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Prolur opened his eyes and scanned the room. He was surrounded by cold, damp bricks, and darkness. His arms and shoulders ached, and he felt chilled all over, yet sweat ran down his face. He was hanging from the ceiling by his arms in what he recognized as the interrogation chambers of Barnavor Castle. Many of the enemies of the Haugarian kingdom had ended their days here. How he had ended up here was a mystery to him. He could remember being hit with an arrow after the soldiers had ambushed On and the Myan. He had then been taken to a dungeon in Cambras, where he had been physically questioned until he lost consciousness, and then he had woken up here, cold and disoriented. The walls were dark and dank with green moss growing on them. Against the right-hand wall stood a cot made of metal that was covered in more rust than not. The red substance also stained the iron bars placed before him. It spread from the top and then ran down towards the stone floor, much like blood trickling down a limb.
Prolur concentrated on the bars, trying to get his bearings. His vision was blurred, and his ears were ringing. A low murmur with his heartbeat acting as a rhythmic drum, constantly banging. Slowly it was replaced by another rhythmic sound—the sound of footsteps in the distance coming closer. It echoed down the spiral staircase, down the hallway, and past the wails and moans from the other cells that the person passed. Those sounds were soon accompanied by two more, and all three were closing in on his cell. In Prolur’s mind, every time the heels of the boots hit the cold stone floor, he came closer to his judgment.
Suddenly, two men dressed in grey tunics stood on the other side of the bars. They were both very tall and broad and looked like true brawlers. They didn’t carry swords on their hips as was customary for Haugarian soldiers. Instead, a whip hung from their thick, black belts alongside a small wooden club. These were not normal Haugarian troops. No, Prolur recognized them as interrogators—torturers, plain and simple.
One of the men opened the door to the cell, and it made such an awful noise when he did that Prolur cringed. It was a tactical move that the army had used for many years. It had been proven to rattle the prisoner about to be questioned.
The man who had opened the door stepped aside and let his companion inside. The man walked up to Prolur, grabbed his chin, and raised it so that his eyes were fixed at the now open door. From the shadows beyond stepped a third man. It was Lord di Sauria. He was dressed in the ceremonial uniform, and Prolur knew that his case must have attracted the attention of someone at the court—maybe even the king.
di Sauria looked down on him and shook his head. He scratched his chin as if contemplating what his first words to his cousin should be. Prolur decided to take the initiative and rob di Sauria of it.
“Your soldiers have already beaten me, Cousin, “he said after a long, rough cough. “I do not know what you think is amiss, but I have said all that can be said.”
The soldier holding Prolur’s chin let go and quickly slapped him across the face causing his head to snap back. He then grabbed him by his hair and held him up once again. Prolur could feel warm blood trickle from his lip, but he kept staring at di Sauria in contempt.
“What I know, Prolur,”—di Sauria was spitting as he spoke—“is that you were the only man to survive among several young, trained soldiers. You must, therefore, have been spared. You were then caught whilst riding alongside known bandits and enemies to our kingdom. Not bound or injured but as their friend. That is the only thing I need to know.”
“What do you want from me?” Prolur hissed.
“I want you to inform me of the whereabouts of the tribe of bandits you were with and if you have been contacted by Quale Anostro,” di Sauria said slowly, emphasizing every word while he leaned closer so that they were no more than an inch apart, letting every syllable sink in.
“I cannot do that,” Prolur said, and he made certain he spat as he spoke so that his blood landed on di Sauria’s face. “As for the former Prince Quale, I have nothing to say.”
di Sauria straightened himself and backed away while he wiped his face with a handkerchief. “This is not the end, Cousin,” he said. “You will be tried for treason, and maybe you will reconsider when you come closer to the axe.”
di Sauria turned around and quickly stepped back into the shadows beyond the door. At the same time, the soldier by the door walked inside. The man standing by Prolur lifted him up from behind as the other man brought his small wooden club into his stomach with incredible force.