Needle Work

Polished —24m52s — 2023/12/02

Days after he was bit, Fedring was feeling much better. He still felt vulnerable, and his hand and chest was sore where he was bit, yet the wicked winged serpent no longer rifled through his darkest secrets. Despite his anxiety that the beast might return and attack him again, he had not seen or heard any sign of the creature since that first day—and good riddance! Still, Fedring meant to extract revenge, and since he could not find the beast, he decided to heap his vengeance upon the man that brought it into the fort.

Initially, Gliedian protected the shaman. For one, Gliedian did not like the Majoris and therefore was always obstructive. But the native healer had also angered Celt with his refusal to teach a cure for the rot. Fedring insisted the surgeon petition Gliedian and demand the witch doctor be punished. For whatever reason, Gliedian was far more interested in the mysterious Saot, and since the native had finished with his treatment, Fedring had permission to do as he wished—so long as he left the Saot alone. All of this had something to do with the riders out of Wibbeley that arrived two days before. Fedring set several of his priestesses to work, so he might know what these men were about—but for now he cared only about his revenge against the shaman.

Cairn came into the room with Krumpus in tow. it was the same large room where the shaman was first interrogated. The beefy guard placed Krumpus in his seat and stretched the witch doctor’s hands onto the table. This time Cairn used the leather straps on the table to secure the witch doctor’s wrists.

As Cairn worked, Fedring spoke. “Ah, my dear man!” he gushed at the witch doctor. “I am told you are fresh from your work! I fear you need rest after such a long night, so I promise not to keep you,” he said as he sat across the table. He set a heavily padded bag between them, untied the bag, and poured out a stack of long thin needles. “It is quite a thing that you should heal the rot of a stranger, but you may have guessed he is no commoner,” Fedring forced a smile. “My associates are convinced this Saot is a lord of some importance—though I find it hard to tell with their silly titles. He certainly had a fair amount of coin! Now that he recovers, we shall have the opportunity to question him! For that, the Empire thanks you!” Fedring gave a slight bow.

Krumpus did not reply. Instead, he glared at Cairn, as the jailor finished strapping his hands to the table.

“Despite your good works, I must tell you that I am quite disappointed. Why do you not teach our surgeons? You could save the lives of so very many if you’d only share your skills,” Fedring shook his head in feigned disappointment. He reached for a needle and carefully pushed it into the knuckle of the shaman’s thumb.

Krumpus tried to pull away, but his hands were firmly caught in the leather rigging attached to the table. The needle slid deep into his thumb, though it caused no pain.

“It saddens me to do this, but I am asked to teach you a lesson,” Fedring said with an affected air, as he picked up another needle from the pile. “If you will not be our friend, we must treat you as an enemy. If you refuse to give, then the gods demand we take. Though we cannot take your knowledge, we can certainly take your skill,” he said as he continued to place needles in the witch doctor’s hand.

Krumpus frowned. He had no idea what the Fedring was up to, he simply knew it would not be pleasant. He fidgeted and pulled against the straps on his hands. They didn’t budge. Silently, he prayed to the infinite powers. Whatever this punishment, he did not want it!

The shaman flexed and wiggled his fingers as he could. He felt no pain. Indeed, he wondered that his hand felt more alive than ever. He could feel the blood pulse through his fingers like never before! The shaman was intrigued by Fedring’s needle magic and wondered what sort of applications there might be for such work. At the same time, he worried. He did not believe Fedring meant to do him any good.

Fedring smiled. He knew what the shaman was experiencing. “I should like to leave you feeling so good, but alas, I cannot. The gods demand subservience. Yet, through your actions, you maintain that you are above us. If you will not treat with men loyal to the true gods, then the gods will have you punished.” For a long second the Corpus paused. “Still, your hands...” Fedring shook his head as he caressed the witch doctor’s needled fingers. “They manage such magic! If you share even a bit of your skills, I will intercede on your behalf! I will beg for leniency—and the gods will grant it! They will listen to their most humble servant,” Fedring gave a little bow as he feigned humility.

