Magnus said, ‘No doubt,’ as he cast a sidelong glance at the tall, redheaded youth. Jommy had quickly become well liked at Sorcerer’s Island and had easily fitted in with Caleb’s adopted family. In a few difficult spots, he had revealed himself to be tough, loyal and willing to risk himself for others, yet he never seemed to lose his sense of humour.
Tad moved to look at Ketlami who now lay motionless, moaning and cursing softly. ‘What now?’
Caleb said, ‘We need to take this one to Father.’ To Chezarul he said, ‘Take the three captives back to the city and get what you can out of them. These should be the last of the Nighthawks in Durbin, but against the possibility there are stragglers still at large, wring every drop of truth from them you can. Then see they plague the world no longer.’
Chezarul nodded once, then began issuing orders to his men.
Magnus pulled out an orb and said, ‘Boys, stand close.’ He stood directly over Ketlami, while Caleb reached down and gripped a handful of the man’s tunic with one hand, and the hem of Magnus’s black robe with the other. Jommy put a hand on Magnus’s shoulder, while Tad and Zane each stood close behind Caleb.
Magnus depressed a switch on the orb and suddenly they vanished, leaving Chezarul and his men on the empty beach to clean up the last vestige of the Nighthawks in Durbin, and perhaps Great Kesh, if they were lucky.
THE PRISONER GLARED DEFIANTLY.
Jomo Ketlami hung by shackles from the stone wall. His clothing had been cut away, leaving him no dignity, but Pug had judged it necessary as his dark body was tattooed with arcane symbols, black, white, red, and yellow, and some of these were wards.
He was a powerfully built man. To the three boys at the back of the room, he looked strong enough to rip the iron rings out of the wall. His head was completely shaved and glistened with perspiration. He had a wrestler’s neck and shoulders, and his bare torso rippled with muscle. His black eyes showed no hint of fear. He snarled as he confronted his captors.
Half a dozen guards had been stationed outside the door and Magnus stood watch inside against any magical incursion, either to rescue Ketlami or to silence him. Caleb and the boys stood against the opposite wall, out of the way. Two men entered the room.
It was Pug, followed by Nakor.
Magnus asked, ‘Where’s Bek?’
‘Outside, if I need him,’ said Nakor. ‘He doesn’t need to see this.’
Magnus’s glance at his brother communicated a silent question: but these boys do? Caleb nodded once. Magnus studied his brother’s face then returned a single nod. The boys had proven themselves so far, showing iron will when needed and a fearlessness that was the hallmark of youth, but which was being rapidly replaced by a more sober appreciation of the real dangers they faced, youthful bravado becoming genuine bravery before Magnus and Caleb’s eyes. But combat was one thing, and torture another.
No one spoke for a moment longer, then Ketlami shouted at Pug, ‘You may as well kill me now, magician! I’m oath bound to take the secrets of the Guild to Lims-Kragma’s Hall!’
Pug said nothing, but turned towards the door as two more men entered the small chamber. The boys moved to the left side of the rear wall, giving the newcomers room to make their way to where the prisoner waited.
One of the two men wore a black leather hood and a faded tunic covered in old stains. Tad glanced at his two companions and knew instantly they all concluded the nature of those stains. The torturer took up a position before the prisoner, while the second man came to stand beside Pug.
He was a nondescript man of middle height, with no distinguishing features and brown hair, and he wore the shirt and trousers of a trader or farmer. His feet were clad in modest leather boots. He stared at the prisoner, who suddenly turned and locked eyes with him. Ketlami’s eyes widened. After a moment, he closed his eyes and an expression of pain crossed his face. More perspiration beaded on his forehead and he let out an animal growl, half pain, half aggravation. ‘Get out of my head!’ he shouted, then with an expression of triumph, he laughed and said to the newcomer, ‘You’ll have to do better than that!’
Pug glanced at the other man with an unspoken question. The other man looked at Pug, nodded once, then looked once more at Ketlami.
Pug said, ‘Begin,’ and the torturer took a quick step forward and drove his fist straight into Ketlami’s stomach. He stepped back while the prisoner gasped, his eyes watering. After a moment, Ketlami sucked in a deep breath and said, ‘A beating? What next? Hot irons and pincers?’
The torturer struck Ketlami in the stomach again, but this time it was two quick blows, and suddenly the contents of the victim’s stomach emptied onto the floor.
Jommy’s expression was grim as he looked at his companions. All three boys had been trained in hand-to-hand combat and an early lesson had been about double strikes to the stomach. A strong man could take a single blow and not miss a stride, but two quick strikes, the second coming before his stomach muscles could recover fully from the first, and he was doubled over, losing his last meal.
Magnus, Caleb, Pug and Nakor stood implacably, watching as Ketlami spat. The first indignity was but a start in slowly breaking the man down and learning what they needed to know, the location of the Grand Master of the Nighthawks.
Everyone remained silent as the torturer struck Ketlami across the face with the back of his hand. It was an insulting blow as much as a damaging one, and did nothing more than bring tears to the prisoner’s eyes again and make him even more defiant. Caleb turned and whispered to the boys, ‘It will be some time before he truly begins to feel hopelessness. He is a strong man: moreover, he’s a fanatic.’
The three boys stood quietly, their grim expressions reflecting the proceedings they observed. The torturer was methodical and appeared to be in no hurry. He would strike the prisoner repeatedly, then pause, as if letting Ketlami catch his breath. He struck him in the face, the torso, the legs.
After nearly half an hour of this slow beating, Jomo Ketlami hung from his chains, unable to stand. He appeared to be on the verge of unconsciousness.
‘Revive him,’ said Pug.
The torturer nodded and moved to the far corner of the room where a table stood, upon which rested a variety of bags and instruments of his trade. He opened one of the bags and removed an item, a small vial. Stepping up to the limp form of Ketlami, he unstoppered the vial, holding it under the man’s face. Ketlami’s head jerked back and everyone heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a faint groan.
‘Where hides your master?’ Pug demanded.
Ketlami raised his face to face Pug. Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut and his lip was split. He could barely speak for the swelling of his mouth, but he still retained a look of defiance. ‘You’ll never break me, magician. Kill me and get it over with.’
Pug glanced at the man standing next to him who shook his head slightly. ‘Continue,’ Pug said.
The torturer returned the vial to his bag and then came to stand before the prisoner. Ketlami glared at him. The man suddenly brought his knee up, brutally striking the Nighthawk in the groin. Ketlami collapsed completely, and hung for a moment from his chains, gasping for air.
And the beating continued.
Well into the second hour, Tad appeared to be on the verge of collapsing himself. With each repeated blow he would wince visibly. Caleb observed his adopted son’s behaviour, then