Eleven Fingered Gendro’s life had never been an easy one. Born to poverty in New Albion, he was orphaned before his eighth summer when a plague ravaged the slums. Without friends or family, he lived on the streets, stealing food when he could, eating from the refuse piles when he couldn’t. He’d suffered abuses at the hands of those who were bigger and stronger, and he quickly learned to move fast and stick to the shadows. Before long, he’d been pressed into a gang of other urchins, where he showed promise as a light handed thief, stealing purses in the market for an insatiably greedy master.
And so he spent his adolescence, with nothing to show for his burgeoning talents but a thin blanket, semi-regular meals, and a few items he managed to keep hidden from everyone else. When gold was discovered north of the Ohr he dreamed of a chance for something better. He snuck away from his old life, fled really, and made his way to Amber. But like so many others he found only empty promises; instead of gold in the hills he had to settle for copper in purses. At least he had that.
Yes, he was no stranger to suffering and disappointment.
But he’d never known pain like this.
He was upside down, strapped to a plank with his arms splayed horizontally on a crossbeam. He’d never heard of a ‘reverse crucifixion’ when he was sentenced to it but he was all too familiar with it now. He didn’t know how long his agony persisted. There was nothing to mark the time, except when his jailor visited, bringing broth that he ate by sucking through a sponge. Otherwise he had silence, darkness, and pain. In every way that mattered he didn’t even exist anymore. Even his name was gone. Eleven Fingered Gendro no longer, he could still feel where his left hand used to be, could imagine wiggling his fingers. All for choosing the wrong purse to steal.
He heard the jangling of keys. Time for broth, then. Why didn’t they just let him die? They seemed to thrive on his torment. The hinges squealed as the door opened, and an unexpectedly bright light pierced his eyes with a searing pain. It was an additional torment that did nothing to distract him from his other agonies. He didn’t have the strength to writhe, only to close his eyes as he inhaled sharply, the labor of breathing hurting him even more.
His stomach suddenly lurched, his head swam dizzyingly, and then he convulsed as a shocking impact rocked his entire body. He couldn’t scream like he wanted to. Only a weak gurgle escaped his lips. Blood rushed toward his legs and he eventually realized he was prone instead of inverted. The dizziness overcame him and he finally retreated to a darkness where the pain couldn’t follow.
***
Typus Han sighed. The Work of the Just was never done. Trying to bring order to this disheveled wasteland was a sterner test of patience than having goblins for your maid staff, and twice as messy. The thief on the floor before him had fainted. Oh, how unruly hearts shriveled and quailed when exposed to the fire of pure discipline!
Still, he wanted answers from the young man, and there were many duties that required his attention. He had read the portents of the flames, and contemplated the darkness between the stars. A storm was coming. The agents of entropy were always seeking the downfall of order, but if one was properly prepared the forces of chaos could be brought to heel. This thief had knowledge that could be useful.
He shouldered his way past the jailor and kneeled next to the cross. Putting his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder he spoke, “Great Asmodeus, King of Hell and Prince of Law, grant this man enough strength to truly benefit from your justice.” The power of his deity surged through him and into the prisoner. He waited patiently as the man regained consciousness, watched his back arch as he strained against his bonds. It pleased him to see. The pain he surely felt should make him compliant, and Typus was not in the mood for a prolonged interrogation today.
When the man’s labored breathing subsided somewhat he knelt over him. “You have felt the gift of strength granted by your Dark Lord. Know that your life dangles from the thread of obedience. Your servitude is your path to salvation, if your offering is deemed adequate.” The man gritted his teeth, trying to turn his head from the light of the lantern. It was intentionally bright, and more light than he had seen in days.
“You are branded a criminal in the eyes of the Law, and you have already reaped the harvest you have sown. But now, speak and be redeemed! Speak to me of those you know who defy the rightful rule of law.”
