From the little light that passed through the slit-like holes in the ceiling above him, Inoadar might be able to watch the passing of time. The two days that passed stretched into eternity – the pain did not subside, nor did he receive any reprieve or comfort from the cold, damp cell he was contained in. As before, he was only fed once a day, small, stale loaves of bread. Slowly, muscle and energy was beginning to ebb away from the poisoner’s body.
Other prisoners were taken from their cells and returned chimes or bells later, the time was irrelevant, and no one was counting anyway. What was checked, and respected or envied, was how badly damaged a body would be when it was dragged, limp, back to its cell. No matter how long they had been taken for, those returning in a similar state to how they had left were known by all as the ones who had caved, the ones who had shared everything they could, everything they knew to avoid the otherwise inevitable pain.
Conversely, respect was held for those who returned unconscious, beaten and bloodied, as it was clear that they had withstood all of the torment that had been placed upon them, and they had remained silent. Inoadar was one of those people, a man who had returned as a half of the whole he had left as. Most of the wounds, the other prisoners saw, were not inflicted in the torture chamber, but placed upon him by the soldier just outside his cell.
From the screams and shouts when the poison crafter returned, which carried late into the night, the few others could not deny what was gripping the man’s mind – there was no doubt for them, though they said nothing to soothe him, or to offer amnesty from the paranoia which was growing vaster and stronger in his mind. They had seen it many times in others, and knew that nothing could stop whatever sorcery the Druvin had rested upon him.
The two days eventually passed, and Inoadar’s voice was worn hoarse from replying to voices which didn’t exist. His mind might even have fractured under the pressure of what ever might be plaguing him. And, from a distance, the Warden of the Black Hole watched and revelled in the darkness taking hold of his captive.
Then, the soldier returned. Or it might have been a different soldier; there was no way to tell in the darkness, and all held the same foul sneer. This one was no more pleasant than the one who had thrown him into the cell… if, indeed, it was a different soldier. The days of rest hadn’t done much for the poisoner’s energies, and he was mostly dragged back along the dark corridor, the soldier not taking any pains to ensure that Inoadar was not bumped along the way.
Once back in the dark, lightless window, Inoadar was placed back in the chair by the single soldier with a kick to the gut for good measure as he pushed the captive down. The shackles were secured back in place and then the soldier moved to the back corner of the room. A few chimes passed, and if Inoadar spoke, the solider did not respond, until at last the Warden entered the room.
*