Krumpus simply stared. Did this gluttonous blowhard actually expect such obvious flattery to work on the shaman?

“I am told you speak,” Fedring continued. “I understand your words are rough, but I do not mind it. The gods often play such tricks—to give a man of noble mind a thick and garish tongue is just the sort of abuse we can expect from the gods. But you must speak! You must beg repentance! Beg me, good sir, and I will see that all is forgiven!”

Krumpus said nothing. Although he feared what Fedring might do, he could not betray himself. He owed these criminals nothing, as they continued to take and take, never to give.

For some time, Fedring stared at Krumpus. There were now nine needles in the shaman’s hand; two in each finger and one in the thumb. With a heavy sigh, Fedring shook his head. “Tis a tragedy,” he said and inserted several more needles into the witch doctor’s wrist. With the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth needle in place, Krumpus could not feel his hand at all. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but he could not! There was no sensation, no control whatsoever!

“Now you begin to understand,” Fedring said with a devious grin. “You see, we have magics of our own, and we can bless or curse a man accordingly.” He began to pull the needles from the shaman’s knuckles.

One finger at a time, the shaman’s fingers trying to curl into a fist, unfeeling and unmoving, only the table and the straps that bound him kept his hand flat.

“You have nothing to blame but your own selfishness,” Fedring continued. “It is too late to teach our surgeons to heal the rot. Yet, you have another hand and we might save it, but you must give us something of value!” Fedring leaned in close, his eyes agleam. Excitedly, he whispered, “You must tell us how you brought your staff to life!”

For a half second, Krumpus was puzzled—until he realized this wasn’t about the rot at all! Fedring referred to Meu! She must have come to life on him—and what had happened afterward?! What happened between the two? And where was she now?! What had become of her?!

Fedring pulled the needles from the shaman’s wrist. Pain surged through his hand as Krumpus gasped and pulled heavily against the restraints. With a cruel laugh, Fedring freed the hand. Krumpus pulled his fist to his chest as an astonishing fire surged up his arm and brought tears to his eyes. The very bones of his fingers ached!

As the shaman cringed, and sucked, and tried not to cry; Fedring leaned forward and whispered. “You are a man of potent magics, of that there is no doubt. As such, I should like to think we are equals. But your staff has taken from me. It took a good deal of my secrets. Indeed, I feel quite exposed. So much so, that I fear I am actually at a disadvantage. For that, I take your hand. Now, I consider us to be even.” Fedring stood, and with a smug grin, slowly shook his head. “But I am not one to be even, not with a fool that refuses to treat with me! So I give you another chance! I give you a chance before I reduce you once more! Tell me how you brought that snake to life!” He snarled. “Such knowledge must elevate anyone!”

Krumpus didn’t know what to make of this. Meu must have proved her life to the man. Indeed, she must have attacked him and used her venom to open his mind. That much was obvious. But what became of Meu? Did she escape? Was she killed? Either way, Krumpus had nothing to offer the Corpus, and so he refused to let this man hear his tortured voice. Instead, he simply glared at Fedring through his tears.

“Do you not understand the mercy I offer?!” Fedring snapped. “Justice demands I take and take until you are willing to give! This is the law of the gods! Yet, I beg you, tell me of your magics and I will harm you no more!” Fedring yelled. “If you keep your tongue, I must silence your hands as well!” He grabbed Krumpus by the jaw and squeezed—as if he could force words from the witch doctor’s lips. “To bring a mundane thing to life is a magic I have long sought—and you have done it with such style! Now you must tell me, how have you managed it?!” Fedring raged.

Krumpus would not answer. After a long silence, Fedring placed needles in the witch doctor’s good hand. Again, Krumpus struggled against the restraints—but to no avail. He could do nothing but stare as Fedring proceeded with his twisted needle magic. He tried to stretch out his injured hand—the one that had been freed—but the pain was blinding and he felt that he would faint, so he returned it to his chest.

