Chapter XCIII : Tempered

  Latenight of Tertius, Second Day of Duskmoon

  Cedric’s misery grew with each passing day. The night after his feet were broken, the jailor stopped serving meat for dinner. Instead, he delivered a gummy, grey-colored gruel that smelled rancid and tasted bitter. He forced it down, since he was already borderline malnourished. But it made him want to puke. A few weeks earlier, the Old Cedric would have looked with disgust at the grisly strip of fish or swine they used to serve him. But after this gruel, his mouth watered for just a bite.

  His imagination went further: he pictured a hunk of beef, slow-roasted in a wood-fire pit, charred and crispy on the side, seasoned with salt and herbs, bursting with flavor. It was paired with a forty-year old scotch, with its sharp bouquet of sweet, floral scents wafting from the cork, warm as he swished it around his mouth, tingling as it slid down his throat. And a pleasant burn to finish.

  He possessed such a bottle. It awaited him at his manor to celebrate his finished Zounds project. Once his life’s greatest achievement, now it was bittersweet, a tool in the hands of the enemy. He still had copies of the schematics, resting on his desk, which he gazed upon with admiration. They were the last of his possessions, now that the jailor had removed almost everything else to seemingly elevate his suffering.

  After robbing him of good food, the jailor took his mattress. In its place he laid a pile of straw, a bed suitable only for livestock. Over the next few days, more of Cedric’s instruments went missing. They were just tools, and he had no more use for them, but now that Zounds was finished, hours in the dungeon stretched longer than any sane person could endure. The tools on his desk were treasured keepsakes, reminding him of a prior life as Grand Craftsman. As they disappeared, it felt like his life was being disassembled. He was an airship, being scrapped for spare parts.

  A drop of ice-cold moisture fell on his neck, shaking him from his doldrums. He wiped it away, cursing. The dank dungeon made him stiff. His feet, looking and feeling like blocks of tar, limited any kind of exercise. They also weighed a ton. Had they not been firmly attached to his ankles, he would have thought them balls of lead.

  He thought back to the days when he used to walk freely. He remembered the pier most of all, where cool, maritime breezes blew through his hair, and the sun gently warmed his face. But these figments were faint and fleeting. The hope of ever experiencing that kind of joy and freedom was over. He’d never walk again. Virgil’s curse left him crippled and in agony.

  Another ice-cold drop landed on his neck, and he snapped. He grabbed the closest thing on his desk, his wooden straight-edge, and he split it in two. The moment of catharsis came and went, leaving him with a broken instrument as well as a splinter, deeply embedded in his palm. He squealed, dropping the halves of his tool until they landed on the ground with a clink. Carefully, he plucked the wooden shard from his skin, leaving a filthy wound, prone to infection.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  He couldn’t help but sob as he wondered how he could keep on living. He couldn’t endure another day, let alone weeks or months. It was only a matter of time before the rest of his things were taken. Perhaps, even the straw, leaving him with nothing but the cold stone floor.

  A loud clank jerked him to attention. The large iron door at the front of the dungeon swung open. He winced, dreading the jailor’s arrival. His stomach rumbled, but the thought of forcing down another bowl of gruel made him sick.

  Another loud clunk signaled the jailor’s entry into his cell. Cedric’s muscles tensed, and his hands balled into fists. Just picturing his tormentor’s ugly face made him furious, but he knew how futile it was to fight back. The jailor was twice his size and three times his weight. He refused to turn around to meet him.

  As expected, a bowl of gruel landed on his desk, smelling worse and looking slimier than before. What he didn’t expect, however, was for the jailor to reach forward and attempt to snatch his blueprints.

  “Wait! What are you doing?”

  The jailor pushed him aside. “Get outa the way.”

  “No!”

  Cedric panicked. They were all he had left to remind him of his accomplishments. He couldn’t bear to see them trashed, so he threw himself over the papers.

  The jailor scowled, revealing a mouthful of rotted, crooked teeth. “Move ova, ya little worm! B’fore I breaks yur hands, tew.”

  Cedric had no intention of yielding. Without his blueprints—and with nothing to look at but four empty walls—he’d go insane in no time. So he struggled as the jailor wrestled the pages from his grasp. A waft of body odor hit him like the kick of a mule, and before he knew it, the bowl of gruel tumbled to the floor with a splatter.

  The jailor looked pissed. “Now ya’ve donnit!”

  He backhanded Cedric so hard he flew off his stool. He landed on his back but was unable to right himself due to his blocks-of-tar feet. The jailor followed, pinning him underneath his thick, scaly thighs.

  “Stupid peece o’ shit. Ya think I’m gonna letya starve? Yur gonna eat till et comes out yur ears.”

  He scooped up the remains of the gruel with his bare hands and forced it into Cedric’s mouth. The Craftsman clamped his jaw shut, but the filthy ooze clumped around his beard and slid up his nose. He gagged.

  His arms flailed, desperate to grab anything within arm’s reach. His fingers found the splintered remains of his straightedge, and he took hold.

  Fueled by rage and indignity, he jammed it behind him, hoping his aim was good enough to injure the buffoon so he could get out from underneath. Instead, he felt a great weight as nearly five hundred pounds of fetid flesh pressed him into the hard stone floor.

  He squirmed and rolled until he freed himself from the hulking mass. The idiot had gone too far! Cedric fumed, his anger like molten metal, straight from the forge. His hate radiated so fierce, it shook the very walls of his cell. Grains of silt and detritus drifted from the ceiling, and the ground shook.

  After making it onto his knees, he turned to face his opponent. But the jailor was motionless, face down on the floor. Cedric’s anger melted, giving way to trepidation. Slowly, he reached for the jailor’s head and turned it toward him. There, sticking bloodily from the right eye socket, was his splintered straightedge.

  The man was dead.

  The Craftsman’s anger was gone, but the walls still shook. Not from any kind of manifestation of rage, but from something else entirely. Another plume of dust settled, prompting Cedric to consider his next few moments carefully. Virgil’s threat notwithstanding, he’d be foolish to stay. Whatever happened on the surface, it did extensive damage to the entire Substratum’s structure.

  He swiped the jailor’s keys, his last hope of escape.

  It wouldn’t be easy. With heavy blocks of tar for feet, he’d have to crawl on hands and knees. Even so, if he could free himself from this Gaia-forsaken cesspool, it suited him just fine.

  After wiping bits of rotten gruel from his chin, he took the jailor’s lantern and crawled out of his cell.