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Three
For eighteen long hours, Lena was left to hang. As if by some evil magic, being suspended by the wrists slowly drained her strength, and by morning, she knew she had lost the power to pull herself up. For the first time in her life, she began to feel truly helpless.
Even so, she showed no fear when Roth and his band of assistants returned. Most daunting of all was a huge, ugly man in black leather trousers. Lena knew that he was the torturer, and that today would not be pleasant for her. Still, hanging in chains, she was powerless to avoid it.
"I thought we should discuss your sisters’ plans to attack," Roth said simply.
Lena found cool voice, despite her exhaustion: "I know nothing of any plans."
"Perhaps," Roth said, "I should show you that we mean business. Torturer? Whip her."
The big man produced a four-foot lash of woven hide, half an inch thick, tapering to a cruel tip. He indicated that two of the guards cross to the winch: they lowered Lena until her dangling toes were just an inch off the floor.
The whip hissed through the air and cracked! across her broad and bare back. Then again, and again, cris-crossing blows, quickly drawing a fine cross-hatch of blood in her flesh. The whipping was cruel, setting the hanging woman swinging like a heavy pendulum: but she did not utter a sound.
Twenty lashes became thirty, then forty, and by the fiftieth lash, the torturer was out of breath, showing signs of despair. Lena’s eyes fixed on a distant wall, as the chain from which she hung creaked slowly. There were a few beads of sweat on her brow, but no other sign that she felt pain.
"Well?" Roth demanded.
"You will have to do better than that," she hissed. "Bring it on! I wish to be tested!"
Roth was not impressed. "Very well. Prepare her for the next stage!"
A heavy bench was carried in by four guards, placed before the Amazon. Upon the surface of the bench were two horizontal vices, placed four feet apart, their jaws cruel with sharp iron studs. Lena’s legs were lifted apart, her feet put into the vices, and the handles turned until the iron studs were grinding into her flesh. Still, she uttered no sound.
"Does that not hurt?" Roth goaded.
"Does what hurt?" the Amazon asked innocently.
The torturer tightened both vices, until trickles of blood ran to the heavy bench. Lena’s fists closed for a moment, but she gave no other reaction.
"Leave her," Roth ordered. "In a few hours, the pain will be unbearable, and she will confess everything she knows."
With just two guards remaining to watch her, the inquisitors departed, leaving Lena to hang in chains once more, her feet compressed in the cruel vices.
After four hours, they returned. Roth was pleased to see that, this time, the Amazon’s skin shone with sweat, and that her face showed the strain of her ordeal. Her arms appeared to have lost all strength, and she hung limply from the shackles.
"Well?" Roth demanded. "Are you ready to talk?"
"This," Lena hissed through clenched teeth, "is child’s play. You are pathetic."
The torturer went to the vices, and tightened them again. This time, all those present heard the bones in Lena’s feet grinding together under the savage pressure, and fresh trickles of blood ran free. Lena’s legs tensed, one cheek twitched, but she made no sound.
"Leave her," Roth said.
Two more hours they waited, before returning, expecting to find the Amazon pleading for mercy. But they saw little on her face to suggest discomfort, and she watched the inquisitors’ return calmly.
"I have been pondering how I might kill you," she told Roth.
The King’s advisor laughed. "You dare threaten me like that? Before today is out, I shall have you begging to kiss my feet! Torturer? Proceed with the next stage!"
From where she hung, Lena watched the next step with interest. Her feet were imprisoned by the vices’ crushing jaws, but her bare toes stuck out unprotected. The torturer fetched a two-inch-long iron spike, and a wooden mallet. Before the Amazon’s eyes, he positioned the tip of the wedge beneath the nail of her right big toe, and raised the mallet.
"Confess!" Roth shouted, and the mallet fell. The spike was driven a quarter-inch under the Amazon’s toenail. Another blow, and another, and the spike was slowly driven further and further, bright lines of blood running down Lena’s trapped foot. Between her upstretched arms, her head tipped back. She bit her lip as the mallet finally struck so hard that her nail split from top to bottom, but still she made no sound.
So the torturer took pliers, and slowly ripped the damaged toenail from its mooring, holding the bloodied remnants before her face. Lena looked away.
Roth was most disappointed. "Try again," he said.
The torturer repeated the process, hammering a spike deep under Lena’s left toenail, so that it was lifted most gruesomely from the bed, then slowly tore it away. Most prisoners would have been screaming, but Lena merely pursed her lips and sucked breath.
"Enough," Roth said in disgust.
They took her bruised and bloodied feet from the vices, and carried the bench away, leaving Lena to hang freely once more. The sheen of sweat on her naked body betrayed her pain, but there was still no sign that she might yet be broken.
"Fetch the hot irons," Roth commanded.
The torturer stood at a brazier, pumping bellows, heating a branding iron in the roaring coals until it glowed white-hot. Lena said nothing, nor did she move. After more than a day hanging in manacles, she was clearly exhausted, and it seemed that she might be losing her spirit. Roth stood before her, hands on hips.
"Confess to me the battle plans of your sisters," he demanded.
"Never," Lena whispered.
"The kiss of the iron is terrible," Roth warned.
"Do your worst!"
The torturer brought the iron, smoking and sparking in the chill dungeon air, and, upon a nod from Roth, pressed it to the base of Lena’s spine. Her skin hissed and squealed and spat, oily smoke rising, and her body shook violently. Her head tipped, her white teeth bared.
"Yes!!" she hissed, and, as tears rolled down her face, Roth was shocked to see a smile appear on her beautiful lips.
"Does that not hurt, wench?" Roth shouted, when the iron was lifted.
Lena’s head rocked forward. The sweat ran from her body. "Of course it hurts, fool," was her reply. "But pain is not to be feared."
Roth was furious. "Again!" he told the torturer. "Brand her again!"
Twice more the torturer placed the brand at the base of her spine. leaving smoking X-shapes where the iron had touched, and each time the Amazon gave a groan or gasp, but no confession. So a freshly-heated iron was brought, and, this time, pressed to the back of her shoulder. The deeply-muscled flesh hissed savagely, steaming and smoking, and Lena closed her eyes, the sweat running in rivulets down her naked flesh.
Finally, Roth ventured forward, and put his hand to the magnificent orb of one fine breast, cupping its roundness. "It seems a shame to ruin these," he said. "But if you will not confess to me, ruin them I must."
"I welcome your puny efforts," Lena told him, but he saw the tensing of her arms.
"Torturer! Again!"
The time, the hot iron was pressed to the side of one breast. As her flesh burned, the Amazon jolted in her chains, her teeth bared, fresh sweat running down her body. But she did not cry out, and when the brand was lifted, she spat at Roth, hitting him squarely on the cheek.
"Witch!" Roth swung, striking her face hard with his clenched fist, then leaping away, clutching agonised knuckles. "Curse you!"
Lena’s eyes returned to him. "You cannot win against me. Give up."
"Never," Roth growled. "We will continue this tomorrow."
Once again, the inquisitors departed. Alone again, Lena let herself hang limp in the chains, her head drooping. Her bare skin steamed, and as her sweat cooled, she became aware of the pain in her tortured feet, slow waves of agony from her branded flesh. She was physically weak, exhausted, but her mind remained strong. She would not be broken.
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