear. He knew the Barkeep lied. Fickle wench! He cursed in his head. Women like that could not be trusted. If she hid a Wytcher, what else could she hide? His evil mind immediately whispered her punishment.
Let her burn. Let the lying witch burn!
Latchlon stared once more into the flames of the torch he held in his hands. His lips twisted in a strange smile as he entertained his private thoughts. Fire was his only friend.
He looked to Illishan, giving him a subtle nod. The farmer caught on the soft movement and his eyes widened in fear. His brain immediately caught on its meaning as Latchlon turned, striding away.
"Please!" The farmer screamed at his retreating figure. His blue cloak billowed in the farmer's mirrored eyes and he screamed more.
"Please. Don't do this. I helped you..... I have a daughter... PLEASE!!!"
Illishan's dark robes slowly moved closer out of the shadows. The farmer looked up to him. His eyes were hidden under his black hood and his frame was like a shadowed beast in the darkness. Tears began to stream down the prisoner's face. The hot tears mingled with the fresh scars of his face and the salt burned him.
Illishan the Bleeder slowly lifted his eyes to the man. The farmer's eyes shone like a mirror. In it Illishan saw himself; a monster. The monster he had become.
He knew the man was innocent but when the man stared at him like that, he just had to kill him. He hated pity but he hated the silent judgement in the man's eyes more. Illishan only let people see his eyes when he was sure it was the last thing they ever saw.
So he closed his eyes and imagined the reason why he was called the Bleeder. The start of it all. The soul of his sorrows.
When he opened his eyes, he no longer saw the innocent bleeding farmer. What he saw was his father, with his evil smiling face as he grinned at him after beating his mother to death.
Illishan's fists rose heavy into the air. He brought it down with great force and it slammed into the man's skull. A loud squelch sounded and the bone caved right in. The farmer's eyes immediately lost its light. Illishan pounded on, reducing his head to a mangled pile. The man before him was father! He mused.
The thought spurred him on as he watched his father die over and over. The poor farmer was reduced to a pile of broken bones by his giant fists. The corpse was just like all the other people Illishan had killed while imagining they were his father.
Latchlon heard the hideous thuds as he walked out of the cellblock. The darkness slowly gave way to the light streaming in from windows that weren't barricaded or too high up the walls. A few strides later, he stood under the welcome brilliance of the summerland sun.
Two kingsguards walked to him; Captains under him. They took off their helmets and their silver armor shone in the sunlight, their blue capes breezing with the wind.
Latchlon looked into their eyes, seeing strength and trust in them. Good. He liked loyal and brave soldiers.
"Send for horses and and twoscore men." He said. "We ride for the borderlands."
As Commander Latchlon Pierran rode astride the horse, he put it at the back of his mind to quickly find a way to dispose of the Bleeder. An Assassin that big and crazy was too dangerous a venture. He could not have him around for long. Maybe he could invite him over for wine and the slip the atter into his goblet. That would do it, he mused.
With a satisfied smile stretching his lips, he looked up, focusing once more on the road ahead. All that remained was to deal with the errant Barkeep.