Chapter 78
"What an honor, what an honor..." a short elf said, clasping his hands. "Mistress Alissa, Mistress Evil-Lyn... and who will we be working with today, mmm?"
In his mannerisms and behavior, the torture master resembled Astarion from Baldur's Gate, except he was a brunette. His attire consisted of the expected nonsense for his profession made of leather straps and spikes. Fuck you, leather man. Fans of gachi-remixes would approve.
The sorceress Alissa led me, Liandra, and Evil-Lyn into a spacious torture workshop, where the lighting was provided by bright red sorcerous flames burning in numerous lamps beneath the ceiling. It was warm here, smelling of incense and blood. Besides the elf, we were met by three tall human slaves in leather masks. In terms of size, they were only slightly smaller than me.
"We shall conduct a trial through pain," Alissa explained. "Send your little pets away. We won't be needing them today."
"A trial? Between them?!" the executioner rattled off with enthusiasm. "Delightful! Boys, home! Home, I say."
The slaves in leather masks trailed away like silent heaps of muscle. Five of us remained in the halls of pain, including the executioner. My gaze swept over the variety of torture instrumentation. Mde... I really don't envy the clients of this establishment.
Of course, there were racks, shackles, and other tools for securing victims. However, there were also far more sophisticated devices here. For example, an analogue of the Judas Cradle. This is a three-sided pyramid for the most uncomfortable seating of an interogee. To keep the victim from dying too quickly from a literal tearing of the ass, there was a system of suspension cables. There was also a device for a more "gentle" version of torture, resembling a horse made of polished black wood. Instead of a pyramidal point, the victim was invited to sit on a sharp edge.
I recognized these things because they had analogues in the history of my home world. However, there were completely incomprehensible machines here. Complex systems of blades, gears, and fasteners. Some of them likely grind victims into mincemeat. And most likely, they do it very slowly.
In addition to the wonder-machines, there was also a ton of hand tools. Silver trays, shining like mirrors, held polished knives, blades, and hooks. Even a fleeting glance at this arsenal made goosebumps race down my spine. Yet the sight was, in a way, mesmerizing. From somewhere in the darkest corners of my soul, a quiet whisper seemed to sound:
"Look at us. Look closely at how glittering and sharp we are. Look at our marvelous blades. They are no thicker than a feather. You know perfectly well why we are here. We will prick, tear, and cut you..."
I looked away, shaking off the obsession.
Besides the torture instruments, there was a kind of grandstand for spectators.
Liandra and Evil-Lyn stood opposite each other. A battle of gazes. Liandra was the embodiment of determination, rage, and insulted pride. Evil-Lyn looked back at her with an expression of mocking contempt. It felt as though she didn't doubt her victory for a single second.
"The rules will be simple," Alissa announced, seating herself in a carved chair on the spectator stand. "The losing side is the one who either surrenders herself or is unable to continue the trial for more than ten seconds. Do the rivals have any objections?"
"No," Liandra blurted out first.
Evil-Lyn was in no hurry to answer. She was shorter than Liandra, reaching only about her chest, but she managed to look menacing nonetheless.
"Try to hold out as long as possible, girl," the witch finally said. "Then I might even respect you just a little bit."
Liandra barely contained her rage. I was used to seeing my companion calm, but now a murderous aura emanated from her, just like during our first conversation in the mountains. Liandra desperately wanted to kill the Death Hag, restraining herself with her last strength.
"What can I offer you..." the executioner cooed, carrying a tray of torture instruments on outstretched arms. "How about some truly exquisite agony?"
The elf demonstrated a set of slightly curved, shiny metal rods of various diameters. Half of them had thickenings or even short spikes. Um... I honestly don't quite understand how and where these things are shoved. My imagination drew versions, each more extreme than the last. In my head, the sacramental question rang out like a bell over and over: "Where the fuck have we ended up?"
This question was, of course, rhetorical. We had ended up visiting long-eared, sybaritic sadists.
Without waiting for an invitation, I sat on a red velvet-upholstered sofa next to Alissa. The sorceress didn't object. Her stern gaze was fixed on the executioner.
"Don't dream that you'll touch them," she shut down the torture master. "Only two participate in the trial through pain. You will only provide us with the tools and ensure that everything proceeds without rule violations."
"Regrettable to hear, but I humbly obey," the executioner replied. "What tools will you require?"
"We would prefer to avoid serious mutilation and prevent humiliation," the sorceress reasoned.
"Understood. Right away."
