Under the cover of night, Targas Castle was eerily quiet. Most of the lights were extinguished, with only the watchtower's oil lamps illuminating the sentries keeping a sharp lookout in every direction, guarding against possible night raids by the enemy.
The courtyard, which had been quite spacious just a few days ago, was now filled with sleeping civilians. Due to the lack of space, they huddled closely together, covered in thin straw mats to resist the lingering chill of spring.
As time passed and the weather grew warmer, they would sleep more comfortably, but then the rains would start...
Gwenis moved through the yard and corridors, following a torch-bearing guard into the dungeons. Accompanying him were the steward Baldwin, the sorceress Rosalyn, and the captain of the guards, Gervais, among others. They had heard that someone in the dungeon could speak the language of the northerners.
Earlier, Gwenis had instructed the guards to search for an interpreter among the civilians, but the efforts were futile. It made sense, as these people were farmers with no opportunities or means to travel and learn foreign languages.
But the guards reported someone in the dungeon had volunteered as an interpreter. Initially, Gwenis thought it might be Sofia or Juliana, who might have had a slight chance of learning the northern language. However, the guard's next words dismissed this assumption.
"It's Godric."
Who?
...
Descending into the dungeon, Gwenis saw the street performer, Godric, caged behind bars. It was unclear if calling him a performer was accurate, but he was the arm-wrestler Gwenis had brought back from Windermere several months ago, along with a potential assassin and a safeguard for controlling the assassin. This man seemed to have been brought along as an afterthought, then tossed into the dungeon and forgotten over the months, almost slipping from Gwenis's memory.
Standing before the cell, Gwenis skeptically observed the dirty figure inside. When Godric was captured months ago, he at least looked presentable. Now, after months in the dungeon, he resembled a vagrant.
"You say you can speak the language of the northerners?" Gwenis asked, testing the waters.
Godric looked up at Gwenis, his eyes filled with resentment.
"Yes. I know the language of the Hafdan people."
"Why? How does a street performer learn such a language?"
"I've roamed the North for many years, making a living wherever I went. In that time, I met many people, including some Hafdan people who came from the north."
"The Hafdan people invade the North almost every spring. Some get separated from their troops, or others, tired of life in the north, desert and stay behind. I happened to meet some and learned their language."
Gwenis pondered the explanation. Whether true or not, it was logically sound.
Nodding, Gwenis pointed to the adjacent cell holding the tightly bound Hafdan prisoner.
"So, you're willing to act as an interpreter for me and extract some information from them?"
Unexpectedly, Godric didn't immediately agree but instead proposed a condition. His demeanor shifted dramatically from initial indignation to a pleading, humble stance.
"I request a chance to retrieve the bodies of Felicity and Rowena," Godric pleaded. "I've known those two girls for a long time and cannot bear the thought of them being left to decay in the wilderness. How did you dispose of them? Were they hanged? What happened to their bodies? If they were devoured by crows, their souls won't return to the embrace of Agnes... I beg you..."
Hearing this, Gwenis's interest piqued.
"Oh? Why this condition? Don't you want your freedom? I could release you, give you some money to live without worries. Have you really thought this through?"
Godric lowered his head, looking utterly dejected. "Of course, I want freedom. During my months here, I've longed for it, and I do need money. I love money, but... I implore you..."
"Fine, fine, fine. I'll grant your request to collect the bodies of those two. Are you satisfied now? Now, stop dawdling and get to work!"
Impatiently waving his hand, Gwenis ordered the guards to open the cell and let Godric out.
Then, with Godric as the interpreter, the interrogation of the Hafdan prisoner began in the dimly lit dungeon.
...
However, the prisoner's resistance was far more fierce than Gwenis had anticipated. Aside from a name, they made almost no progress. No matter how gently Godric persuaded or harshly interrogated, the responses were insults and curses. Even under torture, the prisoner just laughed, leaving the executioner and chief interrogator, Sedis, extremely embarrassed in front of Gwenis.
"Lord, please rest. Leave this man to me. By tomorrow morning, I assure you he will spill everything he knows," Sedis promised confidently.
Gwenis shook his head. "I see now. This man is unbreakable. He doesn't fear death or pain. No matter how much we torture him, he doesn't care. In our hands, he only seeks death."
"Bravery, fearlessness, preferring death to submission - isn't this what Hafdan people strive for? They are incredibly brave, scorn death, and any physical torture only strengthens their resolve. Ordinary harsh methods won't work on such a person."
Gwenis glanced at Godric: "Their main god is Odin, right? They believe that souls of the bravely fallen warriors enter the Great Hall in another world, enjoying feasts and battles. Death is but a mere passageway for them."
Turning to the Hafdan prisoner, Turulf, Gwenis smiled benevolently. "You're a brave, fearless warrior, following Odin, never fearing death. Courage is your motto."
"You firmly believe that dying with honor will grant you entry to the Great Hall, where you will enjoy eternal feasts and battles. It's the reward for your bravery, your due."
Listening, Turulf showed a smug smile, clearly pleased with Gwenis's words.
"What if I make it so you can never enter the Great Hall? What if I leave you dependent on others for care, unable even to wipe yourself?"
"What if I chop off your hands and feet, cut off your nose, ears, and lips, gouge out your eyes, and throw you into a pigsty to live and eat with the animals, covered in pig feces, wriggling like a maggot, rolling on the ground into the trough to eat slop with your mouth. Do you still believe you can enter the Great Hall?"
Imagining the scene, Gwenis narrowed his eyes, maintaining a gentle smile.