And speak he did. There was the halfling fence in that hovel by the docks. He was the supposed ringleader. There was a dwarf involved who had a reputation of being a fixer of sorts. Typus knew his name as well. A few thugs and burglars not worth mentioning. Some corrupt watchmen. Also, a gnome and her companions. Yes, yes, the “heroes” of Basilisk Bluff. A band of freaks, really, but they disappeared awhile ago. He gave the name of a nobleman who lived on an estate south of the Ohr. Lao? Typus had wondered about him, but an extra source confirming his suspicions was helpful.
“Tell me of the foreigners, the non-humans. Where have they been? What is their role in this?” He squeezed the man’s wrist, putting pressure on the stump of his severed hand. The prisoner screamed in agony, soiling himself during the torment. “Th- th- they work, they work for Lao!” he stammered. “I don’t know where they are! They went to another world. A new world! A new world with riches for the taking. That’s all I know!”
A new world? He could tell he wasn’t lying, but what did it mean? The thief could be babbling foolishness at this point but what if he wasn’t? This warranted further investigation. He also didn’t want a band of jumped up mercenaries thwarting his designs, so it would be prudent to keep an eye on them if they showed up again. One of them worshipped Serenrae, so there was little chance they could be brought into the fold. But maybe the halfling dandy? He seemed like one who would appreciate the advantages of having powerful, wealthy allies.
And now the most pressing question. “Who” he grabbed the young man’s face and pried is eyelids up with his thumbs, “is Oxalla?”
The prisoner’s breathing was fast and shallow, and he couldn’t focus his eyes as they moved back and forth, struggling to supply a satisfactory answer. “I don’t know Oxalla.” he finally gasped.
Unacceptable. Even the lowliest thieves traded gossip about everything under the moon, and he knew this thief, Gendro, had achieved some standing in the underworld organization known as the Penumbra. Surely he knew something. He leaned close enough that the thief could feel his hot breath on his face. “Who. Is. Oxalla?” he said in a deadly whisper.
“No one. No Oxalla” came the weak reply.
Typus asked a few more times, each time adding a painful incentive to give useful information, each question answered with the same denial. He sighed. Either the prisoner truly didn’t know, or this mysterious “Oxalla” inspired loyalty or fear greater than the threat of death. Either way, he was no longer useful. He uttered another prayer to Asmodeus, again repairing the man’s wounds.
He stood. As he moved to leave he placed a hand on the jailor’s shoulder. “It seems our Lord has only one more task for this man. Practice the craft of the Inquisitor upon his flesh. Ask him what you will, but make the most of this opportunity. I will expect a report of your accomplishments.” The larger man kept his head bowed in deference to his superior, but Typus’ light touch sensed the man’s trembling excitement. The prisoner was weeping as Typus left the dungeon.
***
The last guests had finally left. He had feasted many of Amber’s wealthiest tonight. Each guest betrayed a sense of apprehension that was music to his ears, and he knew all of the melodies by heart. Some had attended in order to curry favor with a member of the Han clan, others to secure an alliance with his growing church, and a few had already embraced true order. It was a political affair, and it had proceeded just as he’d expected.
Dawn was just a few hours away, and he was enjoying a snifter of brandy before getting a few hours rest. He sat in comfortable silence for a quarter hour, until he heard the soft flap of wings by the window. The shutter opened and in came a creature with leathery wings, two short horns, red skin, and a long tail ending in a barbed stinger. Standing fully erect it would barely be two feet tall, but it looked much smaller perched on the sill.
It was among the least devils, an imp, but still a generous boon granted to him from his Lord, and a sign of His favor. It stretched its wings, appreciating the indoor warmth. “Master, the unhumans have returned. They were observed earlier at the village gate.”
“Where are they? Where have they been?”
“They have visited several places since their return, and are currently boarded at the Witty Lion Arms. Where they’ve been is unknown to me.”
“Find out. Surveil them. Make this your sole priority.”
“Yes, master. It shall be done.”
The imp departed, and Typus closed the shutter after it. Yes, he would bring discipline and law to this land. Now that new pieces were placed on the board his mind raced as his strategies shifted. The reemergence of the “heroes” could be just what he needed to ensure his victory over the chaos to come.