“Perhaps I give you too much credit,” Fedring suggested. “Who is to say you know anything? Just because you possessed the staff does not mean you crafted it. So tell me that. Tell me it is not yours. Tell me who you stole it from. Tell me who has the answers I seek!”

Fedring slammed his hands on the table. For several seconds he glared at the shaman, then stood and paced back and forth on the far side of the table.

“Ahh, but I do not really think you stole it,” he began again. “You may have a rough appearance, but you managed to heal the Saot, and I think you managed to animate the beast—and that’s what I seek!” He leaned over the table and locked eyes with Krumpus. “In what way did you imbue it with such life force?! How is this done?!” He glared.

Krumpus lifted his head and stared at Fedring in stunned amazement. Why was the Corpus convinced that Meu was a mere construct? Was it something she told him? Indeed, Krumpus had already revealed the truth. He did it when he first met the man and said she was a wyrm. She was born to her life!

But Krumpus knew this type of man. Dark magicians often attempted to imbue life into mundane things. They patched their works together in hopes of automatons, golems, and simulacra. Yes, they might make a thing stand, or walk, or some set of rudimentary tricks—but they could not give such things a proper life. They could not imbue it to make choices.

But then, they were blind. They had eyes, but could not see the life lived by the elements. They did not understand that lesser things already have an essence, a lesser essence. It was not possible to force a greater consciousness on mundane matter just as it is not possible to force a greater consciousness on mundane men. Krumpus knew the truth of it. There was one way for a man to grant life on his own scale, and it took a woman to do it. All other attempts were naïve and futile.

Krumpus stared at Fedring. He knew he could give no satisfactory answer to the Corpus. Instead of replying, instead of trying to save his uninjured hand, he tried once more to extend the digits of his mangled hand, to little avail. He could barely get it away from his chest. His good hand would suffer the same fate. He could not stop it. Instead, he’d work to cure the condition from the very beginning. As he tried to extend his fingers, pain burned through the cursed extremity. It felt as if the bones of his digits might rip through his skin if he should insist that they straighten. Tears poured from his eyes as he persisted in his effort. Thank you for this, he prayed to the Gods, for this is a trial that I shall overcome.

He hoped it was true.

“You do not answer?” Fedring glared.

Krumpus turned to the Corpus Majoris and let his contempt for the man shine through. The man wanted the truth? Well then, he would repeat it. “Wurm,” he said with his garish tongue.

For several seconds Fedring stared at the shaman as he tried to decipher the word. initially, he thought the man was insulting him, then he remembered what Krumpus said days before. “Wyrm,” Fedring repeated as hate and frustration filled his eyes. “I wish to share magics with you, to treat you as an equal, and you defy me with a children’s story?! There is no such creature in the world or I would know it!” Fedring roared. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Somehow, though you be the one in prison, you aim to be above me. You lack respect! Yet, I ask again... No, I beg you! What magics do you use?!”

Krumpus shook his head and gave a shrug. If the man would not believe the truth, what convincing lie might he tell?

Fedring grabbed the shaman’s hand. Krumpus attempted to pull away. He struggled with the restraints and the fat man’s grasp. He struck at the man with his cursed hand, but the light impact sent a blinding pain up the shaman’s arm that almost caused him to black out.

Fedring snorted, then placed the last needles in the shaman’s wrist. The left hand went numb. “You pain me greatly and I return the favor,” the Majoris sneered. He pulled the nine needles from the shaman’s knuckles and each finger curled in turn. Then, Fedring pulled the three needles from the shaman’s wrist.

Krumpus almost passed out. He groaned as an excruciating pain shot through his balled hand, up his arm, and into his chest, only this time from the other side.

“What is that?” Fedring grabbed the shaman’s chin. “Now you wish to speak?”

