Chapter 102: The Interrogation of Shadows
Inside the warm hall of the residence, illuminated by the dim fire from the hearth, the stench of dried blood, sweat, and cheap iron filled the air. The bearded commander of the Black Skull Tribe was bound tightly to a wooden chair in the center of the room, his feet tied to the legs and his arms immobilized behind his back with thick leather straps.
Kellar sat at the head of the main table, swirling a wooden cup filled with dark wine while observing the prisoner with a serene, unfazed look. Standing on either side of the chair were Krag, holding his mallet with veins bulging on his forearms, and Grok, who remained motionless like a shadow with a broad iron knife in his hand.
"Wake him up," said Kellar.
Grok reached into a wooden bucket on the floor and splashed a stream of freezing lake water directly into his face.
The bearded leader let out a violent gasp, thrashing against his bindings as his eyes snapped open. He coughed up a mixture of water and dark blood, his chest heaving beneath his tattered hides. When his vision cleared, he glared up at Kellar, baring his rotten, black teeth in a snarl.
"Do you think these ropes are going to hold me, lowborn dog?" said the commander, his voice raspy and broken. "When our shaman notices I’m missing, two hundred warriors will tear this valley apart and turn your little village into ashes!"
Krag took a step forward, raising his fist in anger, but Kellar raised a single hand to stop him.
"Let him speak," said Kellar, taking a calm sip from his wooden cup. "It’s always entertaining when the meat tries to speak like a hunter."
Kellar set the cup back on the table, resting his elbows on the polished wood as he locked his cold green eyes on the prisoner.
"Tonight you have two options," said Kellar, his tone dangerously flat. "Option one: you answer my questions about your camp, your patrol routes, and your leader’s plans, and I grant you a quick, clean death. Option two: you keep playing tough, and I let Grok practice his skinning technique on your limbs until you beg me for option one."
The bearded commander let out a raspy, blood-choked laugh, spitting phlegm onto the floorboards.
"You know nothing of pain, kid," said the commander. "Our shaman has skinned men alive for pure entertainment. You don’t scare me."
"Is that so?" said Kellar.
Kellar made a casual gesture toward Grok. Without uttering a single word, Grok stepped up from behind the chair, grabbed the commander’s left pinky finger, and snapped it backward with a sharp, brutal crack.
A guttural scream erupted from the commander’s throat, echoing against the timber walls. Sweat dripped down his face as he heaved his body trembling against the ropes.
"That was just the warm-up," said Kellar, leaning forward until his shadow blanketed the bound man. "Now, let’s start with the basics. How many armed men are currently inside the camp near the Ash Valley?"
The bearded commander coughed violently, spitting a mixture of saliva and blood that stained the floor just inches from Kellar’s boots. Despite the sharp pain in his hand, the man flashed a twisted, bloody grin.
"Is this the best you got, brat?" said the commander, laughing with rage. "My grandmother hits harder when she’s drunk."
Kellar slowly leaned back in his chair, observing him with a mix of boredom and contempt.
"I could skin you alive," said Kellar, running a finger along the rim of his cup. "I could bring a wild beast in here to fuck you right now, but considering the kind of scum you people are in your tribe, I suspect that would be more of a reward than a punishment for you."
The prisoner’s grin instantly froze. The veins in his neck bulged with unbridled fury as he thrashed wildly against his ropes.
"You son of a bitch!" screamed the commander beside himself with rage. "Go to hell!"
"Sometimes, continuing to live is a punishment far worse than death," said Kellar, watching him with a calculating look. "Since you think you’re so tough, let’s see how much your body can take. Grok, give him some of our wine."
The hunters inside the room exchanged bewildered glances. No one understood why the shaman would offer such a precious drink to a miserable prisoner, but Kellar’s orders were absolute. Without question, Grok grabbed the clay pitcher and approached the bound man.
Thinking they were trying to poison him or force him to swallow something repulsive, the bearded commander thrashed and clenched his teeth; however, Grok held his head in a vise grip and poured a generous stream down his throat. The moment the dark liquid hit his tongue, the barbarian’s eyes widened in shock. The rich, sweet, and deep flavor caught him off guard.
"Give him another," said Kellar, leaning back in his chair.
This time, the prisoner offered no resistance at all, greedily gulping down the liquid and licking the stray drops from his beard.
"Another one," said Kellar. "And another."
Glass after glass, the bearded leader drank with delight, entirely oblivious to his captor’s intentions. Within minutes, his gaze grew hazy, his shoulders slackened against the ropes, and a foolish, happy grin spread across his face.
"Give him one more," said Kellar.
They served him yet another cup. The wine was undeniably delicious, but it was no ordinary vintage. Thanks to Kellar’s enhanced formula, the drink didn’t hover around a measly eight percent alcohol content like primitive brews; it easily surpassed sixty percent. It was a concentrated, brutal spirit—an alcohol that hit like a loan shark coming to collect.
"Now, let’s start with the basics again" said Kellar. "How many armed men are currently inside the camp near the Ash Valley?"
Kellar offered a smirk as he noticed how the barbarian’s tongue loosened completely under the effect of the potent spirit. The commander’s gaze was entirely glazed over, and he no longer even cared about his bindings; the wine’s sweet poison had shattered every last trace of his military discipline.