Deeds of Their Past - 24. Chapter Twenty-four

An abrupt clang woke Nathan from his slumber. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll, offering a dreamless sleep. The cold damp had sunk into his bones, and sporadic, uncontrollable shakes sapped what little strength he had left. Feeling had returned to his arms, but his hands remained numb. Glancing around in the dark offered no clue how long he’d slept. Time had no meaning in the dark.

Another clang, distant and echoing from the long corridor, brought his attention back. A gate slammed shut, followed by footsteps and the telltale sound of keys jingling on a ring.

Instinct kicked in. Feet scraped on the ground in an attempt to push himself away, but they slipped on the hay-strewn floor. Trying to pull himself up on his elbows proved fruitless. His body simply refused to comply to commands in his weakened state. Torchlight lit the corridor, and panting from exertion, he lay prostrate, awaiting his fate.

“This way, m’lady,” the gaoler spoke softly.

Nathan turned his head toward the gate to see a woman in white robes. Beside her, Ayers held a torch and was fumbling with his keys, unlocking the door. It squealed in protest as it swung open, and the old man stepped through, placing the torch in a sconce to light the filthy cell.

The woman stepped in gracefully, carrying a bundle of white cloth with various vials and bottles balanced on top. Her face was kind, brows knitted in concern as she knelt by Nathan’s side. After a quick glance at the gashes on his chest, she doused a piece of cloth with the contents from a bottle.

“I’m sorry. This will hurt.” Her voice was like silk.

Dabbing the wet cloth to his wound brought a return to the pain he’d tried to forget. Each time she pulled the cloth away to blot again, he heard a faint sizzle, followed by a strangely acidic smell. The white cloth now deep red, she tossed it aside to retrieve a clean one, repeating the process. All the while, Nathan tried to bare the pain through clenched teeth.

“All done,” she said, offering a sympathetic hand on his cheek.

His tense body went limp and he closed his eyes, relishing her warm hand on his face. The touch was all too brief, and he opened his eyes again to see her unravelling a wide cloth strip.

“I need you to sit up,” she said.

“I can’t . . .” Nathan managed, his voice ragged.

“Could you help us please,” she asked Ayers.

The gaoler reluctantly stepped over, took his arms and pulled him up to a sitting position. Fire seared through Nathan’s joints and he groaned in agony. Ayers snuck in a grin at his expense.

The woman wrapped the large bandage around his chest, each layer tightening to sooth his wounds. The pressure made it slightly difficult to breathe, yet it was a small price to pay for the relief it brought. Once she completed her task, Ayers abruptly let go of his arms. With no control over his body, Nathan fell back, striking his head on the stone floor. The chaff only mitigated a fraction of the blow.

“I’m trying to heal this man,” the woman said sternly. “I’d ask that you be more careful.”

“Sorry,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

She continued a cursory examination, but found nothing serious enough to treat. Before rising, she offered a warm hand to his face again.

“Please . . . don’t go,” Nathan whispered.

Her eyes filled with pity. “You poor soul.”

“You done then?” Ayers asked, impatient.

She held a moment, gently wiping a fallen tear from Nathan’s face. “Yes, I’ve done what I can,” she said, gathering her supplies and rising to her feet. “He will live, but this man needs water and food. He’s weak, and will fall into a waking death soon.”

“Aye? Anything else?”

She exited the room with the gaoler close behind, taking the torch with him.

“He should be clothed. The man is freezing.”

“Water. Food. Clothes. You know this is a dungeon, not an inn, right?” he said, locking the gate.

“If you need him alive, you’ll do as I ask.”

Ayers grunted.

Footsteps faded with the torchlight, leaving Nathan to his void.

* * *

Thoughts wandered aimlessly in his head as exhaustion took hold again. Random memories flashed before his eyes, mundane things that made no sense. Confusion took hold. All he wanted was death, yet even that eluded him.

