The Barrowland Slayers

Chapter 9: Riding on the Plains

 Darius tapped a finger against his bloodied lip, licking it, taking in the salty tang. He sank back and took another bite of the stale loaf he'd been given. He savored it, taking his time with each bite. Rough though his treatment had been, it looked as though he'd live out the night.

Tomorrow, then, they'll end up hanging me.

A few crumbs fell into his windpipe, and he coughed. Darius looked around the empty cell, wishing he had something to drink. The guards had barely tolerated feeding him as it was.

Always had that effect on people. He patted at a bruise on his head, feeling the swollen bump and the sticky blood, getting all tangled up in his curly hair. The undead hadn't done nearly as much to him. Ah well. Never was much of a looker anyway.

Darius examined his bloody fingers, ignoring the sounds of boots against cobblestones and the clanking echo of iron. Maybe they were back to slug him some more. Maybe they weren't.

He didn't care much either way... or, at least, tried not to.

Someone coughed just outside his cell. Darius didn't glance over. Instead he stared at his bloody fingertips, thinking about the friends he'd lost.

"You must be Darius Grant."

Darius felt little incentive to agree with the man. From the side of his vision, as best he could see with his eye still nearly shut, the new arrival wore pitch-black robes. Dimly, he recognized the man's voice as that of Inquisitor Varus. Yet what he was doing here was beyond him.

The man only seemed interested in strutting about the court and banging his hammer. What, does he want to bloody his nice black robes on me?

Brown boots fell into place beside the Inquisitor. The same kind the guards wore.

"Is he ready to talk?" Varus asked.

"Ah... shall I ask him?" the guard said doubtfully.

Darius smirked, though he did his best not to show it. A silence fell.

"Can you hear me?" With growing irritation, the Inquisitor shifted his questions to the guard. "You didn't cut his tongue, did you? Rip out any teeth?"

"Of course not, sir!" The guard sounded genuinely affronted. "You've been very clear about that. I take my job seriously. No disfiguring marks to the face, no damage to the throat or mouth. Hands, feet, and torso only. Just like you told us."

"Mm." Varus bent down, frowning at Darius. "You'd be surprised at how many lack such a basic understanding of an Inquisitor's methods. Are you in there, Darius?"

Despite himself, Darius stirred, turning to the side and fixing the Inquisitor with a scowl. Darius Grant was a hard man, growing up in the plains just outside the Barrowlands, working hard every day of his life since he could remember. With his fresh cuts and swollen eye, Darius reckoned he made for quite the sight.

Varus glanced away first, and Darius no longer hid his smirk.

"I have some questions for you. Without the others around to—"

"You want me to tell my story?" Darius said, his deep voice seeming to fill the cell. "To let you know my sad tale of woe? Of how I came to be here?"

Inquisitor Varus nodded, leaning closer. His eyes shone bright, and he squatted down, setting his ink pot on the ground. Darius took a deep breath. Then he spat out a wet gob of phlegm, which splattered on Inquisitor Varus' nose. He cackled in glee, even as the guard swore, jamming his iron key into the lock. Darius focused his gaze on the Inquisitor as he produced a purple cloth, wiping away the spit. Darius laughed, louder and louder, ignoring the fists that came his way as several guards swarmed the sell. The punches the assistants they landed barely diminished his laughter.