Greyleaf let out a muffled cry, accompanied by violent choking and the sound of sticks clashing.
‘Beat him!’ the large man laughed sadistically, ‘break every bone! Crack his ribs and smash his limbs!’
There were two of them hitting him this time; each carrying a heavy club to do the hitting. Greyleaf was, once again, against a wall, his arms bound above his head, his legs separated and strapped to the stone. His body was covered in blood and bruising, both his eyes having swelled. He bore few teeth: several had been torn from their comfort in his red hills.
Death was all he truly wanted; he wanted the pain to end, but it never did. He was beaten for hours on end, every day and every night. Cut, struck, ripped.
‘Damn his screaming!’ the large man grew noticeably angry, ‘tear out his tongue.’
The deed was done with a hot pincer and a sharp blade. Greyleaf’s mouth welled with blood, the beatings stopped and he was left alone.
Some time passed before he heard anything above his weeping again. It was the madm—no, the master, master, master, master.
‘You have lost something, it seems,’ master noted in a tone as serious as it was mocking, ‘yet your deeds have not been wholly punished.’
Greyleaf did not reply. He could not reply; not even with the slightest movement.
‘I will leave you now,’ the master said, turning, ‘you are not to be harmed in the coming days, worry not.’
Confused, terrified and weak, Greyleaf’s head dipped even lower.