A familiar sound rung in his ears. The keys again. Fear crept into his belly, knowing there was nothing he could do. Multiple sets of footsteps crunched on the stone ground, growing louder. Light appeared, and two figures stood at the gate. Ayers and his apprentice Rowe, carrying two buckets as before.

“So, you thirsty, are ye?” Ayers asked, cackling as he unlocked the door and entered the cell.

Rowe followed behind and lay the two buckets nearby.

“Now, the nice thing about this form of torture? It don’t leave a mark,” Ayers said to Rowe. “Hold him down, and I’ll show you how it’s done. It’s quite easy.”

Rowe knelt down and held Nathan’s shoulders to the ground. The searing pain from the weight felt like they might dislocate and Nathan cried out, yet all he could manage was a dry rasp. The gaoler used the opportunity to shove a dirty rag into his mouth, and then blanketed his face with another.

“He’s gonna fight, so make sure you’ve got him down good,” Ayers warned.

“I’m ready.”

Nathan wasn’t sure what to expect. All he could see was flickering torchlight diffused by the cloth, and then a shadow loomed over him. Something cold and wet splashed onto his face, a slow continuous trickle that soaked through the fabric, dripping into his nose and down his throat. The wet rag formed around his face and cut off his air supply. He choked, and tried to push the gag out with his tongue, but it was jammed in well. Soon it too became sodden, and dripped more liquid down his throat. The steady stream didn’t let up, and panic set in as his attempts to cough did nothing to stop it. Unknown strength suddenly burned into his muscles, and he tried to buck the weight off his shoulders.

“Hold him down!”

Rowe applied more pressure and held his head against the hard stone floor. The liquid fell at a quicker pace, and the sound of his choking intensified his panic to full-blown hysteria. He could literally hear himself drowning.

And then, as quickly as it started, the liquid ceased.

“Turn him over!” Ayers ordered.

Hands forced him onto his belly and yanked the soaking gag from his mouth, finally allowing him to cough the liquid out. His body shook as he sobbed from the ordeal. He’d never experienced anything so horrifying, and never wanted to again.

“I killed him,” he blurted between racking coughs.

“Who?” the gaoler demanded.

“Helmsley’s son. I killed him. That’s why I’m here.”

Ayers offered a knowing smile to Rowe. “You see? They’re often ready to talk after that.”

“Fascinating,” Rowe said in wonder. “It really is simple. Shall we try again?”

Nathan flailed his arms in an attempt to push away, but Rowe held him down as before. Ayers considered the wet rag in his hand, but then threw it aside.

“I’ve something else in mind,” he said, reaching for the other bucket. “I was told he needs water. Let’s give him some.”

The gaoler knelt over Nathan. “Open your mouth.”

Nathan hesitantly complied, and Ayers put the edge of the large bucket to his lips.

“Drink then.”

The gaoler allowed the water to flow slowly enough to drink, and Nathan accepted it readily, quenching his thirst. He didn’t understand why they were doing this, but he didn’t care. It felt so good, as though life was returning to his body.

“Why are you doing this, Master Ayers?”

“Shh . . . just do as I say when the time comes.”

The slow trickle of water continued for a minute until Nathan was sated. He couldn’t speak, so he just closed his mouth, allowing the water to fall to the floor.

“Did I say stop drinking?” Ayers asked. “Open your mouth!”

“B-bu—” Nathan managed to say through the water stream.

“Rowe, open his mouth.”

The apprentice grabbed hold of Nathan’s jaw, forcing it open. Water filled his mouth, but Nathan refused to swallow. Rowe, catching on to his master’s plan, covered Nathan’s mouth and pinched his nose, forcing him to swallow.

“Good job, Rowe,” the gaoler said, continuing the slow trickle.

Not wanting to repeat the process, Nathan continued to drink without protest, eliciting a devious grin from Ayers.

After another minute, Nathan found it impossible to swallow and began choking again. Rowe did as before to force Nathan to take it, yet he kept choking, water splashing through the apprentice’s fingers.