The elf fluttered away and soon returned. On his tray were two long but fairly thin whips.
"Drakira's Caress," the executioner commented. "An exquisite and delicate weapon. It weighs less than a young apple, but the sensations... mmm..."
The elf rolled his eyes. Apparently, he had felt Drakira's Caress on himself many times.
"I have a ritual coin and a twenty-sided die here," the sorceress announced, showing the items. "We will divide the trial into rounds. Before each one, I will toss the coin first, and then the die. The first toss will determine the order. The second will tell us the number of strikes."
"Perhaps add a third die to choose the body part?" the executioner suggested enthusiastically. "I have one of those!"
"A far too talkative slug has turned up in Lord Venil's dungeons," the Death Hag said threateningly. "This is a duel of will, not your entertainment. One more unnecessary word and you'll lose your tongue."
"No additional conditions," Alissa nodded. "All strikes are to be delivered exclusively to the back and shoulders. For purposeful hits to other body parts, I may assign a penalty or even declare defeat. Let this be a trial of will, not of cunning. I ask the participants to prepare. No armor above the waist."
"I won't need cunning to defeat her," the Death Hag declared overconfidently, removing some of her jewelry and a black leather shoulder-guard with gold hardware.
Liandra, saying nothing in response, began to unfasten the straps on her breastplate.
I was in a state of mixed feelings. A part of me didn't want to behold the coming disaster. However, another part was very much not against watching two beautiful women arrange fifty shades of Druchii for my sake.
Liandra had by then divested herself of her breastplate and bracers, remaining in dark-gray under-armor clothing.
"No armor above the waist," the Death Hag said, clicking her tongue. "Or else give me a heavier whip so I can properly punish this girl."
"Fine," Liandra replied through her teeth, beginning to unlace the sleeves of her under-armor.
The Death Hag was intentionally annoying her, but my companion couldn't help but react to Evil-Lyn's numerous barbs.
"After all, there's no one here for us to be shy of," the Bride of Khaine smirked, reaching her right hand behind her back and unfastening her bodice. "Alissa is a woman like us. And the other two? A human and a pathetic eunuch. Will their gazes shame us? Nonsense."
The Death Hag removed her top, revealing to the torture chambers a pair of neat, size-two breasts. Her sharp nipples were decorated with intricate black metal piercings. The Death Hag was now naked to the waist, save for the pins in her hair.
Liandra got rid of her under-armor, remaining in a modest gray bra without decorations or lace. The sight involuntarily drew my gaze.
"Further?" the Death Hag asked with a smirk, shamelessly planting her hands on her hips.
"Do you think a strip of cloth will allow me to defeat you?" Liandra mimicked viciously.
"Equality of conditions, silly girl," Evil-Lyn huffed. "What do you say, Alissa?"
"I want to hear the opinion of a specialist," the sorceress redirected the question to the master of torture.
"Even a little cloth is an advantage," the elf replied. "A very tiny one, but an advantage. Unless, of course, Mistress Evil-Lyn aims above or below the cloth. I'm sure she has enough skill."
"Equal conditions," Alissa delivered her verdict. "Please do not perceive this as a humiliation of your dignity, Mistress Mordrim."
Liandra turned slightly red but didn't answer. Silently, she turned her back to us and pulled the bra off over her head. Oh... I'd wanted to see her like this for a long time, but not in these kinds of circumstances. Liandra turned back, covering her bare breasts with her left hand.
"Obverse or reverse?" Alissa asked, showing an ominous-looking iron coin depicting the snarling faces of monsters.
"Obverse!" Liandra blurted out immediately.
Frenzied tension was readable in her entire posture. Muscles tightened under her thin pale skin. Her sculpted figure was worthy of the cover of some sports magazine. Or an erotic one.
The sorceress tossed the coin onto a silver tray.
"Reverse," Alissa announced, then added specifically for me in Norscan. "Mistress Evil-Lyn will undergo the trial first. Now let's roll the die for the number of strikes. Nine."
"A light warm-up," the Death Hag smirked, turning her back to Liandra. "Don't keep me waiting, girl."
"I won't," Liandra said in a voice full of cruel anticipation, taking one of the two long whips from the tray.
The Death Hag stood, putting her hands behind her head. However, this didn't seem like a pose of submission. It looked more like a challenge.
Still covering her breasts with her left hand, Liandra spun the whip over her head with her right. A moment later, there was a loud crack and an incomparable lashing sound. I had already heard plenty of that at the Clar Karond slave market.
The Death Hag flinched imperceptibly but didn't make a sound. A thin red line began to appear on her bare back.
