The Sorcerer's Dilemma by M M Whan

Author:M M Whan [Whan, M M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781775157458
Publisher: M. M. Whan
Published: 2019-04-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Eferath cracked an eye slowly. Even that small effort sent a lance of pain stabbing through his mind. The torture master was a tribute to his trade. He had expertly worked Eferath over and had the young man experience pain the likes of which he had never thought possible. He was certain the man had gone too far more than once, pushed Eferath beyond the brink of death. The young man had welcomed the release from the agony, from the mind-numbing torment unleashed upon him. Just as he had tasted the sweet taste of release and felt Death’s welcoming embrace, he was brought back by the use of potions. The torture master granted only a brief reprieve – just enough time for the potion to work itself through his system – before he continued methodically plying his trade. Despite the living hell he was being put through, Eferath refused to cry out. Refused to beg for his life, or even for a modicum of mercy. It was that very realization that bolstered Eferath to resist, to somehow find the strength within him to endure.

But Eferath was only human.

As his somewhat less-swollen eye broke through the crusted, dried blood and his vision swam into focus, he did not feel fear to see Syline standing before him, knife poised for the killing blow. No. Instead, he felt a smile try to come to his lips, only to fail as the muscles surrounding his severely broken jaw and face refused to comply. He looked at her, then. The beautiful half-elf stood before him, her chest heaving, and her eyes wide with fury as she prepared to end his life. So long as it wasn’t by the hand of the torture master, Eferath was content with her doing the deed. Part of him wanted to speak; wanted to ask her why she felt such hatred toward him. Why she, of all people, wanted him dead, but, like the smile that disobeyed his mind’s desire, no words could be forced through his bruised throat.

The knife blade glinted in the firelight given off by the solitary torch illuminating the tent. Its edge looked keen, and an angry orange-red that reflected the anger on Syline’s fair face. Eferath closed his eye, content that he was about to die, and eagerly awaited the cold embrace of death.

But the blow never fell.

Eferath heard a voice, barely perceptible over the pounding in his ears, followed by a flurry of movement. With surprising effort, Eferath managed to open his eye and no longer saw Syline standing before him. Lazily, he rolled his eye around in the swollen, bruised socket and caught a glimpse of her as she moved behind a stack of crates in the tent to his left. Distantly, a part of him was curious about her actions. What could she, of all people, be hiding from?

Suddenly, the entrance flap to the tent was thrown open, but Eferath saw nothing but inky blackness beyond the portal. That was until Lethaniel stepped through, ducking his head to clear the cross beam that held the entrance upright.

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