Page 15 of The Last Knight

Chapter Seven

Agonizing screams echoed, seeming to bounce off the walls. The sounds were so familiar, and yet even after decades of hearing them, he’d never grow accustomed to it.

It was expected that the ruler of the Dark Realm would inspect the torture chambers, confront those imprisoned and give orders to the guards as to how to proceed next.

When a groan sounded, the darkness pulsed through his veins, reacting to the pitiful sounds and Gunther took a deep breath at the energy that surged within. It was such a good feeling, even despite his mind acknowledging that what occurred was wrong.

He turned and walked into a dank, dimly lit room, the smell of blood and bodily fluids heavy in the air. It was rarely cleaned, the stench adding to the discomfort of those being held. A hapless man hung by his wrists. His legs had long since buckled under him. Blood dripped down his arms from where he’d struggled against the shackles in a fruitless effort to get away from whatever was being done to him.

“Unshackle him and return him to his cell,” Gunther said, his voice sharp. “There are things we must discuss.”

One of the torturers, a Torant with a grotesque twisted face disfigured from being tortured himself, moved to the man and unlocked the shackles, letting him collapse to the ground. His head hit with a hard thud.

Again, the darkness rose. This time Gunther pushed it down. He peered down at the unconscious man. “What was his crime?”

The other torturer chuckled. “Getting caught during our last raid of a village.”

The gleeful look on the Torant’s face made Gunther’s stomach turn. He ruled these horrible creatures. Releasing the prisoners or stopping his subjects from committing harmful deeds would mean losing credibility and respect as a leader. The Torant race thrived on battle, destruction, torture and death.

The disfigured Torant dragged the hapless man away while the other stood next to an empty slab, another torture surface equipped with leather straps used for arms and legs.

When the Torant returned, Gunther looked to one and then the other, the entire time silent. “Your methods are rudimentary and need improvement. Perhaps practicing on one another would give you a sense of what the captives go through and how badly it really hurts. They could be faking for all you know.”

Both torturers went still as statues. Gunther’s personal guards laughed, as always gleeful at the thought of pain and suffering, no matter whose.

“Fros, bring four guards here and have them perform the…new methods,” Gunther stated looking over his shoulder to one of his personal guards. “Molf, come with me.”

He walked away, ignoring the protests of the two who were about to be tormented.

With the guard at his heels, he went to the dungeon next. Surprisingly, there were only five prisoners being held. All seemed to be Atlandians. From the emaciated bodies on two of them, he could tell they had been there a long time.

“I’m disappointed,” Gunther said. “There is nothing extraordinary done here? Do these two have any pride in their work?”

Molf grunted. “I believe they have gotten lazy. Meliot wished for there to always be captives held and they took little effort to capture the ones we have.”

Gunther held his right hand out and immediately the iron door of the two cells opened. “Come out,” he ordered loudly.

The males walked out, some having to be helped, including the man who’d just been tortured.

Darkness swelled inside Gunther at the pitiful sight, fighting against the compassion that made his stomach lurch. “Return to your homes. Be sure to tell others what to expect if they cross anyone from the Dark Realm. There will be no pity, ever.” Lifting his hands with palms toward the group, he sent pulses of magic that would transport them back to wherever they came from.

Heavy footfalls were followed by the appearance of a Torant and another creature. Both stared at the empty cells agog. “We did not release them. It was probably the other…”

“Clean the cells until they are spotless. Once that is done, clean the corridors and once that is done, scrub the torture room. Ensure you do not disturb what is happening there.” He turned to Molf. “Send guards to oversee their work.”

Molf gave the jailors a triumphant look and then hurried to do Gunther’s bidding.

Gunther walked from the dungeon straight out to the courtyard, needing fresh air which he gulped in lungful after lungful until finally the stench left his nostrils.

In the courtyard, there was little activity. Torants were notorious for sleeping long hours, which suited Gunther fine. Only the guards at the gates and atop the walls moved about.

The overcast sky loomed, allowing for little light. It was eternally dusk in the Dark Realm. Gunther went to the stables, planning to ride out and explore his lands. Despite living in the Dark Realm for so long, he’d never truly traveled freely and had no idea what lay beyond the few places he’d seen.

He had little to fear, his powers stronger than any other who lived in the realms. Therefore, there was no need for any kind of escort.

Mounted on a black horse, he guided the steed through the gates. Nodding to the guards who dared not question him, he continued out.

The surroundings proved to be as desolate as he expected. Gnarled trees, their branches intertwining lined the road, their branches sprouting thorns and thick grey-green leaves that could withstand the frigid temperatures of the icing.