Chronicles of Sunno: The Serpent's Door

"Sons of a thousand syphilitic whores, you're going to regret locking me up like a dog, you pigs, you bastard pieces of shit." This was one of the kinder thoughts that had crossed Brisur’s mind over the last day. Angry wasn't a word that could describe his mood. Furious, perhaps, although that still didn’t quite capture his state. Enraged would be much more fitting. If he could have grabbed the neck of any nearby soldier, he would have snapped it like a dry twig. But they were careful not to get too close. They mocked him when they passed by the wagon, though it was easy to sense a hint of nervousness in their voices, which they tried to hide behind laughter and crude jokes.

And it wasn’t easy for him to act quickly, even if the chance had arisen. The cage he was locked in barely allowed him to stretch out. He couldn't even stand up. At most, he could sit with his legs half-bent and his back hunched over. It clearly wasn’t designed to transport people, or at least not people as large as him.

"Damn my life," he cursed again. He had been caught in the dumbest way possible. He had let his guard down too much, thinking no one was following him since he left Verdemar. And when he finally reached the crossroads, he was surprised and off-guard by a pair of scouts who fled like rabbits as soon as they saw him. They must have sounded the alarm because soon after, he had ten soldiers on horseback chasing him.

He couldn’t shake them off. His steed was strong and sturdy, but not particularly fast. They knocked him off his horse, but far from surrendering, he stood his ground. In the fight, he managed to kill two of them, and three others were seriously injured. But there were too many. They wounded him and beat him thoroughly. Several sword cuts and a lance wound grazed him. And when they had him pinned to the ground, and he thought they would finish him off right then and there, the damned Count appeared, with his mannerisms somewhere between an effeminate child and a raving lunatic. He ordered his soldiers to heal Brisur’s wounds and keep him alive, locked in this miserable cage. The soldiers begrudgingly followed orders. They also removed his metal clamp, leaving him with only his bare stump. They had learned from their previous encounter at the castle.

They healed him poorly and locked him up in the most uncomfortable way they could think of. He remained in the cage, lying down and recovering for a good while. The worst wound, the lance one, turned out to be more dramatic than serious, as long as it didn’t get infected. "If only I could make a poultice of garlic, vinegar, rosemary, and arnica..." he lamented. Then he noticed that the troops didn’t leave the crossroads. It seemed they weren’t sure which path to take, and they stayed there almost all afternoon.

But the worst part was encountering the red-haired harlot. He didn’t see her riding with the other knights, nor did he notice her approach the cage among the soldiers. But somehow, she was suddenly beside it. Her wavy red hair cascaded over her shoulders like a river of blood. Her eyes, a hypnotic purple, almost like glowing embers. Terribly beautiful. Dangerously lustful. Though too thin for his taste—he preferred women with generous breasts and ample hips.

He could have grabbed her swan-like neck and snapped it like a toothpick. All it would take was stretching his healthy arm between the bars, gripping that thin, pale neck, and squeezing. But he couldn’t. When she started speaking in that soft voice, almost a caress on the skin, Brisur felt his fury fade, replaced by a feeling of confusion. The woman’s words made no sense, but her gaze pierced him, stripped him bare, penetrating the deepest parts of his being. It was as if she were probing his mind, searching for something. He tried to resist but lacked the willpower. He didn’t remember much of it, but he was left with an unpleasant sensation. Somehow, it felt as though she had... raped him. Mentally, of course. Though some strange images came to his mind—her, riding him naked in a wild and obscene manner. But it couldn’t be. She wouldn’t have been able to enter the cage without the key. No, it was impossible; there wasn’t enough space for that anyway. And the guards around him would have seen everything.

Afterward, he must have passed out. From sheer exhaustion, he imagined. The next thing he remembered was the slow ascent towards the Pass of Winds as the sunset gave way to the darkness of night. "Shit," he thought, realizing they had chosen the correct route. The journey itself was torture. The icy wind seeped through the bars, and they had stripped him of all his clothes except for his shirt and breeches, which offered little protection. To make things worse, the cart jolted wildly over every rock and bump in the road, causing his bruised body to repeatedly slam against the bars. It seemed as though the driver was deliberately aiming for every pothole. He even thought he heard the man stifle a laugh when he groaned in pain after hitting his head against a bar again. In the end, he had to grab onto one of the bars with his one hand, curling up in a corner to stop himself from rolling around.

"I hope the ride isn’t too uncomfortable for you," came a cheerful, youthful voice nearby. "The damned fucking Count." Brisur had been so busy trying not to crack his head open against the bars that he hadn’t noticed the Count had ridden up alongside him on his dainty white horse. There was no response.

"I suppose you’re wondering why I’m keeping you alive, aren’t you?" the young man continued. The wind blew his golden hair from side to side, though he didn’t seem to mind.

