Alone, John descended the rammed earth stairs, the sounds of celebration fading away the further down he went. After the attack, the geomancers had done a great job setting up the dungeon deep underground, with earthen walls that felt as hard as stone. Before that, the prisoners were kept in what were essentially metal cages at the edges of the camp.

As to why the geomancers didn’t use their powers to build houses above ground was beyond him. Maybe they considered the task of building houses for common soldiers beneath them, which was fair considering their power, but that didn’t explain why even nobles such as Lanard, Hagen, and Athalia also lived in tents.

Another, more likely option was that the lords simply didn’t want to waste time during the hunt for Vasilis. Up until yesterday, when Vasilis’ attack came, the army had been on the march every single day, setting up camp in the afternoon to march again the next day. Raising houses just to abandon them when they left would be a waste of time.

John arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Sunlight didn’t reach this far down. Instead, lightstones were placed at regular intervals up on the low ceiling, painting the place with a dim light. The air felt stale with the smell of sweat and blood.

Cells were placed to the left and right of a long corridor, with long metal bars sticking out of the floor and into the ceiling. John couldn’t think of a way to remove them without either a geomancer’s spell or a Paladin’s brute strength. That didn’t mean the prisoners didn’t try it though.

The floor and walls inside the cells were marred with often bloodied scratch marks after those inside attempted to dig their way out with their bare hands. The rammed earth was indeed as hard as stone, and a Crusader would be able to dig their way out eventually, given enough time.

John knew how frequently bodies were carried out of the dungeons, though. Rass and his torture assistants wouldn’t give the prisoners time.

Not interrogation.

Torture.

John had come down here once before. Rass Skanler’s modus operandi was alternating questions with inflicting pain. The questions were limited to, “Where’s Vasilis,” “Where are your outposts,” and “Do you want to live?” with some sort of insult mixed in.

By comparison, the earl’s methods of inflicting pain were much more varied, making it clear where his priorities lied. Sturdy racks to keep the victims in place, pincers to tear off fingernails, hammers and saws to either break bones or remove body parts. Water filled tubs to drown victims and red hot pokers to burn them.

Rass’s attention was mostly on Devran. The assistants, tasked with the less important prisoners, were even worse. They were responsible for most of the deaths and, given how barely anyone cared for the prisoners, they would continue doing so, failing to achieve anything useful.

Back on Earth, John took part in enhanced interrogation procedures. In his experience, any information gathered this way tended to be false with the same frequency that they were accurate. You can’t call information reliable when it has 50/50 chances of being wrong.

The corridor ended in a wide, circular space. The tools were arranged over a small table at the center. To one side there was a pillory while to the other there was an open coffin with its insides covered in spikes like some sort of iron maiden. The ceiling was higher up, with much brighter lighstones, especially the ones on top of an inclined spiked rack where Devran lied, eyes closed. At first, John worried that he might be dead, but the light moving of his chest proved that he was still breathing.

His ankles and wrists were chained to rollers at the top and bottom of the rack, respectively. A handle at the top served to control the chains. Spinning it clockwise, the chains would retract and increase the strain on his body, eventually dislocating all of his joints, if they weren’t already.

The cogs under the device squeaked and clanked as John spun it the other way around, enough to lessen the strain, but not enough that Devran would be able to move around. He then grabbed another handle, this one near the center and that was used to control the inclination. He spun it until the man’s head was above his toes once again.

Devran groaned as he woke up from the noise. “No...” he wheezed out the words through broken teeth. His hair had been shaved off and some of his fingers were missing. He opened his eyes, struggling to focus them on John’s figure. “Who… who are you?” he asked in a raspy, tired voice.

“My name is John,” he answered before raising his hand and showing a letter, the same one that mentioned the Green River. “I was tasked by lord Lanard with finding out more about these letters’ contents.”

Devran looked at John without saying anything, his eyes a bit more focused this time. Finally, he scoffed. “The duke’s uncle must be getting desperate then. Good. Le—” A coughing fit forced him to stop.

