The Assassin's Redemption Chapter 3 Part 2

The dungeon was shrouded in darkness, with only a few small torches placed sporadically to light Ramar’s path- or the guard’s path, for they were all but dragging him down the stone hallway. It was not like the other parts of the castle. The dungeon was damp and cold, housing criminals and rebels that had yet to be executed along with an assortment of vermin and insects. Far below the surface, no sunlight ever reached this dark place. It was here that Ramar had interrogated men while they were tortured. It was here he had decided their fates. And it was here that he was to be tortured as one of them.

The guards pulled Ramar down the hall and into the Rack Room, or so the torture room had been nicknamed by the guard. The room, like the rest of the dungeon, was composed of a grimy gray stone. A wooden chair stood in the middle and an assortment of sickly looking instruments sat on a table to the right. There was a drain in the corner for washing away blood.

The guards shoved him into the chair, lashing his arms to its back with rope. He winced when the guards grabbed his broken arm and knotted the rope around it. When all was done, one guard took position in the corner and the other exited, most likely to guard the door.

Seconds past like hours, and with nothing left to avert his attention, Ramar began to

think about his injuries, pain rising to the surface after previously being blocked by worry. The cuts all along his body stung like a thousand bee stings. The gash on his leg burned as if someone was holding an open flame over it. Funny, I must look like I got into a fight with some giant bird and lost, he thought, trying unsuccessfully to make himself laugh. Humor seemed to be the only thing to quiet his fear. Ramar was not afraid of many things, but Baz made his stomach flip.

As if in response to his thought, the heavy wooden door screeched open and a man stepped in. He was old, even by Ramar’s standards. And skinny. So skinny that every rib was visible. His skin was pulled taunt against his bones, contrary to how it should have been sagging with his age. Yet somehow it seemed to make him look more ancient. His shriveled arms hung idle at his side, as small and weak as the rest of his body. But Ramar knew that those arms had the ability to inflict the worst pains on a man. His wispy hair was frayed a light gray, and a sadistic grin was fixed on his face. Ramar swallowed, trying to rewet his dry throat.

King’s Interrogator was Baz’s official title, but in reality all he did was torture. It was true that he got information out of people, but other times, such as now, Jairon simply wanted him to drain the life out of a person before he decided to execute him.

“Well, well, Master Ramar. You can’t imagine how surprised I was when a guard woke me up and told me that Jairon was sending you to visit me. This is quite an honor. I usually prefer that my guests are uninjured before I see to them, but with you, I think I’ll make an exception.” His voice rose and fell in a mocking tone. Ramar gathered what courage he had left.

“I’m not afraid of you Baz. I’m going to die anyway. There’s nothing you can do to frighten me. And, as you know, I’ve been trained to withstand torture,” he said, his voice firm.

“All, well, yes. It’s true you are going to die. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make it as painful as possible, does it? And from what I’ve been told, the King has something very special planned for your death. And on the subject of you being trained to withstand torture, from what I understand, you haven’t practiced your art in years. Even if you had, during those training sessions I’m not allowed to permanently hurt you. Here I can.” He turned and walked over to the table and examined his tools. The old man held up a twisted knife. Glancing back over his shoulder, Baz spoke.

“So, where do you suggest we begin?”