The man on the board did not curse at the heavens for his fate, but that was only because he knew that there was no one left up there that his words could damn. His father had told him many times of the voice from heavens that addressed all of humanity when it declared so. Nobody doubted who the voice came from, as it possessed such an absolute grandness that in comparison to it everything else shrank to insignificance. And nobody doubted what it said. It was inconceivable that it could lie, for even if it did so, it seemed natural that the world would keep rearranging itself until what it said became the truth. The voice was that of the Maker, who proclaimed that he was leaving the world, and that the one who was most worthy would sit upon the divine throne in his stead. He declared that such an honor could only befall the greatest artist. The man used to think that it was tragically fitting. Only an artist would tirelessly keep causing him so much grief, finding beauty in it. Although now, nailed to this board, he would not so easily dare to make such a joke.
The dim light of the torch flickered on the wet stone of his cell. The air hung thick with the coppery tang of blood and the cloying stench of corrupted flesh. He had somewhat gotten used to that smell. If he took only short breaths, his throat did not throb as much, and if he did not move, the chains would not sear deeper into the flesh of his wrists and ankles.
His mind retreated to the one thing that was not pain. He focused on the shape in the pocket of his tattered trousers, a presence he'd only discovered after they first nailed him to the board. It was a small, wooden fox, worn smooth. He could feel its ears and blunted tail through the thin cloth. He did not remember it being given to him, nor did he know why they allowed him to keep it. But it was his anchor. In the rare moments when they yanked him up to treat his festering wounds, he would bring it up to his face and cry. It smelled of pine and woodsmoke, and the memory of his sister's laughter.
But too much stale air found its way into his lungs again, and he coughed, which made all the nails piercing his back dig even deeper. He gripped the memory of the fox, a sliver of warmth in the dark. The loudest one always gets the most attention, he thought, clenching his jaw to choke the sound. He could never see them approaching, the board that he was nailed to forced him to stare at the ceiling, but a faint scuffing of boots on stone kept getting louder. The man panicked, fearing that it was already his turn again. There were cells next to his, so he would never know whether they were coming for him or someone else, and he always held onto that bit of hope. But when the iron door screeched, the man bitterly realized that his fears had come true.
"Please…" a hot, shameful tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek. He tried to squirm away as the flickering torchlight revealed a tall figure next to him. He knew the chains could not possibly break, but the nails grinding against bone were nothing compared to what was coming.
"Doing that again?" the torturer said, his voice a strange mix of bemusement and regret. "I'm not here to hurt you this time."
The man fell utterly still, the chains going silent. A sharp doubt flooded him. This had to be a new kind of game, a more subtle form of torment. He could no longer recall exactly when his torture began, but every time someone showed up, they did so with the intention to harm him.
"Your time here is finished. Get ready for your trial." The prisoner's gaze fell. A trial for what? For screaming too loud? For bleeding on their knives? They had never accused him of any sin. Yet their questions were a constant torment, always circling the same fractured corners of his mind. They always asked about Maria, their voices slithering through the haze of pain. But the memories were a fog he could never grasp, and his failure to answer was always met with a fresh agony.
The pain from being yanked into an upright position cleared his mind and forced him to accept that this was truly happening. When the torturer gouged the final nail out of his body, the man slowly got up only to fall from a wave of weakness. The torturer poured a familiar, acrid-smelling liquid on him, and with a sizzling sound, his wounds started to close. It was not a gentle mending, but a violent pulling of flesh, a fire that stitched him together. This was how they could peel his skin off day after day without killing him. Taking a shallow breath, he tried to stand up, and the torturer quickly grabbed his arm, pulling him until he was barely on his feet. He took him down the narrow hallway, the rough stone walls scraping against his newly-knit skin, stopping in front of an already opened door.
"Come," an imposing voice interrupted his daze. The man's vision was blurry, but he could barely make out two figures sitting by a table near a fireplace. There was something strange about this room; despite the crackling of the fire the air was chilly, and an unnatural darkness seemed to be swallowing the light. The torturer dragged him and he fell into the seat. The chair was still warm.
"The subject was recovered from the heart of Briskwood," the short man in the coat muttered, reading from a blood-stained parchment. "Inquisitor Gremory brought him. He's the only survivor of the Cleansing."
The female interrogator's eyes widened slightly. "He survived a Cleansing? Why would Gremory…" she trailed off, her professional composure faltering. She leaned forward, flipping to a sealed addendum on the report. Her face went pale as she read it. "So that's why…" she whispered, looking from the parchment to the broken man slouched in the chair.