“You would be surprised at what I can do.” John reached to his back, grabbing his waterskin. He uncorked it and brought it close to Devran’s mouth, who refused it. “It’s just water,” he said before bringing it to his own lips and drinking a large gulp. “Besides, if I wanted to poison you then I would just force you to drink it.” He presented the waterskin again and this time Devran accepted it.

It took less than half a minute for him to completely empty it in five large gulps.

John corked it again and placed it back. “Do you want to eat too? I brought a few pieces of meat.”

“What is this? Rass couldn’t break me, so now you’re trying to butter me up with food?”

“Not at all.” John reached for a pouch on his hip, near where his sword was supposed to be. He undid the string that kept it closed and fished out a small piece of meat that he acquired from the cooks. “Rass indeed failed to break you, but that’s not surprising. They are asking you to give up your father, your own blood. I would do the same in your place.”

John bit on the meat. It didn’t taste as good as the food served in the castle, but that was to be expected. One was meant to the earl and important guests while the other to common soldiers.

“Why then?” Devran asked.

“That’s actually a custom from back home. One last meal of their choice to a prisoner before their execution. Unfortunately, you won’t get to choose it but, given that you probably haven’t eaten in some time now, even this little must feel like a banquet.”

Devran paused for a second at the words before his face opened up in a disturbing grin given the broken teeth. “That’s an interesting technique you have. If you think that threatening me will make me scared, then you’re mistaken. Kill me if you want, it will be a mercy.”

“So I guess that’s a no to the food.” John closed the pouch again. “Unfortunately, Devran, it’s you who are mistaken. I never said that I’m here to get information from you. In fact, I already know everything that I need to. Let me prove it to you.” He leaned forward over Devran’s face. “Do you know of the Taigardds?”

Devran’s smile froze and so John continued.

“I have to admit that I didn’t, but fortunately lord Lanard did the courtesy of enlightening me earlier today. Centuries ago, before the Three Queens’ War, before the Olsandres ruled Somerford, this region was ruled by the Taigardds. Their house wasn’t particularly powerful, but they were certainly famous. You see, under their rule, this region’s farmlands were some of the more productive in the whole kingdom. It was to the point where people said that the Taigardds didn’t have green thumbs, but green blood.”

John found himself smiling as Devran’s started to struggle against his restraints. “Unfortunately, they weren’t particularly nice to the commoners under them. One fateful night, one of their scions drank a bit too much and intruded on a marriage, claiming that he had the right to sleep with the wife first. The commoners didn’t take kindly to that. The scion’s bodyguards had the weapons, but the commoners had the numbers.”

“After killing the foolish boy and his bodyguards, the angry mob then marched towards the castle, gathering more followers as they went. In the end, the castle fell and every single Taigardd in there was executed. The castle lied abandoned after that. It was said that so much blood flowed that night that it formed a river.” John pulled out the letter once again and skimmed through its contents. “A green river,” he spoke out the words, not in the common tongue, but actual English.

By now Devran was trashing against his restraints, not caring about the rack’s spikes digging into his back.

“I told you would be surprised at what I can do.”

“Why!?” Devran cried out.

“Because your father took my mother from me. Greenflower, almost five years ago.”

Realization flashed through Devran’s face. “T-the huntswoman. You’re the child, the half-bred boy.”

John nodded slowly. “That’s right. Back then, I didn’t check if Vasilis was already dead. If I had, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But this will all end today. You can’t hear it from down here. Above ground, Lanard has just returned, bringing back your father to be executed.”

John turned away from the rack towards the table where the tools lied. “Before that, though, I’ll kill you.” The saw would be too slow. “The same way that I killed your mother yesterday.” The blades would do the job, but they just lacked the impact he wanted. “Then, I’ll go back above ground to watch his execution, knowing that I already took everyone that he loved from him.” His eyes landed on the hammer. “Perfect.”

Devran no longer fought against his restraints. Now, tears streamed down his face. “You’re a monster,” he said in between sobs.

“Maybe.” John raised the hammer and brought it down on Devran’s head.