"One," the torture master announced.
The second strike wasn't long in coming. A crack and a new dose of searing pain. Yet the witch was silent.
Liandra lashed her, putting all available strength into the blows. The red stripes turned brighter with every second. In some places, small bruises were even noticeable. The fifth strike, the sixth, the seventh—Evil-Lyn was silent. Only on the final ninth, when the whip coiled slightly along her body, touching her breast, did the Death Hag let out a deep moan.
"A light warm-up," she repeated, turning to Liandra. "Now it's your turn to endure, girl."
"Nine strikes, just like for the first rival," Alissa announced. "I won't roll the die again. This is a trial of will, not of luck."
Now Liandra turned her back to the Death Hag. A crack, and the executioner counted:
"One!"
Liandra didn't make a sound either, but she flinched much more violently than the Death Hag. My companion stood without defiance. She took the most advantageous posture for this situation. With her left hand she covered her breasts, and with her right her stomach. She was trying to protect the most vulnerable and tender parts from accidental hits.
Liandra endured the first round without a single sound. Only the cracks of the whip and the executioner's count broke the silence of the torture chamber.
"The first round is behind us," the sorceress announced. "As I expected, both rivals are holding up worthily. Time to toss the coin again. Obverse! Liandra, you will be the first to overcome the torment in this round. And how many strikes? Fifteen. This is already more serious, but I believe you will both endure."
BDSM with dice—a grim fantasy of a D&D player.
Liandra turned her back to the witch and to us. Tossing her ponytail over her shoulder, the girl made a barely noticeable movement with her whole body—apparently gathering her strength to endure the pain again.
The second portion of strikes was harder for Liandra. The elf was still silent, but toward the end of the execution, her graceful figure shook from restrained pain.
"Fifteen!" the executioner, who stood behind Alissa, finally announced, then whispered to the sorceress. "The girl is tensing up too much. When the muscles are hard, it only results in more pain."
"She is a fighter, not a sybarite like you," Alissa smirked. "Girls, continue!"
Again Evil-Lyn offered her back. Now she seemed to turn her face toward us intentionally, looking specifically at me.
"One!"
The miniature, lean witch shuddered from the blow, yet her movement was smooth and resembled a dance more than convulsions. The crescents of the nipple piercings swayed enticingly. A mixture of arousal and revulsion awoke in me.
"Two!"
The Death Hag languidly bit her lips, squinting slightly. Is she actually enjoying this? If so, I really don't envy Liandra.
What will even happen to me if the witch wins? Who knows. I'll try to prove my chosen status and usefulness to them. I'll have to engage in diplomacy again.
"Five!"
A moan broke from Evil-Lyn's lips, distracting me from my thoughts. The Death Hag seemed to be slowly dancing under the lashes of the whip. A cocktail of torment and pleasure could be observed on her face.
"Seven!"
At this point I couldn't hold back and asked Alissa in Norscan:
"Is that white-haired one actually suffering or is she getting pleasure? Can such a contest be called fair?"
"Don't worry, mighty warrior," the sorceress replied, placing her graceful hand on my forearm. "Evil-Lyn indeed prefers cruel forms of love, but only followers of the Dark Prince are capable of enjoying hundreds of heavy strikes. Your companion can win. Not immediately. It will require patience."
I felt the effect of magic on myself. Alissa hadn't touched me for no reason. It wasn't an ordinary gesture of good favor. A cunning sorceress wouldn't stoop to that. She was clearly testing my anti-magic protection. I noticed a very lively interest in her eyes.
Meanwhile, the second round concluded. A draw so far. Both rivals were ready to endure further.
"Reverse. We'll start with Evil-Lyn. Six strikes," the sorceress announced, and she herself moved closer to me. "The sounds of the whip aren't preventing you from hearing my voice, Jurg? What tribe are you from?"
Here we go...
I can't say her attention was entirely unpleasant to me, but damn... Sigmar, Old Ones, someone, please send me some women who aren't so bloodthirsty and perverted! Just for a change.
Listening to the sounds of the whip strikes and watching the Death Hag's breasts, I again told her that I came from an extinct tribe. This information was not enough for the sorceress.
"How far north did you live? Closer to the coast or deeper into the Chaos Wastes? Oh, the end of the round already? Sorry, I got distracted. Reverse again. Sixteen strikes each."
I didn't want to answer the hag's questions. I'm not some great expert on Norscan life. More words mean more chances to slip up.
