I would like to thank all my readers for the engagement, it means so much to me. I struggled with this chapter for the longest time I didn't know how I could rescue them!.
Trial by Steel.
The Wolf Lord's twenty-four hour deadline had passed, with Bennett flatly denying any accusations the frustrated Lothar had leveled at him concerning Frances' whereabouts. Their last meeting had been tense and uncompromising. The imprisoned warrior could see plainly Lothar's seething anger at his refusal to cooperate, yet Bennett could detect the dour man had expected no less from his proud prisoner. Who during the course of the questioning sat straight backed against the bars revealing little, dwarfing all present soldiery included with his mighty presence.
Lothar had chosen this time to interview his captive from the confines of the cells. He knew this meeting would be brief, even if it was painful for him to attend. Much preferring these days to conduct all his affairs from the comfort of his quarters, or if a task was too demanding physically, through his trusted aide Krosse. After hearing the report of Bennett's near escape, and details of the severe injuries meted out to the last unfortunate man, Lothar decided it was not worth the risk to bring him again to his chambers.
The small statured Krosse was hovering behind his Lord in his spotless black attire, gold buttons gleaming, raven like. Ever attentive was this man, his bony hands resting on his Lord's wheelchair, eyes vivid with interest looking for the slightest signs of a lie or unease. Bennett had never been more wary of any individual he had ever met than he had of Victor Krosse, marking him at once as a great adversary. Understanding why Lord Lothar had chosen him as his advisor.
His own torturer Pig was pale and none too inventive by comparison, and he wondered what it would be like to have such a clever ally working for him devoted to his causes? Dismissing that same notion in an instant, Bennett uncomfortable with having such an intelligent man around, seeing plainly the Doctor was the true power behind the throne here, and now even more so since Lothar's virtual incapacitation. The Wolf Lord having to depend on Krosse heavily to gain relief and treatment so he could resume some semblance of his former life.
Bennett was devoid of ideas on how he was to evade his fate, pondering the welfare of his forces on the outside, harboring dim hope of rescue. Each day he scoured the changing guards faces for anyone familiar in their ranks, but he saw no one he recognized. As the days wore on he was losing all hope of outside help. He had little option but to maintain his stony facade of silence as he sat stoically in his cell. Some days he would pace its steel confines for hours at a stretch, bare feet padding on the cold concrete, the rhythm of his footsteps maddening in the silence. Meal times he would only pick at the bland food he was presented with listlessly, wondering why he bothered to eat at all.
He was a wild thing cornered, taken from his habitat, removed from his purpose. All his reason for existence gone, the only thing left to him was a bitter sense of resignation. To reveal Frances' demise was certain death to them all, he being the only one who knew of her accidental expiration. Knowing too Krosse would leave him to the last.
Though it was a silence he was beginning to regret at this juncture, the results of which were beginning to unnerve even the likes of one as hard and cruel as he. In his long years of campaigning in the desert he had tortured many men for their secrets. He had watched on mercilessly whilst each one went slowly to their deaths in agonizing torment at his own hands, or those of the much reviled Pig. Some very brave in the face of their fate, others terrified and pleading. However he had never been on the receiving end of torture before, and inside he hoped he could be brave and hold out against whatever was to come.
On the outside none would suspect his fear shrouded in a mask of stony faced resolve, as he sat in his cell staring at nothing. There were times he even wished he had never seen this city, to be lured by its prizes, and he admonished himself for being fool enough to ever enter its forbidding gates. Still it was done, a thing of the past and he was here in this predicament, but how could it now be undone?
Krosse had not touched him yet, but he had started on the others. Bennett could feel the man's terrible eagerness, and with it came unease. Bennett lord of all he surveyed was acutely unused to this new feeling, knowing it would soon be his time. Time to face what Gareth and Sven already had, time to see what Bennett was truly made of. He prayed he was up to the challenge.
*****
Renard was in a fix, he had dined with Pig and Dwayne that first evening of his return, never suspecting the wine they proffered him was drugged. He had woken much later the next day securely bound hand and foot in the great cave, his head pounding and his senses groggy, whilst he listened to the two nervous men argue just what it was they should do with him, but not reaching a decision on the matter.
This worried the usually cool headed, fast thinking Renard. Nervous men were unpredictable men. He had never trusted Dwayne or Pig to do what was sensible or right, and he reasoned his life hung on a hair trigger whilst they fretted and argued about what to do with him. Renard tried to convince them that their fears were unfounded, he was no spy checking on their management of the camp for their leader. However they remained unconvinced Renard's appearance here was innocent of this motive.