“Okay, let him go,” Ayers said, placing the half-empty bucket on the ground. “Now’s the fun part.”

Rowe did as instructed, standing up beside the gaoler and allowing Nathan to cough up the water that wouldn’t go down. He belched, and more water came up with it.

“What now, Master Ayers?”

“He’s gonna be feeling sick drinking so much water, so why don’t we help him feel better?”

“How?”

Ayers manoeuvred behind Nathan and wrapped his arms around his chest, pulling him to his feet. Nathan didn’t have the strength to stand on his own, and the heavy weight proved difficult for the gaoler.

“Quick, punch him in the gut.”

Rowe readied a fist, and with a wide swing, delivered a devastating haymaker. Nathan gagged, heaving up water, and Rowe sidestepped it just in time.

“Again!” the gaoler said.

Another heavy swing to the gut ended with similar results, water gushing out of Nathan’s mouth and nose. He coughed, hiccuped, gagged, and more water came forth.

“Again, don’t stop!” Ayers cried as Nathan began slipping from his grip.

Rowe delivered an undercut to his belly, yet nothing came out. The jarring punch caused Ayers to lose his grip, and Nathan fell face first into his watery bile, coughing and gagging. Laughter filled the room.

“An interesting technique, Master Ayers.”

“You like that? I just came up with it. Dunno how effective it’d be, but still fun, yeah?”

“What should we do now?” Rowe asked.

“I think we’re done with this poor sod. At least for today. Grab the empty bucket and let’s get outta here.”

“You want to leave him with water?”

“Yeah, we need him alive.”

They left Nathan sprawled on the ground in the dark. Wet, naked, and shivering cold. Finding strength, he crawled out of the wet puddle and huddled into a corner. He felt like an animal locked in a cage. Someone’s plaything.

Keys jingled again, and light returned to the corridor. Everything seemed a blur. Had he fallen asleep? How much time had passed? There was no way he could endure more.

Ayers appeared in the doorway and chucked something into the cell. It rolled about on the floor before coming to a stop at Nathan’s feet.

“Here. Eat. This bread’s mouldy and hard as a rock, but it’s all you deserve.”

That said, he turned and left, leaving Nathan to his darkness. He welcomed it with a quiet sob.

* * *

Nathan dozed, yet the cold kept him from acquiring any useful sleep. His whole body ached, but his belly hurt the most. Attempting to swallow, he found his mouth dry again. He’d considered refusing food or water since he’d be dead soon enough. But to what end? What was he trying to prove? Why suffer needlessly?

With slow and careful movement, he rolled to his side and pushed himself up. His body screamed in anger, every muscle and joint fighting against his will to rise. Blind in the dark, he felt his way toward the bread until his fingers brushed against something hard.

Picking it up, the shape was right, but the consistency wasn’t like bread at all. Tapping it against the stone floor resulted in a hollow wooden knock. Continuing his search, he bumped into the bucket, its contents sloshing about. Dipping his hand into the frigid water, he took a small sip. The liquid burned down his throat, renewing forgotten pain.

He held the edge of the hard bread in the water for a few minutes before attempting a bite. Soggy, tasteless, but edible. Swallowing was an effort, yet he managed to get it down. Repeating the process was slow, but Nathan figured that was best. Eating too quickly after fasting for so long would only end badly.

He pondered how long it had been since he’d last eaten. Time was a blur, and he couldn’t muster the concentration to figure it out. He recalled the courtyard of Tornel Keep. The crisp breeze. The warm sun. Brohm’s lifeless body sprawled against the stone steps, blood dripping down the edge.

Nathan fought against the image. Instead, the big man’s beaming face filled his mind’s eye, and Nathan’s heart ached with sorrow.

“Gods!” he spoke in a whisper. “My own head wants to torture me.”

He fought back tears, refusing to cry. Brohm was gone, and no amount of grief would ever bring him back.