Book 2, Chapter 28: Bechalle’s Counter-Offer
My head throbbing, eyes opened as I regained consciousness. How badly did he concuss me? It took effort to focus. Bechalle was at the table, humming to himself. I’d been tied to the two posts in the middle of the room. One arm, one leg bound to each, such that I was making an X shadow in the late afternoon light. I tested the bonds, they were tight. But they were just rope. If I could rub them against a hard surface or scratch them, they’d break.
The table had a set of knives, scissors, hooks. The implements of torture. Even a bone saw. My dirk. Man, I thought to myself, this game sucks.
“Oh, you’re awake! How joyful.” He walked over to me, shears in hand. “We can begin soon.”
“What do you want? I thought we were to discuss our matrimony.”
He waved that off, “I have such dreams. Such dreams, Cayce, of you.” His eyes, wide, twitching, against my face, staring into my eyes, “Where is it inside you? How can I bring it out?”
“What the hell are you babbling about?”
He whispered, “The spark. The divinity.” He walked behind me, out of sight, pulled my dress tight at the neck. Not quite choking me, but not comfortable. Metal scraping metal as the shears opened. He cut the dress all the way to the bottom. And then along each arm. It fell to the floor, leaving my slip, which soon joined it on the floor. I shivered, naked, the sudden cold and madness around me.
“I have no . . . divinity. What are you doing?” Did he know I was a player character? My mind raced, wondering if that’s what he meant.
“The godhood. It’s inside you, trapped under your skin. Your calm demeanor.”
“It isn’t, it really isn’t. Albian, listen to me, I am not a god.”
“This little body . . . like the mountain, holds such power. More than any wizard.” He walked back into my sight, never once looking at my breasts or genitals, but fixed on my face, eyes. He ran his fingers along my chin. “I only have to find the breaking point, the right fracture, the rift that releases . . .” Abruptly, he turned and went to the table, searching.
“You’re insane!” He wasn’t listening. Or he just didn’t care. Maybe he was insane. I could beg or threaten, many such verbal attacks wove through my mind, which would work? None. I wasn’t a person to him any longer. I began scratching at the rope with my nails on each side. Probably uselessly.
What about my men? Morry? He knew about this meeting and had soldiers inside the castle. Bechalle would have stationed his guards on the other side of the door. Only two accompanied us. No way they could stop Morry, I told myself. Yet, we were high in a tower, behind a massive door. I could scream all I wanted, it wouldn’t likely help.
But then my mind hit upon one last hope. We’d be missed at dinner. Only, no one would worry. Brin would think we were enjoying ourselves. And Morry wouldn’t be at that dinner and so wouldn’t know. I should have promoted Tread today, so he’d be around Brin, tell her what’s up.
“This knife,” he held it in front of me. “The blade, see it?” It was metallic and white, like ceramic, but shining and glittery. About the length of a pencil, but I couldn’t see the blade. “The horn of a unicorn. The hilt, here, from the bones of a dryad and a nereid. You see, here?” Holding it up to my face, he pointed to the small blade, jutting out from the shaft itself rather than extending from it. Small, perhaps a sixteenth an inch in depth or less. “To cut through skin. No muscle tissue, difficult to make a mistake. Only skin.”
“You’ve planned this for some time?”
“As long as I’ve been able.”
“I mean, when did you dream that I was a deity?”
“This is going to hurt, I imagine. Scream if you like.” He moved behind me, to my left arm.
This is a game. It’s not real. Man, I am going to beat whichever friend put me in here! For a long time. He started with my left wrist and cut a path along my arm. When the knife bit into my skin, I flinched and pulled away, but he followed and the blade cut deeper. Blood poured out of the wound, down my forearm.
“Hold still! You made the knife go in too deep. I don’t want you to die from this.”
“Fuck you!”
He put his weight on my arm, limiting its motion, but I pulled away regardless.
“You’re making a mess of this!” he hissed at me.
“Albian, I hope you die a virgin.”
He paused, confused, “Really? If this works, I just may.” He ran the blade along my upper arm then, toward my neck.
Involuntarily, my arm shook to escape the agony. He punched my arm, squeezed tightly and tighter still, and continued his cutting. The blood dripped off my elbow now, throbbing pain where the knife had been, sharp, splicing pain where it was.
He pushed against my head as he drew the knife along my neck, then the back of my neck, and I could feel his breath. I relaxed forward, felt his grip move with me, then slammed my head back with all my strength. A crack, a shout, the sound of crystal hitting the floor.
“You stupid bitch! If you broke that knife, you will die.” Footsteps, leather creaking as he bent down, back up and he walked in front of me, waving the unfortunately still whole knife. Blood from his nose that he wiped. “You are making this too difficult. We’ll have to do it the regular way.” He set the knife down, then punched me in the gut, over and over until I was doubled over, coughing, then pounded my right arm until it was numb. He resumed cutting from my neck, down my right arm to my hand. When my muscles protested, he hit my abdomen.
“When I practiced for this, it was likewise. I had to beat the subjects until they ceased struggling. I’m saddened to see you are no different. Truly, I expected more from a deity.”
Subjects? He was seriously crazy if he practiced for this. Yet it meant he wasn’t merely here to torture me. He was writing something. Something intricate, difficult and detailed. Something you had to get right on the first try. How could I mess it up? Did I have the willpower, the physical stamina?
I threw up, coughed, threw up some more.
He placed a wet cloth on my lips, cleaning me up. “If you stop struggling, this will be easier on you. Cayce, I don’t want to kill you. After I have your power, I’ll wipe out your enemies and give you the kingdom. Just cease your struggling. It’s all quite useless anyways.”
“I’m not . . . I’m not a deity you idiot. I’m a PC. Player Character.”
“What’s this? What are you confessing to?”
It confused him, he backed up and stared at me.
“You’re an NPC, a non-player character. You’re mistaking me for an in-game being when I am not.”
“So, you admit to being different than everyone else?”
“Yeah, but not a god. You’ll get no power from me.”
“And we are all non-players? I think I take your meaning well enough. Thank you for the confirmation.” He returned to my backside, pushing my body forward until the ropes pulled tight against my wrists. The knife bit into my back. I tried to move to little use. He was just too strong, too heavy, and I was exhausted, muscles swelling and aching. He carved in circles at first. At some point, the pain became too much, the world went white.
I drifted in and out of consciousness after that. Blood dripped off me, making splashing sounds. The bastard had laid cups to catch the blood. Shaking from shock, he simply punched my sides until I collapsed back into unconsciousness. I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying during these times. He’d lit incense. The sunlight red against the walls and fading, my throat dry and tongue swollen.
I could feel the pattern cut into my skin because of the pain. Three lines along my arms, like the first. Some kind of circular maze-like drawing on my back. I had a feeling he was going to start on my legs.
My voice was dry and weak, “Water.”
“No water, not in your state. You’d take ill. I did have some ale brought up for you.” He held a cup to my lips. I drank readily, but he was lousy at serving and rivulets of beer ran down my chin and neck.
The ethanol hit immediately. Somewhere within it registered that I was dehydrated, losing too much blood, and drinking ale was dumb, but the pain numbed somewhat.
“Brace yourself.”
My back, arms, my world became white with pain. The stink kept me from passing out, but I screamed loud and long. He poured warm vinegar across the cuts.
“It smells like vinegar, but it’s more than that.”
“You didn’t cut my legs.”
“No, no, you won’t trick me. Your legs you keep.”
“What, why?”
“Now, the final touches. Hold still.”
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