“Talk to me.”

Deniel stared at the wall, not daring to look towards the menacing figure standing in his cell. The guards had not been overly gentle, though under the hawk-like gaze of their leaders and the appalled eyes of the villagers they hadn’t dared be overly rough either. Deniel had been tied to the cart and brought back to the manor at the head of the valley. At one point, it had been the residence of the Waccewaldian noble whose fief this was. Now, it had been repurposed as a command post, the land falling under Stamarkian crown domain in the interim period. The rather excellent wine cellar had been emptied, and a new use found for the space. A faint scent of spilled must still lingered, a pleasant contrast to the more recent and altogether less appealing smells of human fear.

The shelves had been largely cleared out. The floor still had indents and grooves indicating where presses and barrels had stood before being removed. The iron fittings driven into the stone and masonry were a new addition, not as aged as the surroundings, and entirely out of place. About as out of place as Deniel himself felt. There were surely chains and manacles that would tie onto those hooks and eyelets to restrain someone, keeping them exposed and helpless to await to whatever fate brought upon them. Currently, though, they were unused.

The hard faced man who had talked to Deniel’s father was there, looming ominously. Deniel didn’t quite understand that; surely, they had underlings for this? Torturers in black hoods had featured heavily in his mind on the way here. Failing that, the soldiers would surely gladly step in; he had heard some of the muffled comments. Many of them had known someone or another assigned to the tower and would gladly leap at the opportunity for some payback, no matter how petty.

The man was still waiting, impassive and patient. He seemed content to wait forever. Presently, he pulled up a chair – a comfortable looking thing with a high wooden back, presumably brought down from the upper floors – and sat, looking pensively at the youth leaned against the cellar wall.

Eventually, Deniel couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “What…” he licked his lips, acutely aware how dry him mouth seemed, “do you want to hear?” The small voice in his head was screaming shrilly. He’d known it would come to this, the moment he’d been tangled up with the patrol. You’re committed, you poor fool. He’d fought the animal panic down and suppressed it before, but he could feel it roiling in the background, threatening to overwhelm him. No, focus, you have to stay calm, stay rational if you want a way out of this.

The man on the chair seemed to consider the words. He was polite and mild mannered to a fault from what Deniel had seen, but the past day had kept him careful to the point of paranoia; the constant vigilance spoke now, looking at cues of stance, the way the man sat, the unconscious set of limbs. There was a restrained violence there that Deniel was already learning to associate with soldiers and warriors, a feral set of body and mind common to those whose lives hung on violence. Finally, the man spoke again.

“I already know you were at the tower; you were identified by witnesses.” The man paused as if to see if Deniel would bother to deny it, then continued. “Some would just hang you and be done with it; you’re the link the bandits have to Akenhof, you were involved, so cut the thread and be done with it.” He smiled coolly. “I, on the other hand, am not interested in an alderman’s son, beyond asmittedly some curiosity how you got mixed up with this. I want the rest of your band. So tell me in your words what happened, where I can find your compatriots, and I might let you live.”

Deniel chose his words carefully. Tell the truth, but not all the truth. They might be able to pick up on lies. “I had attended a sermon at the monastery downstream of Akenhof that night.” True, so far. “I had decided to cut through the woods instead of following the road, when a group of bandits came upon me. They took me with them, and said they were going to use me to get into the tower. They thought if they threatened to kill the alderman’s son, the garrison would open the gates. If they didn’t, they’d lose credibility as protectors in the valley.” He decided to omit the skirmish in the woods; there was no need to complicate matters, or make it clear just how involved he’d been that night. “I don’t know who the men were, I’d never met them before, and can’t help you find them.” Even if I wanted to, he thought, remembering the prick of Valeth’s knife at his back.

Hoffman’s eyes narrowed. “But they didn’t threaten to kill you in front of the tower to bluff the gate open, did they.” It wasn’t a question. Deniel shrank away from the piercing stare that considered him. “The sentry said you came in with them. In the first group at that. You could have called out a warning when you got near the sentries, but you didn’t. Why is that, I wonder.”

The silence stretched. Deniel frantically wracked his brain, looking for an excuse, some way out. Nothing occurred to him, his mind sluggish and unresponsive in the face of his interrogator. Because I was scared, the animal shrilled, because I thought my way was safest and least likely to involve me more. More insidiously came a darker undercurrent: because I wanted it to work. Because the plan was mine, and it worked, and it felt good to see it working. He squashed down on that tendril immediately lest something show on his face. He could think of no faster way to condemn himself than to admit his complicity on that scale.

Hoffman waited, unperturbable. Behind the cool mask he affected, his heartbeat quickened. If he kept the pressure on, something would break – soon. No, he cautioned himself. You thought that with his father, and look where that almost got you. He was still kicking himself over the – in hindsight rather obvious – misstep; the man had been protecting his family, just in a way that didn’t coincide with Hoffman’s goals.

Seeing the boy’s obstinate silence, Hoffman went on, probing. “It’s possible that you are what you say you are, just a local who was coerced into helping the gangs. If that is so, why be so reticent to give them up – at least their names? You heard some of those, surely?” He watched, looking for cues, seeing the slight stiffening in Deniel’s shoulders. A point. “If they threatened you and your family, we can keep them safe.”

Deniel’s accusing glare stabbed out, giving the man the lie. “You couldn’t even keep your own men safe.” Inside, he winced. This was not how one spoke to nobles, much less when one could already feel the noose on their neck.

Hoffman felt a thrill of triumph – his guess had hit the mark. Immediately on the tail of it came an involuntary wince. The youth’s remark hit hard as well. He schooled himself back to impassibility quickly. “An outlier.”

From somewhere, Deniel found the steel that had seen him through the attack on the tower. His pulse slowed. Instead of being an animal caught in a trap, something darker in him coiled and snarled. Nothing left to lose, I suppose. “You left fifteen men alone in an outpost, isolated from support, with insufficient supplies.” Deniel noted, trying to affect the same cool detachment the man across from him displayed. “You’ve left another party in Akenhof now.”

“Insufficient?” A quizzically raised eyebrow. Deniel elaborated:

“They had to ration firewood. When an innocent-seeming woodcutting party offered them some, they opened the door.”

Hoffman masked his wince better this time. Internally, he seethed. The idiots should have known better. Such a waste. He promised himself again that their commander would see consequences. We could have left one of the career officers of the New Army there, but no, that bumbling idiot needs a posting. And what does he do with it? Buggers off back home the moment he feels a little chilly. I will have Bembro roast over a slow fire, and see if he ever feels chilly after that.

“Do I take it to mean that you refuse my offer of protection?”

“I take it that you’re not actually offering me a way out.” Deniel wasn’t bothering to avoid the man’s stare anymore. The challenge in his eyes was entirely out of place for someone in his position, but no less real for that. The beast peered through his eyes, snarling in frustration. Caution to the wind. “If I am executed by you, or executed by the brigands later – what difference does that make to me, exactly?” He dared give a quick, bitter smile. “And as such, I don’t see much reason to make your life easier, even if I could. Which I told you, I can’t.”

Hoffman drew in a breath to retort when a discreet knock at the cellar door pulled him up short. “Come.”

The door opened. Kaulback stood there, returned from his sweep down the valley. Behind him Hoffman could see other members of his entourage and staff, hear the murmur and bustle of excitement above. “My lord, Landgraf Falkenrath is here on inspection. He’s asked to see you.”

Hoffman straightened further involuntarily, nodding his thanks. He started up the stairs, sparing Deniel only one further measuring glance, and leaving the youth behind in the dark to stew. As the door closed, he could still feel the heat of that despairing anger burning into his back.