Yes, I am three days behind, but its all good :P
Chapter 14: Pain
Gurley opened his eyes. He was still alive. At least he felt alive. The old man’s face still burned in the back of his mind. Shrake was not a man soon forgotten.
Shrake had bragged to him how he counted success in limbs and appendages. First with the fingers, then the hand itself. Then the arm. Most victims of Shrake and his Krakens did not make it to the arm, giving in once their hand had been removed piece by bloody piece. Gurley had been lucky. They started with his busted leg before going to his fingers. Gurley figured that keeping him alive was of more importance than making him talk.
Odd concoctions had kept him from passing out during the entire ordeal. Sticks in his eyelids had forced him to watch the entirety of the event. Pain was not descriptive enough for the torture of watching one’s own limb being removed. Yet, the Krakens worked fast on the leg and once the stub had been bandaged and a poultice applied, Gurley seemingly felt better. He actually felt good. That is, until they started on his right hand’s middle finger.
Gurley had wondered if the entire castle could hear his screaming. Shrake’s hooded bastards were more than willing to let his torturous ramblings filter out. Warnings to the rest of the captives. Were there captives? Gurley had been in a feverish state when the castle was taken, so he was not sure of much aside from the fact the Thunderer now held the castle.
The flaying continued through a grizzly procession from finger to finger. Gurley didn’t talk. Pain combined with secrets hidden deep within Gurley to create a euphoria which permitted a mental escape. Gurley took little satisfaction in the fact Orten was feeling all of this. It was probably driving him crazy, wherever he was, and no doubt he was cursing Gurley’s name with every painful step he took.
Gurley laughed at the idea that this would continue until the Krakens had removed the last bit of his skin and sent him into the underworld. Orten would not be pleased with such a turn. Not at all. These bastards know nothing of what they were awakening. The thought comforted Gurley.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, Gurley really couldn’t decide, the Krakens stopped after the last finger detached from his right hand. They left the thumb. With each cut had come another question, met with the euphoric silence that had entrenched itself upon Gurley. Was Shrake irritated? It was hard to tell, but Gurley figured not many were able to not talk to Shrake. The satisfaction sat like a cask of ale in Gurley’s gut, warming him on the thought of what awaited him when he awoke again.
However, in his dream-like state fear had started to creep upon Gurley. His bandaged stub of a leg and the neat wrappings being dressed unto his hand were too well done. The torture was excruciating, but it had stopped. Sharke may have been irritated at the silence, but he hadn’t really shown it. Then the realization caught up with Gurley. This wasn’t for him. It was for Orten.
The small skiff beached itself as the wave crashed onto the beach of the small island. The storm had visibly weakened in the glances Orten had caught as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The moon lit the area enough for Orten to drag himself out of the skiff and make his way into a cluster of trees. His right hand throbbed as he clutched it to his chest. He laid his head back and breathed a deep breath. A burst of fire leaped from his chest and shadows danced down the beach. Rain sizzled as it clattered off Orten’s skin. He slipped back into the blackness with the thought of freedom ringing in his ears. When day broke, it would be glorious. The Flamerunner awakes.
Enlil had begun tracking time based on the meals served him and the shifting of the guards outside his door. It was mid day when the washer boys brought by his cleaned doublet and captain’s vest. To his surprise, his feathered officer’s cap was also returned. He had not hesitated to change into the clean change of clothes. The comfort was immediate. If only he had a blade to clean the scruff of beard that had grown about his face.
The hard rap of a knuckle on the door broke his moment of escape. He put his feathered hat on the table and walked to the door. The toothless grin of one of the guards stared in at him through the tiny window. “Dress up Captain. We like a good show for an execution.”
Gurley opened his eyes. He was still alive. At least he felt alive. The old man’s face still burned in the back of his mind. Shrake was not a man soon forgotten.
Shrake had bragged to him how he counted success in limbs and appendages. First with the fingers, then the hand itself. Then the arm. Most victims of Shrake and his Krakens did not make it to the arm, giving in once their hand had been removed piece by bloody piece. Gurley had been lucky. They started with his busted leg before going to his fingers. Gurley figured that keeping him alive was of more importance than making him talk.
Odd concoctions had kept him from passing out during the entire ordeal. Sticks in his eyelids had forced him to watch the entirety of the event. Pain was not descriptive enough for the torture of watching one’s own limb being removed. Yet, the Krakens worked fast on the leg and once the stub had been bandaged and a poultice applied, Gurley seemingly felt better. He actually felt good. That is, until they started on his right hand’s middle finger.
Gurley had wondered if the entire castle could hear his screaming. Shrake’s hooded bastards were more than willing to let his torturous ramblings filter out. Warnings to the rest of the captives. Were there captives? Gurley had been in a feverish state when the castle was taken, so he was not sure of much aside from the fact the Thunderer now held the castle.
The flaying continued through a grizzly procession from finger to finger. Gurley didn’t talk. Pain combined with secrets hidden deep within Gurley to create a euphoria which permitted a mental escape. Gurley took little satisfaction in the fact Orten was feeling all of this. It was probably driving him crazy, wherever he was, and no doubt he was cursing Gurley’s name with every painful step he took.
Gurley laughed at the idea that this would continue until the Krakens had removed the last bit of his skin and sent him into the underworld. Orten would not be pleased with such a turn. Not at all. These bastards know nothing of what they were awakening. The thought comforted Gurley.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, Gurley really couldn’t decide, the Krakens stopped after the last finger detached from his right hand. They left the thumb. With each cut had come another question, met with the euphoric silence that had entrenched itself upon Gurley. Was Shrake irritated? It was hard to tell, but Gurley figured not many were able to not talk to Shrake. The satisfaction sat like a cask of ale in Gurley’s gut, warming him on the thought of what awaited him when he awoke again.
However, in his dream-like state fear had started to creep upon Gurley. His bandaged stub of a leg and the neat wrappings being dressed unto his hand were too well done. The torture was excruciating, but it had stopped. Sharke may have been irritated at the silence, but he hadn’t really shown it. Then the realization caught up with Gurley. This wasn’t for him. It was for Orten.
***
The small skiff beached itself as the wave crashed onto the beach of the small island. The storm had visibly weakened in the glances Orten had caught as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The moon lit the area enough for Orten to drag himself out of the skiff and make his way into a cluster of trees. His right hand throbbed as he clutched it to his chest. He laid his head back and breathed a deep breath. A burst of fire leaped from his chest and shadows danced down the beach. Rain sizzled as it clattered off Orten’s skin. He slipped back into the blackness with the thought of freedom ringing in his ears. When day broke, it would be glorious. The Flamerunner awakes.
***
Enlil had begun tracking time based on the meals served him and the shifting of the guards outside his door. It was mid day when the washer boys brought by his cleaned doublet and captain’s vest. To his surprise, his feathered officer’s cap was also returned. He had not hesitated to change into the clean change of clothes. The comfort was immediate. If only he had a blade to clean the scruff of beard that had grown about his face.
The hard rap of a knuckle on the door broke his moment of escape. He put his feathered hat on the table and walked to the door. The toothless grin of one of the guards stared in at him through the tiny window. “Dress up Captain. We like a good show for an execution.”
Word count: 13,835
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