The Wonderground

Prologue

The prison cell stank of decay, sweat and the contents of the scrawny man's stomach which he had just vomited violently onto the dank, stone floor.

He guessed he had been hanging there for at least three days by the changes in light and darkness through the tiny, grated hole in the ceiling. His bruised, shattered hands were manacled and chained above his head to the damp wall, the iron bracelets biting into his bloodied wrists. His torn, bare feet were bound tightly together by a coarse leather strap and were dangling in a puddle of cold water. At least, he assumed it was cold. He had long since lost sensation in his toes.

He had been fed once since his arrival. If you could call it food. His body had disagreed and he had convulsed uncontrollably for the last ten minutes. His greasy, straggly beard was still dripping phlegm in between his withered legs and he could taste burnt vegetables in the back of his throat.

He heard voices echoing behind the thick metal door to his left. He looked up from his feet and squinted. The left lens in his glasses was shattered and he squeezed his eye shut to better see through the grime of the other lens.

The door creaked open. A small, gaunt woman, no more than five feet tall, limped into the chamber. Her hands were folded behind her back. She reminded him of a James Bond villain. Not that she would know who he meant.

Her auburn hair was held in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her glasses were wire framed with thick lenses that magnified her dark, hooded eyes. She wore a grimy, rust-coloured, leather smock that was spattered and smeared with crimson stains. Her feet were bare, and her curly, uncut toenails clacked on the grubby cobbles as she hobbled towards him.

She was carrying a small, metal birdcage. A large charcoal black rat lay curled up inside, sleeping on a bed of dead grass.

"A most gracious welcome to the Tower," announced the woman, with a wicked cackle. "I trust your stay will be an unpleasant one."

They had moved him to the Traitor's Tower.

"My name is Folterer," she continued. "The Jailor. And you are Francis, I believe."

"Where is my wife?" the prisoner demanded.

"She remains safe, relatively speaking, in the Red Castle dungeons," grinned Folterer. "She will remain so, provided you tell me where to find the Heir. Please understand that, eventually, you will tell me..."

The inmate tried to spit in Folterer's face, but his mouth was dry, and she was standing too far away, by a circular wooden contraption. It was a complicated structure of cogs that looked like it belonged in the clock tower of Big Ben.

The jailor noticed him looking at the machine. "You are not from this place," she stated, stroking the device. "Allow me to enlighten you."

She attached the cage to an iron butchers hook extending from the moss-riddled wall. The rat did not stir. She shuffled around the back of the apparatus to a worn handle which she gripped firmly and strained to turn. The mechanism squealed as the largest horizontal cog, the size of a kitchen table, began to spin.

"This is the Wheel of Truth," she declared proudly, "a device of my own invention."

The man snorted at the name. It reminded him of cheesy game shows on TV.

"The body is tied to the outside of the wheel with the feet shackled to the ground. The wheel will turn. The feet will not. You will tell me where 'the Heir' is before the feet rip apart from the ankles. Otherwise, it will cause such a mess," she smiled. Her few remaining teeth were stained and jagged.

The man spoke in a whisper. "I'll tell you exactly what I've told every guard, every hour, for the last three days." His voice became even quieter. "I don't know what you're talking about. There is no heir."

Folterer ignored him. "If the Wheel of Truth fails to jog the memory," she continued, "then Siru here...," she elbowed the cage sharply and the rat woke with a startled screech. "Siru will be placed onto the chest, over the heart."

"A bucket is placed over Siru and secured so that she cannot flee. A small fire will be placed on top of the bucket. Siru does not like fire and will try to escape. Unfortunately, she cannot burrow through the steel bucket so...,"

He shuddered at the thought. "Torture me all you want," he said with determination.

"Torture you, Francis?" replied Folterer with a raised eyebrow. "That is a good idea. However, my suspended friend, I have no intention of torturing you."

The man retched with relief. It was short lived.

"I am merely showing you the means by which I intend to torment your wife!" revealed the jailor menacingly.

The colour drained from the man's face and he groaned in anguish. "No, please," he managed.

Folterer tottered awkwardly up two narrow stone steps by her prisoner, leant in close and whispered into his ear, nibbling at his earlobe. "You will find me a fair host," she hissed. "Not a hair will be harmed on the head of your beloved if you answer my question. However, I shall only ask it once more and if I am unsatisfied with your response then she may well become acquainted with Siru before the day is out." She bit hard, tearing a chunk from the man's ear. He screamed in agony. As she chewed, she wiped blood from the edges of her mouth with her sleeve. "Tastes like chicken."

She removed her spectacles and breathed onto each lens, before rubbing them against her chest. She replaced them, grabbed his beard and dragged his face until it was directly opposite her and their eyes were level. "Concentrate for me, Francis. Where...is...the...Heir?" she spat, emphasising each word slowly and pointedly.

The man closed his eyes. 'Please forgive me,' he pleaded internally. He swallowed hard.

"The White Castle," he whispered, the words catching in his throat as tears streamed from his eyes and streaked his filthy cheeks.

He collapsed in a broken heap against the wall. The jailor kissed the man delicately on his forehead before she stood. "Of course," she said victoriously.