Krumpus attempted to shake his head from Fedring’s grip. When he couldn’t, he stuck his tongue out at the man and showed the lumpish mass of scars and ancient pains. Did Fedring think this was the only time Krumpus had ever suffered? Did he think this was the worst of the shaman’s torments?

Fedring pulled away from the thick scarred tongue and all it implied. “Perhaps I am not the first to try and silence you,” he smirked. “Do not think this pleases me. Do not think I take comfort in destroying you. You are obviously a man of power, a man of cunning wisdom. There is much we could share with each other,” Fedring lectured. “But if you will not share, if you insist on keeping secrets, well, I must assume you do not care for the proper gods and their elect!”

Fedring undid the restraint on the shaman’s left hand. Krumpus pulled his fist to his chest. It was the only thing he could do to lessen the pain.

“Now I have taken your hands, but there is still your life to consider. Dwell on that,” Fedring snapped. Done with the shaman, Fedring turned to Cairn.

Cairn stood straight. “Shall I put him outside with the others?”

“No,” Fedring shook his head. “Those others have nothing—but this one still possesses his knowledge. Put him back in his cell, until he’s willing to share.”

With a snort, Cairn lifted Krumpus to his feet.

“And Cairn, bring his possessions to my apartment. I want another look at them.”

“Most immediately,” Cairn agreed.

“Oh, and one last thing, my dear man,” Fedring smiled. He pulled a gold medallion from his robes.

“A seal of the disciple?” Cairn leered at the Majoris as he took hold of the shiny medallion. “And which of the priesthood would you like me to discipline, your lordship?”

“You know one named Wenifas?”

“I’ve known her from time to time,” Cairn shrugged. “She is certainly pretty enough—though a bit soft and timid for my taste.”

Fedring leaned forward. “She is off the flower. The Empire needs more soldiers of your stature.”

“I shall like to have her with a seal at the door,” Cairn licked his lips and grinned at Fedring. Cairn was the type that preferred all his women with a seal at the door, which is why Fedring liked him. Fedring smiled at the guard. “You’ll do a right proper job of it, I’m sure.”

“And what am I to tell her?”

“Tell her nothing. She will know what she has done,” Fedring assured.

Cairn hooted as he lifted Krumpus from his chair. “Come you!” He yelled at the Trohl. “I have other matters to attend!”

Krumpus limped through the halls of the tower. He only bothered to walk because he believed Cairn would drag him if given the opportunity.

Cairn opened the door to the cell. The Saot was gone. The guard pushed Krumpus into the cell and the shaman sprawled in the dirt. “So you healed a sick man,” Cairn snorted from the door. “We make ‘em sick everyday! We kill ‘em by the village and barely blink as we do it!” he chortled; and with that, he slammed the door.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 15.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Fedring was heading back to his apartments when the Trohl, Tehris, caught up to him. “Your lordship! I must have word with you! I must beg you to sell me that staff!” he said.

“You are too late!” Fedring snapped at Tehris. “You have taken too long, and missed your opportunity!”

Tehris took a step sideways. “So fast? But it is not even a week since...”

“Days! It has been days!” Fedring roared, nearly apoplectic. “Do you think I bore myself with frauds and baubles when I offer up such treasures?! It was not some branch with a little metal doodad wrapped about it in a pretty knot! No! It was the construct of some incredible wizard, inspired by the very gods themselves—a most potent machination!” He waved his arms about as he berated Kezodel’s cousin, his face as red as a newborn sun. He glanced about the guards and his eyes turned to slits—as if he said too much and too loudly. “Why?” he turned back to Tehris. “Do others speak of it?”

“No,” Tehris admitted. “I was hoping to take it to the court of my cousin, since we soon leave for Ebertin. Will you at least tell me who bought it so I might entreat them to sell?”

“No,” Fedring cut him off. “There is nothing to do but forget it all together,” he said as he walked away. “Indeed, that is exactly what I aim to do,” he grumbled.

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