Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 832

Chapter 832: A way in(1)

–Twuuck–

A bloody tooth clattered onto the dirt, spinning once before settling in a sticky pool of spit and blood. The man it had belonged to screamed, his voice letting out a raw, animal wail that scraped against the clothed tent. His head sagged forward, ropes biting deep into his swollen wrists, that were already starting to spill blood.

“Where is the secret passage?” The torturer’s voice was as steady and flat as before, as though he were reciting prayers rather than carving answers from flesh.

The man could not believe what was happening.

War was supposed to be a game for the lords, not this…

“I–mphf–I don’fhh know!” The garrison commander tried to speak through the ruin of his mouth, the words twisted by missing teeth and a tongue thick with blood.

The torturer leaned in closer, expression blank, and gestured to the iron pincers warming on the brazier. A servant placed them in his hand. The tool hissed faintly as it was pulled from the coals, smoke rising like incense.

“How many defenders remain in there?” the voice asked again, unwavering.

“I don’fhh know… I never–never went inside! We had four thousand men on the walls… I don’fhh know how many survived the third breach, I–”

–Twhack–

The pincers smashed against his jaw, snapping his words into a strangled whimper. His face split open afresh, lips swelling grotesquely with some aftertrace of burn. The torturer worked with the methodical patience of a carpenter pulling nails from rotted wood.

“You are the garrison head,” the voice reminded him, tone almost weary. “You should know. Will we do this again? Teeth first, then fingernails, then perhaps we dig down to the bones or balls. There is still so much of you left to spend.”

The prisoner sobbed, choking on blood and mucus. “Please… I swear it.I don’t know!”

The torturer smiled faintly. He turned his head toward the others watching, and spoke as though explaining a game. “Do not cry. This is your choice. You are the only one who can stop it. It is no longer in my hands.You are your own keeper”

Another tooth gave way with a sickening crack. The commander shrieked once more.

Around them, the pirate captains lounged like fat carrion birds, their armor half-undone, cups of stolen wine in hand. The table before them overflowed with roasted meat, gold goblets, and jewels plucked from the city’s noble houses. Some laughed at the screams, but most did not even bother; their gazes slid lazily across the scene, glazed with drink.

“Sounds like a hog on the spit,” one captain muttered, tipping his goblet to his lips.

“Not even worth the iron,” another replied with a dismissive grunt. He waved at the torturer with mock encouragement. “Pull the toes next. At least it’ll keep us entertained.”

But their laughter was thin, bored. None of them truly believed the man knew anything of value. The tortures were less interrogation now, and more spectacl, blood offered up as diversion while the siege dragged on.

It was after all too boring to wait it out.

Not that they were unsatisfied with the endevour, on the contrary they had made quite the bank

Really the only one that hoped for something out of this was Blake.

He stood apart, arms crossed, eyes cold as the steel at his hip. It had been a week since the final wall fell, and still the imperial court held. The common sailors gorged themselves on stolen bread, on women, on bronze trinkets and silver. To them, the sack was victory enough; a fortune in their pockets, a tale to boast about until their dying day.

But to Blake, that was failure.

He had not come for plunder. He had come for the heart of an empire, the treasury that could buy fleets, the hoard that could crown him above all other sea-lords. And every day wasted dulled his hold over the Confederation. Already the captains whispered that they had enough, that the fleet should weigh anchor and be gone before fate turned against them.

He could see it in their eyes even now, glassy with wine. Men grown fat on easy riches, restless, eager to return home. Their greed had been sated. His had not.

Outside, Blake wore the mask of calm. Inside, his blood roared.

A week. A wasted, festering week. The ram had shattered against that iron gate like driftwood against a cliff. Every hour of effort bled into the dirt, and still the palace stood inviolate.

Did that old hag lie to me? he thought bitterly, jaw tight. She promised victory, swore the Great Fire would provide. Yet here I stand, waiting for aid that never comes. That foul god of hers. What sense is there in Him wishing the ruin of a people who knelt to Him for centuries?

