Price Of Loyalty

Melvin appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, his face etched with genuine concern. "My lord," he said, bowing slightly in greeting. "I've been praying for your speedy recovery. Would you like me to take a look at your wound? I am a doctor, after all."

"Tomorrow, perhaps," Argon replied, waving him off with a slight grimace. The mere thought of someone else touching his wound again at this moment was discomforting. "Anyway, how did the village fare while we were away?"

Melvin sighed, a hint of relief flickering in his eyes. "Not much of anything happened, my lord. It's been rather quiet."

He continued, "I've managed to cultivate some crops in my small field. They're coming along quite nicely." He didn't mention that this was his way of contributing to the village's food supply. He saw it as his duty, not something that deserved praise.

"I've also managed Eldrin and Jory a they patroled the village at night, guarded the storage and checked for beasts from the forest," Melvin added, pride tingeing his voice. This was a task he had taken upon himself, wanting to ensure the safety of the villagers in Argon's absence.

Argon merely nodded, listening to the report, appreciating the quiet and peacefulness that the village enjoyed in his absence. It was a rare moment of respite amidst their tumultuous lives.

Melvin's face turned grave, his eyes downcast as he remembered the fallen villagers. "The death of Eldon, Perrin, Wyn, Tormund, Rafe, Bram..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "It's a huge blow to the village. Some of them had family members who are absolutely devastated."

Argon, though still in pain, had a moment of clarity. These were his people, and he needed to do right by them. "Tell Brolan to give a gold to each of the families," he commanded, his voice firm despite his physical weakness.

Melvin looked surprised at this sudden generosity, but he nodded in approval. "That's most generous of you, my lord."

"I'm also treating several of the injured at their homes," Melvin added, his tone a little more hopeful now.

Argon merely grunted in response. "Fine, go collect a gold for your hard work. Don't beg for more, though." His tone was gruff but not unkind.

During this conversation, Saera and Lyra continued to dab at Argon's body with warm, soapy cloths, their movements careful and soothing. Their presence was a constant, reassuring reminder that he was not alone in his struggle and that he had people who cared for him.

"What of the slaves".

"Ah, the slaves," Melvin nodded, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts on the matter. "The men are being used for labor. They're handling odd jobs around the village, fixing up anything that's been broken or neglected."

"And the women?" Argon asked, his tone steady despite the wave of discomfort that washed over him.

"They've been kept aside," Melvin replied. "They haven't been touched, awaiting your orders."

Argon nodded, making a quick decision. "Let Brom, Dael, Edrik, and Lark choose a woman each to wife," he ordered. "They've earned that much. And have them either take an abandoned house in the village or build a new one. Also we need a proper barracks in the village anyway. It'll make it easier to gather the troops when needed."

Melvin jotted down the instructions; his brow furrowed in concentration. "Are there any slaves of note?" Argon inquired, his eyes narrowing slightly as he awaited Melvin's response.

Melvin's gaze shifted slightly, and then his expression brightened. "Yes, my lord, there is one," he began. "He's a sturdy fellow, judging by his build and the scars marking his body. By the uniform he was found in, he appears to have been a guard."

Argon's interest was piqued, a spark lighting up in his eyes despite his evident discomfort. "A guard, you say? That could be useful," he mused, his mind already churning with the possibilities. "Tell Brolan to bring him up. I want to meet this man."

Melvin nodded, rising from his seat and exiting the room to fetch Brolan and the former guard. As he disappeared from sight, Argon sank back into his pillows, his thoughts consumed with potential strategies and the promise of his village's growth.

Brolan reappeared, his grip firm on the arm of the man beside him. This man was tall and broad-shouldered, his body littered with scars that were hidden beneath the tattered remnants of a guard's uniform. His hair was a matted mess of dark strands, and his face, though dirt-streaked, held an air of steely determination. His eyes held a defiant glint, even in the presence of his captor.

"Alright, then," Argon began, his voice cool and detached. "Tell me everything about your former village, Oakshade. What can you tell me about Ser Bornmowe? The slaves we've captured - what can you tell me about them?"

The man's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze never wavering from Argon's. "I won't tell you anything," he stated flatly, his voice rough from lack of use.

Argon sighed a wearied sound that echoed in the otherwise quiet room. "Look, my friend," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "I'm just going to be honest with you. We will torture you for days on end if we have to. It's far better to just talk now before you start missing any appendages. But even if you keep your mouth shut, we'll just move on to the next man, and the next. One of you will talk eventually. So really, it's in your best interest to just cooperate."

The threat hung heavy in the room, its weight pressing down upon them all. The former guard swallowed, his gaze flicking between Argon and Brolan, the defiance in his eyes wavering for the first time.

The guard swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I... I was loyal to Ser Bornmowe," he stammered out.

