Even without the gore dripping from her chin, Sark could see the madness in Brig's grin. A clotted lump of his life's blood congealed on her lower lip. Gravity tugged at the coagulated mess. Blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight, Brig swept it up with a silver-white finger. Holding it above her mouth, she extended her tongue until the bloody fruit dropped.
"You have two options, of course," she purred, thrusting her bloody hand onto a wooden frame.
"I won't bore you with the details. I'd wager you've offered them before, Puppet Master."
Head canted to press his ruined ear against his slick shoulder, Sark felt his pulse race. The woman giggled at her own joke, pressed fingertips to her lips as she did so. The girlish display reminded the slave of coy girls in the orphanage, the kind who used their apparent naivety and vulnerablity to manipulate those around them.
"Were I any kind of master," he said.
"You'd be the one chained and bloody.Yet here we are."
Brig cocked her head, emulating Sark. She crossed her arms, deliberately accentuating her curves and the brownish stain spreading across the tunic.
"And here you'll stay," she said, her eys flashing with malice.
"At least until my warlock is ready to see you."
Again she touched a hand to her lips. Blowing him a kiss, she turned on her heel. Sark watched her depart, noticed the metronomic sway of her hips in perfect harmony with the click of her heels.
"Mad skink sow," he cursed.
Sark hung limp until the woman's footsteps clicked beyond his range of hearing. Certain she would not return in the near future, the dwarf tested his chains once again. Cast iron chinked at his wrists. The bonds gave nothing but a sharp rattle. Eyes narrowed, he eased out a long breath. Forcing relaxation into his muscles, he tried to pull each limb from their shackles. Though he achieved some movement at each limb, the chains cinched tight around thumbs and jutting ankle bones.
"Pah," he spat.
"A trapped skink will chew off its foot."
He looked to his left hand, focussed on his thumb. Teeth bared, he wiggled the digit. With his arms pinned at almost full stretch from his body, the dwarf knew he'd never be able to chew it off. He snapped his jaws anyway. A laugh rippled up from his belly, futility brightening his spirits.
"Puppet Master of Dunnholme," he snorted, shaking his head.
Sark scanned the room once again. The pristine torture chamber had been laid out exquisitely. Its finery struck a hard contrast with the assortment of brutalising instruments. Sharp edged blades and keen points glittered in the flickering lamplight. Each of them could cause extreme suffering to a body, but they could also be used to pry open chain links or carve away the frame's wood. They could provide almost as much help as the key to his bonds, if only he could reach them.
Frustration filling his veins, Sark threw his full force against the chains. Poorly healed flesh tore from the jerking ferocity of his actions. Hot blood leaked from his back. Red rivers gushed from his savaged ear. Pain girding his resolve, he thrashed again. Vertigo gripped him. Dwarf and frame canted left. Chain links rattled. Wood creaked before thumping back to the stone block floor.
Grey skin slathered in the red sheen of reopened wounds, Sark scoured tavertine puncheons. He craned his neck, leaning his wieght forward for a better view of the frame's footings. The right post rested on flat, off-cream stone. Sark shifted his gaze left. A smirk twisted his lips. Below the left pillar, he noticed an imperfection in the flooring. Barely a quarter of an inch deep, the stone's natural cavity robbed the structure of its stability.
"Well, well," he mumbled.
"Someone should have paid out for the polished granite."
Sark adjusted his weight, using the bindings to lean further to the frame's right. He thrust his hips, metal biting into his wrists and ankles. The ache gnawed through his skin, bored deep into his bones. Teeth grit, breathing steady, he hurled himself toward uneven tavertine. The heavy Topside wood frame did not budge.
"Ack," he spat, coiling his muscles for another attempt.
Chin dipped, eyes bright with pristine focus, the dwarf lurched. Oxygenated muscles threw his weight. Wood quealed around thick iron bolts holding the frame together. He pulled back, renewed his efforts. Grim satisfaction mixed with the gut-felt sensation of movement. Elations crumbled under the heavy brace slamming back to the puncheons.
"Damnation!"
Sweat dripped from his pores. Clear rivulets mingled with drying blood, sluicing grey streaks onto his stained hide. Effort and bloodloss made his head spin. Hunger pangs gnawed at his gut. Breath coming in shallow gasps, Sark swallowed down a mouthful of bile. Balling his fists, he allowed his weight to hang on his arms. A bead of sweat dribbled down the crooked bridge of his nose. He lacked the energy to dislodge it with a puff of air.
"Damnation," he sighed.
Wrists sore, the flesh abraded by cold iron, Sark hung in silence. Eyes closed, he steadied his breathing. Each draught slowed his racing heart. The tremor in his limbs eased, though did not abate completely. Deeated, he snapped his eyes open. A slither of shock rippled through his spine. A hooded figure stood motionless in the doorway.
Sark raked a curious gaze over the visitor. Barely taller than a child, he took it to be one of Brig's sacrifical orphans set loose. Dressed in a voluminous brown robe, face cowled in the hood's shadows, they stood silent, unflinching. Lizard skin gloves protruded from over-sized sleeves, the back of each tooled with angular etchings.
"So you've found time to dredge my brain then, warlock?"
The intruder remained silent. Fingers clasping together, it covered the distance between them with a multitude of tiny steps. It moved in silence, its pooling robe hem making it apear to glide. Drawing up a yard away from Sark, its hands dropped to its side. Silence permeated the room.
Sark twisted his fists in the chains and hefted himself into a more upright position. Despite the sneer engraved on his mouth, his heart fluttered in his chest. Swallowing through sudden dryness in his throat, he fixed his gaze on the hood's dark void.
"So you're a thrall to the demon gods then? I thought you'd be taller."
Gloved fingers twitched then rose up to the cowl. For a moment they hovered as if locked in indecision. Finally, they gripped cloth and swept the hood back to narrow shoulders. Grey eyes stared from a mass of scars. A single tear slid down a mutilated cheek.
"You," Sark gasped, slamming his back against the wooden frame.