"First the trial—then talk," I replied. "I like my companion. She fought well and we killed many together. What will happen to her if she loses?"
"Don't worry, Jurg. She won't be executed. Mordrim's life belongs to our supreme leader. We won't take it, but in the case of defeat, we will send the girl under guard to the capital."
Right. There they might arrange another whipping session for her, but just without the dice and competitive elements. Endure, Liandra. Endure, because the gods aren't finished with you yet.
And Liandra endured the blows round after round without a single moan. Four rounds of pain were behind them.
"Obverse. Mordrim will be first. The roll and... Twenty!"
A critical success! It's good that everything here doesn't follow D&D rules, otherwise the number of strikes would have had to be doubled.
"Twenty..." Evil-Lyn said, as if caressing the word with her tongue, while rolling her shoulders. "Oh, how I'm going to have fun with you now, girl."
The whip began to crack again, counting out the portions of pain. At the ninth strike, Liandra jumped slightly, lifting her left foot off the floor. At the fifteenth, she let out a moan, which she tried to restrain by pressing her right hand over her mouth.
"What do I hear, or did I imagine it?" the Death Hag asked in a sadistic tone. "Is our kitten meowing? I thought you'd last longer. Black Guard after all. But you're not the best specimen, are you?"
These taunts forced Liandra to endure the pain in silence again. She lasted another two rounds only flinching, but without making a sound.
"Ah, what strikes! What strikes!" the executioner exclaimed with a breathy gasp. "Mistress Evil-Lyn has wonderful technique, and the other strikes swiftly and cruelly. If they had heavier whips, the whole floor would already be flooded with blood. Why, one of the rivals would already be lying on the brink of life and death!"
"See what worthy women are fighting for the right to be closer to you, Jurg," the sorceress flattered me, tossing the ritual coin again. "Obverse. Seventeen strikes."
This dose of pain was already hard for Liandra to take. Toward the end, she was again pressing her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. However, Evil-Lyn didn't look as cheerful as before either.
Each of the rivals had received more than a hundred strikes. The thin red lines merged in many places into a single surface of wounded skin. Bruises crawled down in small trickles. This wasn't life-threatening, but I'm sure it was goddamn painful.
The Death Hag turned her face toward us, breathing heavily. The hollow between her breasts glistened with sweat. Drops appeared on her forehead as well. It wasn't about the weight of the physical exertion during the whipping of her rival. I'm sure the dark elf could do that for hours on end without a problem. The pain itself was exhausting.
Five red lines from the whip crossed from her back onto the Death Hag's chest. Evil-Lyn smiled through the effort and spread her arms wide, taking the blows from Liandra. The witch's moans no longer seemed like an expression of pleasure.
"Does anyone want to surrender?" Alissa asked when the latest execution concluded.
"Not I," the witch replied, breathing heavily. "I even suggest meeting the strikes with the chest instead of the back. What do you say, kitten?"
Liandra was silent, breathing heavily and still clutching the whip in her right hand. The sorceress had to ask an additional question to bring the elf out of her trance:
"Do you agree, Mordrim? Shall we change the back for the stomach and chest?"
"No..." Liandra replied in a dull, broken voice. "Just continue. Toss the coin."
"Fine," Alissa agreed. "Obverse. Lay down the whip and offer your back, Mordrim. The trial continues. Twelve strikes for each rival."
Liandra, moving somewhat sluggishly, turned her back to us. Now she didn't cover her mouth anymore. She just hugged herself, meeting the whip strikes with muffled moans.
"It will be over soon," the executioner whispered to the sorceress.
Damn...
I felt sorry for Liandra. The arousal had subsided and I was no longer enjoying it, but exclusively empathizing. The witch was too experienced. Liandra is a good warrior, but in terms of all sorts of perversions, the seasoned Khainite is a head above her.
The result of the trial was already predetermined. Everyone understood this, but Liandra didn't want to give up.
For another five rounds she held on with her last strength.
Fifteen, three, seventeen, eleven, and seven strikes.
Moreover, Liandra herself was lashing noticeably weaker than her rival. The witch even cheered up. After the end of another round, Evil-Lyn pointed to Liandra's flushed face.
"Oh look... what do we have here? Tears? Poor kitten!"
A tear was trickling from the elf's left eye onto her cheek. The right one remained dry. On it, the spell that a sorceress unknown to me had placed at Liandra's request in the past still held. A charm so that the girl would not shame herself with tears. However, my touch had destroyed the part of the spell responsible for the left eye.
