Queen of Sorcery

Fear requires imagination, and you Arends aren't bright enough to be imaginative. The torments, however, will wear down your will - and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers are hard to find, and they grow sullen if they aren't allowed to practice - I'm sure you understand. Later, after you've all had the chance to visit with them a time or two, we'll try something else. Nyissa abounds with roots and leaves and curious little berries with strange properties. Oddly enough, most men prefer the rack or the wheel to my little concoctions." Y'diss laughed then, a brutal sound with no mirth in it. "We'll discuss all this further after I have the count settled in for the night. For right now, the guards will take you downstairs to the places I've prepared for you all."
    Count Dravor roused himself and looked around dreamily. "Are our friends departing so soon?" he asked.
    "Yes, my Lord," Y'diss told him.
    "Well then," the count said with a vague smile, "farewell, dear people. I hope you'll return someday so that we can continue our delightful conversation."
    The cell to which Garion was taken was dank and clammy, and it smelled of sewage and rotting food. Worst of all was the darkness. He huddled beside the iron door with the blackness pressing in on him palpably. From one corner of the cell came little scratchings and skittering sounds. He thought of rats and tried to stay as near to the door as possible. Water trickled somewhere, and his throat began to burn with thirst.
    It was dark, but it was not silent. Chains clinked in a nearby cell, and someone was moaning. Further off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless cackle repeated over and over again without pause, endlessly rattling in the dark. Someone screamed, a piercing, shocking sound, and then again. Garion cringed back against the slimy stones of the wall, his imagination immediately manufacturing tortures to account for the agony in those screams.
    Time in such a place was nonexistent, and so there was no way to know how long he had huddled in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear a faint metallic scraping and clinking that seemed to come from the door itself. He scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to the far wall.
    "Go away!" he cried.
    "Keep your voice down!" Silk whispered from the far side of the door.
    "Is that you, Silk?" Garion almost sobbed with relief.
    "Who were you expecting?"
    "How did you get loose?"
    "Don't talk so much," Silk said from between clenched teeth. "Accursed rust!" he swore. Then he grunted, and there was a grating click from the door. "There!" The cell door creaked open, and the dim light from torches somewhere filtered in. "Come along," Silk whispered. "We have to hurry."
    Garion almost ran from the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the gloomy stone corridor. Without a word, Garion went to her. She looked at him gravely for a moment and then put her arms about him. They did not speak.
    Silk was working on another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. "What took you so long?" he asked Silk.
    "Rust!" Silk snapped in a low voice. "I'd like to flog all the jailers in this place for letting the locks get into this condition."
    "Do you suppose we could hurry a bit?" Barak suggested over his shoulder from where he stood guard.
    "Do you want to do this?" Silk demanded.
    "Just move along as quickly as you can," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the time for bickerin just now." She removed her blue cloak over one arm.
    Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door.
    "Is all this oratory actually necessary?" Mister Wolf, the last to be released, asked crisply as he stepped out of his cell. "You've all been babbling like a flock of geese out here."
    "Prince Kheldar felt need to make observations about the condition of the locks," Mandorallen said lightly.
    Silk scowled at him and led the way toward the end of the corridor where the torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling.
    "Have a care," Mandorallen whispered urgently. "There's a guard."
    A bearded man in a dirty leather jerkin sat on the floor with his back against the wall of the corridor, snoring.
    "Can we get past without waking him up?" Durnik breathed.
    "He isn't going to wake up for several hours," Barak said grimly. The large purple swelling on the side of the guard's face immediately explained.
    "Dost think there might be others?" Mandorallen