Blake forced the thoughts down. He didn’t care for gods, not hers, not anyone’s. Gods were excuses, masks for greed and cruelty. What mattered was the prize behind that gate, the treasury that could crown him more than a sea-king . That was the victory he needed. That was the step to make all others kneel.

IT must fall. And soon.

“I swear it, I don’t know!” the Azanian cried again, blood and tears streaking his swollen face. His teeth lay scattered across the floor like dice thrown by a careless gambler.

“What are you crying for?” the torturer asked, voice eerily mild, as though he scolded a child. “Tears won’t buy you mercy. The answers sit in your mouth.Let it out…and this can stop.”

The prisoner bawled, shaking against his bonds. “How can I answer what I don’t know? I never-hic-never saw inside.”

The torturer sighed, almost theatrically, before turning toward the gathered captains. Then his lips stretched into a smile. “Well then. We seem to be at an impasse. Anyone else have questions for our noble host?”

A ripple of laughter went up at once. The pirates, long since bored of the spectacle, seized on the invitation like children handed a toy.

“Ask him how fat the regent’s arse is!” one captain bellowed, bits of greasy chicken flying from his mouth to splatter across the table. The others roared at that, slapping thighs and spilling wine.

“Better yet, ask him if the regent-bitch shits fire!” another guffawed, choking on his drink.

“Do you really sacrifice children to your god?” a third called, his tone mock-solemn, as though addressing a temple. He raised his goblet high. “Tell us, lordling,do you roast them slow, or toss them in whole?”

Another voice cut in, dry with sarcasm: “Do you stir their ashes into your wine? Or perhaps snuff them into your pipes with the oppium? Must be why you people always look so gloomy.”

The hall erupted with jeers.

“Does that bitch have orgies under the moonlight” one pirate shouted over the noise, “and then toss the participants onto the pyre by dawn?”

More laughter. Tankards slammed the table. Someone pelted the prisoner with a bone, the greasy lump bouncing off his chest.

The Azanian writhed, crimson streaking down his chin, but he could not even summon words anymore. His sobs and broken whimpers were drowned beneath the captains’ braying amusement.

He understood he would die in pain.

Blake did not laugh. He had no taste for it. Every roar of mirth from the captains scraped at his ears like steel grinding on stone. The sound was unbearable, not because of cruelty, by the sea he had done worse himself, but because it was waste. Time burned away in cheap jests while the iron gate still mocked him from the palace walls.

He should never have come here. Not to this circus of blood and laughter. He should have been with the hag, wringing from her some sign, some whisper of the aid she had promised. It had been weeks since the last omen. Was it not time that her black god showed its hand?

Perhaps the old creature needed encouragement. A ritual or two. A spark of blood in the fire. Would a few children’s screams suffice? he wondered bitterly. Or perhaps a virgin laid across the altar, yes, that would stir the bastard into listening”

He didn’t really know what tickled the pricks of evil Gods…so why don’t try everything?

Another round of laughter swelled, this time deafening, as the torturer pressed his weight and pissed across the noble’s bloodied face. The Azanian lord gagged and writhed, the onlookers howled, and Blake’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Why am I the only one losing my head? Why do I carry the storm while they wallow like swine in their own amusement?Always been like this; since I took Harmway, I’ve carried the weight of the Confederation on my back.

And these mongrels are supposed to be my peer?What a joke!

He remembered once when he believed in their free way of life, now he realized just how idealized that view was, they were barely better than pigs…at least pigs did not laugh.

Then at last as if answering Blake’s wishes, the laughter broke, choked off by a new sound: ceramic shattering against packed dirt. Plates splintered, cups toppled, the sharp clatter rippling silence through the tent.

Blake’s relief at the quiet lasted all of a heartbeat. His eyes narrowed as he followed the trail of broken shards to the source.

A figure. A shadow cutting through the captains’ circle toward the bounded man.

Blake’s mouth thinned. The calm he’d clung to soured. Of all men to stumble into this place, it really had to be the only one with the fucking lame leg.