Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

Sadly the man shook his head.
    “Damn.”
    The Trifect families stopped far up the hill, keeping a good distance between themselves and the crowd. Mercenaries surrounded them, looking serious and stiff in their patchwork armor. Grunting from the weight, the group of sellswords placed the covered cage down in the center of the stage. The crowd murmured, wondering what exotic creature might be trapped within.
    An old man approached the stage and held up his hands for silence. Thren recognized him as Leon’s advisor, Potts.
    “This day, my Lord Connington brings a gift not to the Trifect but to you wonderful people of Veldaren!” the old man shouted. Those who hadn’t quieted before did so now. The din lowered to a murmuring hush.
    “Long they have stolen from you,” Potts continued. “Long they have made you cower and hide in fear of poison and blade. We have fought them for you, bled for you, and died for you.”
    A few whistled, but not many. Given the sheer amount of free food and wine floating about, it would seem in bad taste to argue.
    “What is going on here?” Thren hissed to Cynric.
    “I told you, I don’t know,” the Wolf master replied.
    Potts turned back toward the hill and pointed. A procession of five men walked down from the pavilion. They wore plain brown robes, their heads and faces clean-shaven. Thin tattoos circled their necks and wrists before traveling upward like veins toward their eyes. Both guildmasters knew who they were immediately. They were the gentle touchers, Leon’s skilled masters of torture.
    Thren felt his stomach drop as if full of lead. He suddenly knew who was within the cage.
    “Damn them,” he whispered. “Gods-fucking-damn them.”
    The five surrounded the cage and raised their hands. With a dramatic sweep of his arms, Potts ordered the cage opened. The gentle touchers yanked out the bolts from its sides. The cage collapsed, its walls coming apart like a broken child’s toy. Standing perfectly still, his body tied to a thick pole, was Will. The gentle touchers rushed forward, taking the pole and jamming it into a hole in the stage, securing it tight. Will looked exhausted but unharmed otherwise. He had been stripped naked but for a plain loincloth. His thick muscles tensed against the ropes binding his hands and feet.
    “Will the Bloody,” Potts shouted. “The right hand of Thren Felhorn, the enforcer of the Spiders! We give him to you now, people of Veldaren. To you, and to the gentle touchers.”
    “Enjoy the show!” Leon shouted from the hill. “Give ’em blood!”
    One of the gentle touchers put down a small table he had carried from the wagon. Another unrolled a canvas wrapping filled with instruments. They started with the small pins. Two focused on each hand, taking their pins and slowly pushing them underneath Will’s fingernails. Two more did the same to his toes. The fifth constantly surveyed the ropes, tightening when necessary, grabbing hold of Will and keeping him still when he flexed his fingers or tried to bend his knees.
    Once enough pins were in place, they split apart their duties. One took a small set of pliers and peeled back a fingernail. Another took a thin pin and jammed it into the exposed flesh underneath. A different gentle toucher used a hammer and a blunt piece of wood to smash down on the toenails with pins underneath. With each strike, Will’s entire body thrashed against the ropes.
    “Like art,” Cynric said as he watched. “Like fucking art.”
    Thren’s hands shook as he watched. He refused to look away. Somehow Will had been caught, and like a damn fool Thren hadn’t gone looking for him. He might have spared his closest enforcer this terrible tragedy. Even better, he might have spared him the spectacle. Hundreds of people howled and cheered with every moan and scream he made. Two gentle touchers simultaneously grabbed Will’s little toes with pliers and pulled them back until they were so out of joint they were perpendicular to the rest. Thren watched as Will the Bloody, the strongest, fiercest member of his guild, wept like a child.
    And they hadn’t even cut him yet. Only a little bit of blood trickled from his fingers to the wood stage. The gentle touchers ripped off Will’s loincloth, taking their needles and pliers to his groin.
    “Change of plans,” Thren said. His face was an icy mask, his disguise barely hiding his rage. He pointed at Leon, not caring if any saw.
    “He’s mine,” he said, his voice