"Focus on the matter at hand, Sylvona," the other interrogator continued. "He's been here for about two months. He didn't lose too much muscle; he's been eating from time to time. A good sign. The leak is only as steady as the will to go on."
"You're not actually thinking of using him for tomorrow, are you, Gerald?" she protested, her finger stabbing the page she had read. "He's to remain here."
"Two months, and it yielded nothing. What else does Gremory expect to find? He's just too prideful to admit he got done in." Gerald gave a dismissive response, as if stating the obvious. "But our job is to assess the current state." He tapped the main report. "Let Gremory worry about his project when he returns."
Sylvona let out a frustrated sigh, her eyes on the slouched man who desperately tried to understand his predicament. "The body looks solid. What about his mind?" she cleared her throat before finally addressing him. "Tell us your name."
Something foreign surged through his body. His cowering posture straightened, his will gave way, and his lips moved to obey. "It's Bastet." As he spoke, a black smoke circled around him, almost as if it was inspecting him.
"Bastet, is it?" Gerald slid a flask of red liquid across the table. "Drink. It should fix your throat. Now. Recount the Briskwood Cleansing. From the beginning."
The word 'Cleansing' sent a tremor through him. That day replayed endlessly in his dreams, until he could no longer tell what was memory and what was not. And in that blur, he found a strange comfort. If only he could keep silent, then no true words would have to sharpen this haze into something real. But the familiar numbness overcame him, and a weak voice escaped his mouth against his will. "Whispers." His voice was a dry rasp. "For weeks, the wind carried voices that weren't there. Father said not to worry. The sun hadn't turned purple in the past few weeks, so we weren't worried about anything crossing over. We just continued working the fields, but everyone felt it. Like the world was holding its breath…" He swallowed as the black smoke in the room coiled tighter, almost like it was feeding on the memory. "And then the first scream cut through the air. From the edge of the village. Then another. But the forest only screams at night." He shook his head, the memory sharp and painful. "Cultists, we thought. Or worse, something from the forest. Maria pulled us inside and we barricaded the door. Father with his sword, me with a rake… and through the cracks in the wood, we saw them. Wesian soldiers clad in black armor, moving through the fields…"
A flicker of something that wasn't pain crossed his face, the ghost of a forgotten hope. "I was so relieved. I thought we were safe. They'd come to save us."
The interrogators remained silent, letting the memory play out.
"But they weren't running," Bastet's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "And the screams… the screams were coming from the houses they passed. Father… he went outside. He thought there was a mistake. He raised his hands to them… he pleaded… but there was no mercy in their eyes."
His voice hitched, the recollection shattered into disconnected fragments.
"I… I don't know what happened after… A bright flash of light and then it was very warm. When I came to, I found myself staring at the sky. The house was blown up. My head was too heavy to turn… And Maria… In my dreams, I see her in a shadowy embrace. And father… he was crushed beneath the rubble. And no god was there to save their souls."
"As I was running out of blood to bleed… The Inquisitor stood over me." Bastet squealed, balling up his fists on his knees. "He promised… he promised he could bring them back to life. All of them. If I just…"
"If you just swore the blood oath," Gerald finished for him, a note of grim satisfaction in his voice. He looked at his colleague. "It's fragmented. The events are out of sequence, but mostly align with Gremory's report. The mind is still rational enough to understand orders. It's good enough."
"You call that 'mostly'?" she replied as the black smoke coiled around her arm, and for a moment, it was as if it was whispering something to her. "It's a risk. And it seems like he only has about a year's worth of life left in him. With a leak of that size, things can get quite dangerous when he turns."
"Nillen needs bodies for tomorrow, Sylvona."
"Gremory wouldn't like it. And what if chaos got a hold of him before he did?"
"If he's clean, then we need him for tomorrow," Gerald dismissed her. "And if he's not… then perhaps one problem can solve the other."
"The scholar with the messy mind?" She frowned. "You would do that now, of all times?"
"What better time? If there's rot in him, spread it somewhere useful. Worst case, Lord Nillen gets two more berserkers. And if anything comes from it, perhaps Gremory can recover some dignity." Gerald smirked, and then turned to the torturer. "Gorgo, hand him over to Sava. Tell him to lead him to the scholar. We need them both ready for the battle tomorrow."
The torturer faithfully followed his order. He grabbed Bastet's shoulder, pushing him further down the dark hallway, and then onto a staircase, after which they turned left. With the creak of a large door, Bastet took in the first gulps of fresh air since what seemed like an eternity. The warm light of the setting sun caressed his swollen cheeks, and the cool grass brushed his sore feet. It was a strange and bitter cruelty, he thought, to be reminded that the world still knew how to be beautiful.