Many days he had passed in this way, with each one Renard was sure it would be his last. It was uncomfortable to be thus tied for this duration, but he could not escape. Either Pig or the lanky Dwayne would watch him day and night. His lot was to lie in the dust at the rear of the cave shivering through the small hours, being fed at intervals by Sarah who in his filthy state did not even recognize him for the Renard she once knew of almost three years past. He was grateful she did not, the poor lass a mere shadow of the happy carefree girl he knew from better days, and he fretted he was running out of time. His objective seemed further away than ever.
*****
Will and his party constructed a makeshift stretcher for the ailing Aran. During the ensuing days they painstakingly carried him home over the rough inhospitable terrain, employing some old straight, steel poles which the four men were lucky enough to salvage from a ruined settlement. The possibility of finding wood that large or strong here was a rarity, so they were pleased with this find. They then lashed it all together with strips of green leather which they wet and dried in the sun so it would tighten on to the frame forming a very durable stretcher. After this was done they draped some strong goat hides across this ingenious framework. Progress was slow, but the four able bodied survivors were in high spirits, after all they were alive and going home.
In spite of this they ran scared. At night they camped under the stars leaving at first light. Sometimes they had plentiful game and water, sometimes they did not, sleeping on growling bellies. All the while casting their anxious eyes over their shoulders, fearing being followed, and hoping to sight more stragglers from Bennett's thoroughly demoralized army. As the days wore on they saw neither friend nor foe, just the remains of charred settlements and huts, the twisted iron of rusting vehicles, the long defiled barricades, and the crumbling, bleached bones of the silent dead.
The grievously wounded Aran fought for his life, he would not lay down and die just yet. He was deathly ill though, and for the most part delusional. Aran was running a high fever and the wound in his sword arm was suppurating evil smelling pus. Will was worried, but he had done the best he could for Sven's brother with very limited resources. He had sewn the wound partially closed with Aran's own hair and a sharp piece of bone which he had boiled fearing infection. All he could do now was wait and keep it as clean as he could. Time would have to decide the rest.
On the eighth day of their trek Aran's fever broke. The angry purplish wound running full length down his arm from the shoulder to well below the elbow, looked slightly better. The young man staggered from his bed at dawn to drink thirstily from the canteen heaped with the other supplies by the dying fire. It was cold and he shivered, he had a desperate thirst that had be sated, his fine red shirt all but torn away, one sleeve missing from it completely. He clutched the threadbare material to his torso with cold hands in a feeble attempt to keep out the chill. Autumn had brought the nightly frosts, and clear starry skies. Promising the days would be fine and warm. This weather pattern would be a steady feature of the landscape from now on, until the heat of next summer, a welcome respite indeed.
Will poked his scruffy head up from beneath his hide blanket on hearing the commotion, thinking an animal was in the camp. His short, greasy, brown hair standing up on end this way and that in an unruly fashion. Running his fingers through it uselessly as it was little improvement to his disheveled state. He grinned seeing Aran finally on his feet. "I cannot believe it, you are finally up and about. We thought you were a goner there at times, we really did. Glad to have you back." Will's cheery voice woke the others, and they crawled begrudgingly from their blankets, Clint stoking the fire a little with some dried brush, the hungry coals readily catching alight, giving off toasty warmth.
"I feel like shit." Aran replied.
"You look like shit too mate." Will said, laughter in his voice, knowing his comrade was finally out of danger.
The five men squatted on their haunches whilst Clint slowly fed the fire, the faint glow of the sun a promise of warmth on the rock strewn horizon. "Bloody desert." Angus mumbled to no one in particular, rubbing his calloused hands vigorously together over the flames. "It's either boiling hot or freezing cold in this stinking place, no in between."
Aran sat examining his arm gingerly in the firelight artfully held together by strands of his own gold hair, it was still very painful to touch and seeping in some places. He would bear an enormous scar as a reminder for the rest of his days. Moving it slowly, it felt stiff and painful and he fretted he would not be as adept with a blade again. For some time he was silent, the four others talking quietly about nothing in particular as they casually rolled cigarettes made from almost any paper filled with dubious tobacco, or stoked their pipes. Smokers had learned to smoke almost anything with the demise of proper tobacco. Any kind of leaf was open game, most of the men devising some recipe to sate their habit.
