Draught of Power - The Thief's Torture

Well those from character group will recognise Jazool who has been revamped and been placed in a different world and story. Others just read and critique.

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CHAPTER 1 – The Thief’s Torture

A thrash of power cut through the skin on Jazool’s left cheek. He stumbled backwards and clutched his face, feeling cold blood on his slightly numbed hands. Looking up to the spell caster, he crouched his tall figure into a kneeling position and placed his hands behind his back letting a mixture of grease and blood pour from his face. A tall man approached him, his hands alight with blue flame that was fighting to be free.

“It is a pity we must meet like this,” the man roared at Jazool, his voice was deep and resembled bones rubbing together. His voice suited his enormous body. Jazool peeked up only to find his vision clouded by a bulk of muscle on the man’s chest. The man was less than an inch away from his salty hair. Jazool sweltered through fear, his breathing quickened. Slowly, he felt his skin being scorched by the flaming hand as it coiled itself around his face and pushed him backwards.

Jazool released a scream of pain until his lungs gave way and he was plunged into silence.

“Now, tell me where Phoryell is located.” The voice was firmer this time, firm enough to shake the ground slightly.

Jazool kept his silence partly through pain but mostly through mind focus, there was no way he would give the location of his master away just yet. Phoryell had instructed that he give it to him three days after being captured. He would obey.

It was the second day of the torture now, his limbs were bruised, his skin burnt. This torturer was skilled in magic of the darkness and was ready to inflict pain upon the silence of his clients. But Jazool could handle it, he was a thief, he could handle anything.

“Where?” He was flung up to the wall and held there by invisible hands, he couldn’t move. He was a statue. The torturers hand became a fist just before he felt his throat being choked. Jazool had never felt a choking like this; it was evenly spread and forced itself on him with a passion for knowledge. He was released from the choke and the torturer stepped forward.

Today was the second day of torture, Jazool had been tortured the day before without any questions. He understood this well, it was to capsize any stubbornness before questioning. It worked only on the weak and not on the loyal. Jazool understood this more. For that moment Jazool remembered his loyalty more strongly than ever, and somehow, even through the binding of the torturer’s magic, he felt himself smile.

The torturers face flashed with anger he placed his hand forward and a sharp disk of light left it and headed for his right thigh. Jazool closed his eyes as he felt a rush of blood leave the remaining stump on his leg.

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Crês-Emperal Graté was only a rooks flight away from Phoryell’s base, its colossal purple wall of magic was unmistakable.

Phoryell’s eyes followed it up into the clouds and not once did it lose its vibrant colours or vivid grandeur. In one respect Phoryell classed the wall as his equal - it was strong and everlasting; kept its secrets inside and never faltered. That’s how he used to be some five months ago until his union of minor states was seized and conquered. He, Phoryell, founder of the Western Union, most powerful ruler in the known world had fallen to a hoard of necromancers from a land unknown to most. He lowered his head in pity then spat at the wall for reminding him of what curdled his blood.

He turned around and looked at his tribe of five thousand or more, the loyal thieves and militias. They had been moving almost weekly, setting up makeshift camps, scarring the landscape as they did so. This at one time would have hurt Phoryell but now it wasn’t his landscape to scar so he inflicted wounds as much as possible to the poisoned earth he walked on.

“Master, master,” a small boy scurried up to Phoryell, panting.

“What is it boy?”

“Jazool has returned.”

Phoryell’s eyes widened in terror. Jazool was not supposed to return on the second day. He wasn’t supposed to return at all, he was supposed to die after he told them the location of the camp. “Take me to him.” He was lead through the crowds, he picked up to a sprint. Several joined him curious to their master’s severity. He halted and restrained tears.

“I have returned master,” the voice came from a twisted mouth hanging from a pale white face. The face had slits for eyes, a blind man. The man was sitting in a chair but no legs flowed over the sides only wooden stumps that were as greasy as his old hair. His new hair was none-existent – baldness displayed green veins, thick and charred. The man was a monster, ugly and deformed. Phoryell’s stomach curdled, he turned and released vomit.

“J…Jazool?” he trembled the name as if it was sacred.

“Yes, it is I,” the mans voice was unchanged, still bubbly yet slightly edged with mystery.

Phoryell looked around still seeing many listening. “We need privacy.” He walked to a tent nearby, guards following carrying Jazools chair.

“You have served greatly.” He said sitting behind a table, looking down avoiding Jazool’s nightmarish glances. He poured a drink in a glass

“No, I have failed. I told them you were at the borders of Crês-Emperal Graté, they will be here within the day.”

Phoryell looked up at him with a new bode: hatred. He had betrayed the union, he should have died before falling to the feet of the necromancers. Phoryell stood, eyes wide with not horror, but punishment.

“You have failed me, the people and the UNION!” He shouted piercing the air and crushing the glass in his hand, yet not cutting himself.

“Master, they threat—“

“—NO YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED BEFORE SURRENDER!” Phoryell repeated his thoughts.

“But but—“

“—Treason carries the ultimate penalty.” Phoryell looked at him with no sickness and no pity. He pointed at him with an outside sterness but an inside thrill.

“Death!” All he fought for, all he knew and believed congealed and morphed into anger which travelled through his arm and out of his finger in the shape of a green bullet of light. On contact, the thief was dead.