How goes the border defences?
All's well, for now. But the Prucz will undoubtedly attack, or try something at least.
Pyotr nods. They are not idiots, the Prucz. They bide their time. When they attack, it will be something we do not expect.
It is their style. But still, all we can do is be vigilant.
The men walk in silence, the townsfolk are busy, but not too busy to stop what they're doing and bow to their Executor.
And so the girl...
Hmmm? Girl? Pyotr knows what Hasmet refers to, but pretends to be nonwe the wiser.
Hasmet laughs, not wishing to push the point. Pyotr chuckles as well. Words do not need to be spoken between the two. But they also know that where they are walking towards deserves more serious attention -- the dungeons.
The dungeons of Galat are cruel places -- captives from wars fought years ago still flounder in the caverns of these dungeons. Icy cold, and bitterly so in the thick of winter, the prisoners here are kept alive, but only just. Fed only what is necessary to sustain life, beaten enough to strike terror when the captives hear footsteps of their gaolers, the dungeons personify terror. The screams of those in torment stings the air at all hours of the night. Into this crucible of hell, Gergiuze has been flung.
And how is our prisoner doing?
She keeps silent, sings all day and all night. She accepts very little to eat, and the guards say that each time they approach, she smiles and sings louder, brazenly showing her naked form.
The morning is still fresh, but each time he thinks about Gergiuze, he feels spent. What manner of woman is this, who seems to have the resilience of a witch?
Secretly, Pyotr toys with the idea of making Gergiuze his wife. But he knows this is dangerous. If he were being honest with himself, he would like to steal into the dungeons in the thick of night, and amid the screams of the tormented souls, he would pound her mercilessly, make her scream out into the darkness of the dungeons, unrelentingly manhandle her like a rag doll, deflower her, then sodomise her, beat her as he does so, fling his raging soul upon the diabolically perfect body of Gergiuze, and return nightly for the same, leave her shaken, used. Secretly.
The guards greet the men with respect and ceremony, bowing low, awe etched in the corners of their eyes.
They report to him that she been upbeat. There are some signs that she is fatigued, and when she thinks they are not watching her, she carries a look of longing, a look of sorrow. But the second she realises someone is near, or she hears footsteps, she rises and stands, facing the guards with defiance in her eyes.
Has she eaten? Has she been treated for her wounds from the beating?
Yes, my Liege, as best we could. Her patience runs thin and she spits on the doctors. She even tried strangling Physician Vladek.
Pyotr stifles a laugh. The guards stare at him uncomprehendingly, and then laugh, because he laughs.
Let's see the prisoner.
Deep in the belly of the labyrinthine dungeons, Pyotr, Hasmet, his men, and the guards approach the cold cavernous prison of Gergiuze.
As the guards have predicted, she stands in the middle of her cell and stares defiantly at them, her body now begrimed with soot, and sweat. Yet, in his eyes, she has lost none of the majesty with which she presented herself at the Pora. He notices a slight frailty in her form, fatigue most likely, but her eyes still burn.
When she sees Pyotr, she smiles and steps forward, seductively, her hips accentuated with each calculated step towards the cell bars. She reaches high for the bars, as if rehearsed, because she knows, as her hands reach high, and hold on the bars, her breasts are compelled to lift with the arms, and the hollow, that beautiful hollow of her underarms, catch the dim flickering light from the flames on the torches. She knows the effect this will have. It seems to Pyotr that she has seen through his soul.
