MacRaith

Herendin jumped to his feet and started tugging violently at his chains, which only served as amusement for the rugged, heavy-boned man who remained silent and unmoving before him. He looked like there was something of the Norse in him. Herendin was not awed in the least.

            “Finally,” Herendin said as he dropped the chains and stood there calmly with his head tilted to the side. “I have been expecting you. Before we commence with the pleasantries, you may fetch me some ale.”

            A strong, mirthful laugh poured forth from MacRaith that shook the walls, “But my friend, I have already begun. During your most peaceful slumber, I have been torturing the last of your kinsmen. You are such a cowardly lot; it does not shock me in the least that you were dismantled in battle so easily.” Herendin went silent and stared at him hard. “Aha. Your bravado seems to have lost its polished surface. I will not take much of your time, for I know it is precious. My name is MacRaith and in my presence you will groan your last and die. Nevertheless, you will be content to know that His Grace, Robert de Bruce, is very pleased with the outcome of the battle and he thanks you for your attendance.”

            “You may tell his grace that he is an ass.” Herendin growled.

“You will spend the next two weeks in a torture chamber. There, your hopes will dissipate like vapours in the night. You will soon embrace a thimbleful of water as you would hold close a loved one after years of separation from them. Your cell will be streaked with your blood. I shall break you and walk you into hell myself.” His face shone in delightful anticipation.

            Herendin narrowed his eyes at him. “Shall we be on our way then?”

 

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