Cortos - Unknown Location
Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days.
Not more. Not less.
He knew that number, and he knew that number to be true, because he had counted, and his count was right.
There was no doubt in that number. There was no possibility that it was wrong. The very thought had never entered his mind, and it would not as long as he stayed within the tiny dark dungeon his captors had left him in. Yesterday the number had been one less, tomorrow the number would be one more. The count always changed, but it was always right.
Luthen knew that, just as he knew he was still alive, and still a captive.
It had been nearly fifteen years now, he had done the math, and although his grasp on the hours and minutes slipped away, the Dreadlord was sure he was right about the days. His count at first had been based on the easiest of things; the sun, but as the Solar Choire had taken and dragged him beneath the earth he'd needed to rely on other things.
First the changing shifts of the men guarding him. Then the echoes of birds as they sang their morning songs. But as the Radiant Church buried him deeper and deeper within the earth his methods became far more interesting. Eventually it came down to something even he had not expected; worms.
They came out every night. Digging up through the dirt floor of his cell, searching and seeking for the scraps of the bare meager meals he left behind. Luthe knew about these worms, but only because of a classmate he'd had at the Academy. Funny that he still remembered her, she had always been a funny little thing, obsessed with the dirt and what lay beneath it. Tialla had been a treasure, bright and chirpy even in all the trials they had faced.
She never made it off the tower.
Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days.
That was how long it had been, and tomorrow it would be Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Nine Days.
He had wondered often enough why they had not simply killed him. Had wondered why none of the guards who so rarely visited did not simply poison his meals or slit his throat in his sleep. He had never broken under torture, and even if he had...anything the Dreadlord had to offer was long since out of date. Entire Anirian armies had been made and disbanded by now. So why keep him?
A trophy perhaps. The Grand success of Bishop De'armign; a captured Dreadlord who had nearly been Archon. The thought made Luthen chortle, though only as he conjured the image of the Bishop's sniveling face as he explained how Luthen's capture had somehow been a 'success' after he and his squadron had succeeded their mission. A prize perhaps, but certainly no success. He and his had done what they came to Cortos for, and that was all that mattered.
His duty was do-
The sound of screeching metal echoed down the hall and into his cell. Even the thick steel door blocking his way could not keep the sound out. It's terrifying cry echoing out as though someone were physically tearing at the upper levels of the prison. Luthen frowned for a moment, hearing the echoes of a thudding crash, then the sound of ringing steel followed by a harrowed scream.
His fingers drew slowly through the dirt beneath him, a small smile slowly drawing onto his lips.
It had been Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days.
Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days until they finally came for him.
Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days.
Not more. Not less.
He knew that number, and he knew that number to be true, because he had counted, and his count was right.
There was no doubt in that number. There was no possibility that it was wrong. The very thought had never entered his mind, and it would not as long as he stayed within the tiny dark dungeon his captors had left him in. Yesterday the number had been one less, tomorrow the number would be one more. The count always changed, but it was always right.
Luthen knew that, just as he knew he was still alive, and still a captive.
It had been nearly fifteen years now, he had done the math, and although his grasp on the hours and minutes slipped away, the Dreadlord was sure he was right about the days. His count at first had been based on the easiest of things; the sun, but as the Solar Choire had taken and dragged him beneath the earth he'd needed to rely on other things.
First the changing shifts of the men guarding him. Then the echoes of birds as they sang their morning songs. But as the Radiant Church buried him deeper and deeper within the earth his methods became far more interesting. Eventually it came down to something even he had not expected; worms.
They came out every night. Digging up through the dirt floor of his cell, searching and seeking for the scraps of the bare meager meals he left behind. Luthe knew about these worms, but only because of a classmate he'd had at the Academy. Funny that he still remembered her, she had always been a funny little thing, obsessed with the dirt and what lay beneath it. Tialla had been a treasure, bright and chirpy even in all the trials they had faced.
She never made it off the tower.
Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days.
That was how long it had been, and tomorrow it would be Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Nine Days.
He had wondered often enough why they had not simply killed him. Had wondered why none of the guards who so rarely visited did not simply poison his meals or slit his throat in his sleep. He had never broken under torture, and even if he had...anything the Dreadlord had to offer was long since out of date. Entire Anirian armies had been made and disbanded by now. So why keep him?
A trophy perhaps. The Grand success of Bishop De'armign; a captured Dreadlord who had nearly been Archon. The thought made Luthen chortle, though only as he conjured the image of the Bishop's sniveling face as he explained how Luthen's capture had somehow been a 'success' after he and his squadron had succeeded their mission. A prize perhaps, but certainly no success. He and his had done what they came to Cortos for, and that was all that mattered.
His duty was do-
The sound of screeching metal echoed down the hall and into his cell. Even the thick steel door blocking his way could not keep the sound out. It's terrifying cry echoing out as though someone were physically tearing at the upper levels of the prison. Luthen frowned for a moment, hearing the echoes of a thudding crash, then the sound of ringing steel followed by a harrowed scream.
His fingers drew slowly through the dirt beneath him, a small smile slowly drawing onto his lips.
It had been Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days.
Five Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Eight Days until they finally came for him.