Argon quirked an eyebrow at this, a wry smile pulling at his lips. "That's peculiar. I was under the impression that I killed him," he remarked casually, watching as the guard's face soured.

"He did some damage to you, it seems," the guard shot back, gesturing vaguely at Argon's still-healing wound.

Argon let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Indeed, he was a formidable warrior. The best I've ever faced," he admitted, his eyes glinting with an odd respect. Then his expression turned serious once again, his gaze fixed on the guard. "Now, we've had enough of this idle chatter. The choice is yours: we continue this conversation in a civil manner, or we resort to... less pleasant methods. The decision lies with you." His voice echoed ominously, leaving no doubt as to the gravity of the situation.

The guard's eyes widened in sheer determination, a fiery resolve burning in their depths. "I'd rather die," he declared, his voice steady despite the situation.

Argon looked at him for a long moment before finally sighing, "So be it," he responded, his tone devoid of any emotion. He turned to Brolan, nodding at the knife that the man held.

"Brolan, get to work," Argon instructed, his gaze lingering on guard for a moment longer before turning back to Brolan. The servant's eyes flickered to the guard, then to Argon, uncertainty etched into his features.

"Should I... should I do it somewhere more secluded, my Lord?" Brolan asked, hesitating slightly at the command.

Argon waved a dismissive hand, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "No need, Brolan. The girls don't mind. Besides," he added, his gaze flitting to the guard, "an honourable man's screams might just aid in my recovery." His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes suggested a darker, more menacing undertone to his words.

Brolan began his gruesome task, a sombre expression on his face. With the guard shackled and struggling on the floor, Brolan got a firm grip on his leg, positioning it for a swift and brutal break. With a forceful jerk and an awful crunching sound, the man's leg twisted at an unnatural angle. The guard screamed, the pain cutting through the room like a hot knife through butter.

Melvin, as a doctor who was used to mending wounds rather than inflicting them, had a sickened look on his face. However, he followed Argon's orders and helped hold the struggling man down, the muscles in his jaw working furiously as he gritted his teeth.

With the guard's legs broken and his screams echoing through the room, Brolan moved on to the next phase of his task. He pulled a thin, sharp tool from his pocket, the cold metal glinting ominously under the room's dim light. The tool was used for picking nails, and Brolan wasted no time. He began to methodically work it under the guard's fingernails, prying each one off slowly and painstakingly.

Each fingernail came off with a sickening pop and a gush of blood, the guard's howls of pain growing more strident with each nail removed. The pain was excruciating, the bloody pulp of his fingers testimony to the severity of the torture.

Brolan's work stopped abruptly at the man's desperate pleas, a stream of blood tracing a slow path down his fingers, dripping onto the floor. The room was thick with the guard's screams and the stench of fresh blood. The women in the room had long since turned their faces away, their expressions full of horror and disgust.

"Wait, wait, I'll tell you anything you want, just make it stop," the guard stammered through gasps of pain, his voice broken and weak. Argon sighed heavily, his features grim.

"I wish you'd said that from the beginning," he muttered, sounding genuinely regretful. "Brolan, take him outside and execute him in front of the other slaves. Then send another man up."

Brolan nodded solemnly, hauling the guard to his feet. The man groaned in pain as the blood rushed to his broken legs, but there was relief in his eyes. He was to be given a quick death. Argon's words echoed in his ears.

"I'm giving you a quick death out of respect for your former master, Ser Bornmowe," Argon said quietly. His tone was not one of mocking but rather a serious acknowledgement. Despite their differing sides, Argon recognised the guard's loyalty and bravery.

As the guard was led away to his impending death, the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, the tension ebbing away. But the underlying anticipation was still palpable. Another man would soon take the guard's place, and the questioning would begin anew.

The distant echo of a muffled struggle and the distinct sound of a body hitting the ground filters into Argon's room. It's a gruesome reminder of what just transpired and the fate that awaits those who refuse to cooperate. A short while later, the door creaks open as Brolan returns, this time with another man in tow.

The new captive is a stark contrast to the first. He's tall and lanky, with skin tanned from years of working under the sun. His clothes are ragged and stained, marking him as one of the labourers. His shaggy hair hangs over his sunken eyes, casting a dark shadow over his face. Fear trembles through his body, visible in the way he glances about the room, his eyes darting from Argon to the ladies in the room and then finally to the bloody tools Brolan had used on the previous captive.

Despite his fear, there's a defiant set on his jaw. His hands, bound tightly in front of him, clenched into fists. His lips are pressed into a thin line as if he's bracing himself for what's to come. There's no arrogance or misplaced loyalty in his demeanour, only a raw determination to endure what's about to happen. Yet, his eyes flicker with intelligence, perhaps signalling that this man could prove more useful than the last one.