"I knew from the very beginning that it would end like this," the witch said, now almost without mockery. "You are like an open book to me. A naive, overly bold girl. You suffered a terrible defeat, grew desperate, but grabbed onto a last chance. The voice of your pride whispered to you: 'I am chosen! I cannot lose!' Do you still believe you were born for a great fate? Silly girl. You were lucky to find something rare, but you have neither the resources nor the wisdom to use it. You are not chosen. You are merely a transmission link. By delivering the marked human to us, you have already fulfilled your purpose. It is time to leave the stage. Do you hear me? Acknowledge your place and surrender. You are merely an insolent girl who still needs to be taught for a very long time. To your knees!"
Liandra said nothing. Silence fell. The sorceress spoke first:
"Perhaps you will surrender, Mordrim?" she said in a way that was even, to some extent, tender. "You have performed well. Lord Venil will send you back to Naggarond. Well?"
Liandra lowered her head. Now she seemed to be breathing literally with her whole body. Her shoulders rose and fell in time with her breath.
"To your knees..." the witch repeated sternly.
Instead of an answer, Liandra proudly raised her head and cracked the whip.
"Mordrim wishes to continue," the sorceress reasoned. "Her right. Obverse! Five strikes."
"Fine, we'll play with you a little more," the witch said with some irritation in her voice. "Turn around."
Liandra turned her back to us, but no longer tried to cover her chest or stomach. She met every strike with silence again. A second wind? More like a last stand. I don't know how long she'll last, but eventually she'll simply collapse.
Liandra endured the allotted strikes and turned around. She no longer tried to cover her breasts. Again, I had really wanted to see my companion like this, but the circumstances...
Now I felt not arousal, but a form of admiration. Liandra stood at her full height, her shoulders squared and her head held high. Only the tear drying on her cheek was evidence of recent weakness.
"The tougher you are, the more interesting it is to break you," the witch said, turning to us and offering her back.
Evil-Lyn spoke more vigorously. It seemed she had just caught her second wind. She took the young dark elf's defiance as a challenge.
And...
"Oh!" the executioner exclaimed, even forgetting to count the first strike.
Liandra was acting completely differently now. She crouched low, bringing her right hand back and placing her left on the floor. Then her whole body shot forward like a spring. A lashing strike at monstrous speed bit into the Death Hag's flesh. Small droplets of blood flew in all directions. Evil-Lyn flinched. Her legs almost gave way. The witch screamed in pain.
And Liandra was already taking a position for a strike again. She slithered toward the floor like a viper preparing to strike. I remembered when she had acted like this last time—during the battle with the Slaaneshi shapeshifter. The same merciless gaze as if in a trance and movements of incredible plasticity.
The second strike forced Evil-Lyn to arch into a bow. The Death Hag screamed, but then began to laugh hysterically. Evil-Lyn bit her lips, and tears flowed from her eyes.
"Good!" she gasped hoarsely. "You are no kitten. I admit it. There is something of Khaine in you. That was a... good strike. But I will endure. You won't be able to do that for long. And I can go for a long time. You have no idea what I can endure... aaa!"
"Three!" the executioner said in a mesmerized voice.
The third strike was just as strong, but the witch seemed to have adapted. She flinched, but didn't scream. Even the fact that a bloody stripe crossed part of her stomach didn't break her. Mad woman.
"Come on!" she exclaimed hoarsely. "Strike! Strike with all your might!"
"Four!"
The witch took this strike without sudden movements. She arched again as if in a dance, stroking her cheeks, sides, and chest with her hands.
"Good..." Evil-Lyn said, breathing heavily. "Almost as strong as..."
"Five!"
Liandra's final strike of this round seemed especially deafening. Something whistled. Flew to the side. A moment later I realized that the whip had snapped in half. Holy shit!
"In the name of Atharti and Drakira!" the executioner wailed, clutching his head.
Evil-Lyn was standing on her feet in a strange way. Bloody foam was trickling from her lips. The Death Hag suddenly fell to the floor. She collapsed as if cut down. She didn't even try to soften the fall with her hands.
"What is wrong with her?" the sorceress said in alarm and ordered the executioner. "Go and check!"
He scurried to the witch's body, dropped to his knees beside her, and performed a brief medical examination, feeling for a pulse and other simple tests.
"She..." the executioner began to speak in a trembling voice and broke off.
"She what?!" the sorceress exclaimed impatiently and indignantly.
"She broke her spine..." the executioner finally replied and smirked nervously. "With this little whip, she broke her spine... with Drakira's Caress... She won!"