“Looks like bird boy is awake,” he growled. “Go tell Drakkar.”
They dragged Leifander down a maze of hallways to a small room with windowless walls of damp stone, a low ceiling, and a floor stained with dark brown splotches. A human skull and some bones lay jumbled carelessly in a corner, gnawed clean save for a few jagged scraps of red and a patch of faded hair. The air smelled of sewage and decaying flesh, and the only illumination came from two oil lamps with wicks that needed trimming, set above each of the room’s two exits. They filled the air with soot that roiled against the ceiling before disappearing out through a blackened ceramic pipe. From inside this ventilation pipe came a skittering noise like the scurrying of rodent feet.
While two men stood by with swords at his throat, a third-the blond guard-attached each of Leifander’s manacles in turn to a metal bolt on the floor, forcing him into a spread-eagle position on his back.
When he was done, Leifander could barely move. Shivering with cold, all he could do was glare as the men taunted him, drawing the points of their swords slowly down his bare chest and stomach, then tarrying at his groin, threatening to emasculate him. He spat on the boots of the blond guard, defying him, and received a kick that made his ears ring and caused bright points of light to dance just in front of his eyes.
Leifander tensed, expecting further kicks, but instead the guards departed the way they had come; the closing door muffled their footsteps. Left to himself, Leifander struggled against the manacles in the futile hope that one of the bolts on the floor might prove loose. One was, but though he writhed like a snake, chafing wrists and ankles raw, he could neither tug it out nor slip his bonds.
Cursing, he regretted not having attacked the guards as they marched him at sword point down the short hallway. At least that would have been a quick death. Now he would reap the bitter rewards of cowardice.
A moment later, the room’s second door opened. Through it stepped a monstrosity so disfigured that Leifander at first had trouble recognizing it as a man. It walked erect on two legs and wore purple hose and a black velvet doublet heavily embroidered with gold thread and studded with gems, but its head was horribly misshapen. The right side of the face looked human, aside from a single fang that curved over the mustached upper lip, but the left side was covered with a mass of black, serpentine scales, its eye bulging and pupil slitted. The hands were even worse. Emerging from the end of one sleeve was a birdlike talon, but with what looked like wriggling pink worms where the fingers should be. The other hand was human in shape but covered with a patchwork of fur, scale, and feathers. A heavy gold ring decorated one finger. The legs were strangely jointed, and while one foot was booted, the other was bare, ending in a cloven hoof. The man lurched into the room with a jerky, shuffling gait, his hoof clomping and booted foot twisting and dragging.
Behind him came a tall, dark-skinned man-fully human-wearing smoke-gray clothes. A thin line of beard framed his jaw, and his eyes glittered. He carried a knotted wooden staff into which thorns had been pressed, and upright thorns crowned its tip. He closed the door behind himself, then leaned on his staff, regarding Leifander with eyes utterly devoid of mercy.
“Is this the shapeshifter?” the deformed man asked.
“It is, Lord Mayor.”
The first man cocked his half-serpent head and stared at Leifander through a slitted eye. “Fascinating.” A human tongue flickered in and out through his lips, then he added, “Have him change, Drakkar.”
The man with the staff-Drakkar-twitched his lips into the briefest of condescending smiles. “Lord Mayor, we have taken away his magic. With it, he would have escaped by now.”
“What did he use, then? A wand? Or was it a ring, or a cloak?”
“None of those things, Lord Mayor.” Drakkar gestured with his staff, indicating Leifander’s forehead. “He used feathers woven into his hair and a bone.”
Leifander jerked his head to the side, hiding his shame.
“Magical feathers?” the deformed man panted, his eyes glittering with desire.
“It would appear not, Lord Mayor. My spells could detect no glamor upon them, nor on the bone. The fellow must be a cleric of some heathen elf god. The feathers and bone were specific to his religion-useless to anyone else.”
The human side of the mayor’s face twisted into a pout, hiding his fang. “Talos take him, then!” he cursed. “He’s of no use to me. Dispose of him.”
Leifander flinched, waiting for the dark-skinned man to strike him with his staff, but Drakkar merely leaned upon it. “He is of use to me,” he said softly. “This man was caught spying on our new war wagons. I would find out how much he has learned-and if there are other spies here in Selgaunt that we need to worry about. You will recall those wild elves that crept into the Hunting Garden last winter.”
The mayor made a derisive noise-half snort, half hiss. “Do what you want, but be sure to kill him afterward,” he ordered. He met and held Drakkar’s eye a moment, then held up a malformed hand. “There are deeper secrets than your war wagons that need burying.”
The Hulorn turned, fumbled the door open with awkward hands, and shambled from the room.
Leifander gave Drakkar a bold stare, making plain his defiance. He would not reveal a thing. If the torture became too much to bear, he would dash his head against the stone again and again until death claimed him. Indeed, there was little reason not to begin before the agony started. He whispered a prayer to the Winged Lady, imploring her to enfold his soul as it flew toward her, and lifted his head. But before he could begin, Drakkar kneeled swiftly by his side and grabbed his braid, yanking his head upward.
“None of that,” he warned. “I want you alive and awake for a little while yet.”
Still holding Leifander by the hair, he laid his staff on the floor, considered a moment, then plucked a thorn from it. Forcing Leifander’s head to the side, he held it against the cold stone with one knee. From a pocket he pulled a wooden stick and used it to lever Leifander’s mouth open, then he jammed the thorn into Leifander’s tongue.
Drakkar released Leifander, stood, and began to chant.
Gagging, Leifander tried to force the thorn from his tongue but could not. He twisted his tongue this way and that, trying to scrape the thorn out with his teeth. He could feel its sting, could feel his tongue swelling from the injury done to it, but could no longer feel the thorn itself. It seemed to have vanished, deep inside his flesh.
Drakkar finished chanting and stared down at Leifander.
“Where are you from, and when did you arrive in Selgaunt?” he asked.
Leifander’s mouth spoke of its own accord. “The Tangled Trees. Last night.”
His eyes widened in alarm, as he realized that he was the victim of a spell that was compelling him not only to speak-but to speak the truth.
Drakkar nodded. “Why did you come to Selgaunt?”
“To deliver a message.”
“From whom, and to whom?”
“From the druids of the Circle of Emerald Leaves. To Thamalon Uskevren.”
“Why to him?”
“He is my father.”
Drakkar’s eyebrows raised. He glanced at Leifander’s ears, at his tattooed face and asked, “What was the message?”
Leifander tried to clench his teeth shut or bite his traitorous tongue until his jaw ached, but it was no use. He answered every question the evil wizard asked, even giving the full strength of the wood elves’ forces and naming the leaders of each patrol. Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his temples, dripping onto the floor, and still his betrayal continued. Leifander was unable to consolidate his will enough to strike his head against the floor, unable to do anything but answer.
Drakkar paused, and for a moment Leifander thought the questions were over, then he spoke again, as if musing aloud. “Your forces are weak, then. The High Council must know that this is a war your people cannot win. I wonder-would the elves accept an offer of support, if one were forthcoming?”