Read Online Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona McIntosh
Ads: Link
eyes. She knew what was coming, for Lymbert had already taken sincere delight in giving her a guided tour of this torture chamber.
The sagging woman had been hauled jabbering toward a bench where she had been pushed into a sitting position.
“Bind her hands,” Lymbert had ordered.
“I beg you, sir,” the victim had beseeched and Myrren had clenched her eyelids tight and had tried to close off her hearing but could not. She knew there would be no mercy now, not for a killer…certainly not for one who would not admit to murdering in cold blood.
Two specially crafted vises had then been clamped around the woman’s feet. She had been still too much in a swoon from the pain of her flogging to even realize that more pain was coming. Needless to say it had not taken too many twists of the cruel screws to shatter the shin bone in one of her legs, at which point the victim had screeched a confession, agreeing that she had in fact planned and then murdered her husband without remorse. Myrren could tell that the Confessor had little interest in pursuing the truth, particularly in the cases of common criminals. She understood that Lymbert did not view extracting confessions from thieves, bandits, and murderers as his appointed duty. It seemed he wanted the old woman dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to pursue his real interest—the annihilation of witches and warlocks, what he called the curse of society. Myrren’s father had once shared a rumor he had heard that Lymbert’s grandparents had been fervent Zerques. whose only daughter had supposedly been killed by a suspected witch four decades previous. As a result, right from childhood Lymbert had harbored a grudge against anyone who supposedly dealt in matters of magic—and extended this to herbmen and herbwomen. whom he believed drew on devil craft for their healings. Fearful for their daughter. Myrren’s parents had gathered as much information as possible about the Confessor. Lymbert was renowned for being so stringent in his investigations that he never brought a victim to trial without their conviction being a certainty—and Myrren knew it would have taken only one glance at her eyes for him to be sure of winning a conviction in her case.
Myrren opened those same odd eyes now and fought back tears at the memory of the older woman’s terror. She remembered how Lymbert had turned and smiled directly at her as he watched the woman put her mark to the confession and sent her away to die at the end of a rope, no doubt. The message Myrren received from that cold grin had been unmistakable. He was reserving her for much harsher treatment. The woman had been carried off and not heard from again, presumably dispatched that same day.
Lymbert’s assistant, the same one who had used her body, had then untied Myrren, blowing his foul breath into her face as he had whispered all the other sexual obscenities he would like to inflict on her. He had deliberately let her fall when the bindings had come loose and had then savagely grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her feet but still she had given none of those present the satisfaction they so desperately wanted.
“Back to her cell,” Lymbert had commanded, unmoved by her courage. “The witch, Myrren of Baelup, will undergo second-degree torture in three days,” Lymbert had proclaimed to all present. Then he had looked at her. “That should give you sufficient time, my dear, to lick your wounds”—he had chuckled softly at his jest—“and perhaps loosen your tongue.”
So now she sat in the dungeon contemplating the next stage, when Lymbert and his henchmen would get down to the real business of torture. Myrren was not sure whether it was day or night. The cell was small, windowless and airless save whatever fetid air might leak up the corridor and through her bars.
She huddled herself on the ground, naked but for a rough scrap of blanket crawling with biting insects.
Nevertheless it was all she
The sagging woman had been hauled jabbering toward a bench where she had been pushed into a sitting position.
“Bind her hands,” Lymbert had ordered.
“I beg you, sir,” the victim had beseeched and Myrren had clenched her eyelids tight and had tried to close off her hearing but could not. She knew there would be no mercy now, not for a killer…certainly not for one who would not admit to murdering in cold blood.
Two specially crafted vises had then been clamped around the woman’s feet. She had been still too much in a swoon from the pain of her flogging to even realize that more pain was coming. Needless to say it had not taken too many twists of the cruel screws to shatter the shin bone in one of her legs, at which point the victim had screeched a confession, agreeing that she had in fact planned and then murdered her husband without remorse. Myrren could tell that the Confessor had little interest in pursuing the truth, particularly in the cases of common criminals. She understood that Lymbert did not view extracting confessions from thieves, bandits, and murderers as his appointed duty. It seemed he wanted the old woman dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to pursue his real interest—the annihilation of witches and warlocks, what he called the curse of society. Myrren’s father had once shared a rumor he had heard that Lymbert’s grandparents had been fervent Zerques. whose only daughter had supposedly been killed by a suspected witch four decades previous. As a result, right from childhood Lymbert had harbored a grudge against anyone who supposedly dealt in matters of magic—and extended this to herbmen and herbwomen. whom he believed drew on devil craft for their healings. Fearful for their daughter. Myrren’s parents had gathered as much information as possible about the Confessor. Lymbert was renowned for being so stringent in his investigations that he never brought a victim to trial without their conviction being a certainty—and Myrren knew it would have taken only one glance at her eyes for him to be sure of winning a conviction in her case.
Myrren opened those same odd eyes now and fought back tears at the memory of the older woman’s terror. She remembered how Lymbert had turned and smiled directly at her as he watched the woman put her mark to the confession and sent her away to die at the end of a rope, no doubt. The message Myrren received from that cold grin had been unmistakable. He was reserving her for much harsher treatment. The woman had been carried off and not heard from again, presumably dispatched that same day.
Lymbert’s assistant, the same one who had used her body, had then untied Myrren, blowing his foul breath into her face as he had whispered all the other sexual obscenities he would like to inflict on her. He had deliberately let her fall when the bindings had come loose and had then savagely grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her feet but still she had given none of those present the satisfaction they so desperately wanted.
“Back to her cell,” Lymbert had commanded, unmoved by her courage. “The witch, Myrren of Baelup, will undergo second-degree torture in three days,” Lymbert had proclaimed to all present. Then he had looked at her. “That should give you sufficient time, my dear, to lick your wounds”—he had chuckled softly at his jest—“and perhaps loosen your tongue.”
So now she sat in the dungeon contemplating the next stage, when Lymbert and his henchmen would get down to the real business of torture. Myrren was not sure whether it was day or night. The cell was small, windowless and airless save whatever fetid air might leak up the corridor and through her bars.
She huddled herself on the ground, naked but for a rough scrap of blanket crawling with biting insects.
Nevertheless it was all she
Similar Books