Brisur stayed silent, except for a low growl. He began gripping the bar tightly until his knuckles turned white.

"Darling, he knows perfectly well why we want him alive."

Brisur jumped, startled. It was the red-haired woman. When had she climbed onto the wooden bench next to the cart driver? She sat astride, in a way that was both inelegant and overly provocative, so she could look at both the Count and him.

"He may be a brute, but he’s not stupid," she said, winking at him.

And yes, he was aware that he was alive because they needed him for something. "Damn it." Perhaps they would torture him to extract all the information they could. "Damn it a hundred times." And surely, they would use him as...

"Bait," said the redhead, as if she were reading his mind at that very moment. "My deformed big man, you’re our bait. We need you so your good friend Alaric will be encouraged to rescue you, dragging the rest of your comrades with him."

"To hell with you and your pansy cock-sucking Count!" Brisur exploded, roaring with that raspy voice as he lunged at the woman. Though he couldn’t reach her, he was at least two hands short of grabbing her.

Both she and the Count began laughing uproariously, while the startled coachman almost drove the cart off the hill when he saw Brisur’s powerful arm extending between the bars, trying to grasp the air. That’s when Brisur realized that, to that soldier, the woman was something invisible and intangible.

"Save your strength, my dear... Crab, right?" the young man managed to say as he wiped away the tears of laughter with a lace handkerchief. "We need you whole, healthy, and with your strength restored. We have great plans for you, don’t think you’ll just be bait."

"You can shove your plans up your ass, you’ll probably enjoy it," Brisur replied, lying back down after realizing his rage was useless at the moment.

"Mind your tongue and don’t be so vulgar. You’re speaking to a noble, don’t forget that. I’ve had people hanged for less," the Count replied, forcing a smile.

"Go ahead then. You’d be doing me a favor. That way, I wouldn’t have to listen to your flute-like voice or endure your filthy cock-breath," Brisur shot back, spitting on the cage floor.

The Count’s face tensed; Brisur’s insolence was starting to irritate him. His smile disappeared completely, and his blue eyes, once full of mockery and irony, now reflected a spark of contained anger. Even the coachman, nervous, glanced backward with wide eyes, as if afraid Brisur’s words would ignite the young man’s wrath. The woman, however, seemed delighted by the crude insolence and continued to chuckle quietly at each insult.

"Oh, come on, my dear Marcell. You must admit the man is clever, at least. I find him very amusing."

"Yes, very amusing," the young man responded, clearly displeased. "We’ll see if he remains so vulgar when we force him to..."

"Shhh!" the redhead scolded him. "Don’t spoil the surprise; you’ll ruin the best part."

"You’re right. Enjoy the ride, Master Crab. Regain your strength. Soon we’ll all be laughing together, believe me."

The Count rode off again, toward the head of the column. The woman, however, vanished. He didn’t even notice how or when. She was simply no longer there. “Damn witch, damn brat, damn them all.” If those bastards thought they could use him as a simple pawn against his companions, they were sorely mistaken. Brisur wasn’t some toy in the hands of effeminate nobles and nymphomaniac witches with fiery eyes. He was Crab, and even if it was just to ruin their plans, he was capable of taking his own life right there.

Desperation crept into his mind like a dark cloud, and in his anguish, a suicidal idea took shape. Not long ago, the coachman had lost control. Maybe, if he could hit him with something, he could cause another accident and make everyone fall down the hill: the driver, the horses, the cart… and him. With some luck, he’d break his neck quickly and end the pain once and for all.

He began searching for something that would allow him to get to the driver’s head. Something at least two palms in length that could reach him and sturdy enough to crack his skull. However, the cage didn’t offer many places to search. He began feeling around the floorboards beneath the foul-smelling layer of straw—another sign that more animals than people had been transported in this cage. It reeked of rancid urine, like a cat’s.

He wasn’t being too discreet about it, since there were no soldiers nearby, and the driver seemed absorbed in the road—or perhaps dozing off.

After a while, he found a promising board. One of the nails securing it had some give. Unfortunately, not much, and his thick sausage-like fingers couldn’t grasp the nail’s head. Not even a child’s slim hand could have slipped under the nail to pull it out. He continued feeling around the rest of the floorboards, but without success. The slightly loose nail was his only option.

He slumped back against the bars, unsure of what to do. “Damn it, if only they’d left me the clamp, I could use some of the tools I had there,” he lamented. As he thought, he started fiddling with the string that tied his shirt collar. “Damn it, Brisur, you idiot, you’ve got a head you could swap for a watermelon and no one would notice!” he scolded himself as he realized what he was doing. That was it. The string could serve to grab the nail’s head.

Quickly, he untied it and looped it around the nail a couple of times, pulling the excess upward. He didn’t want to pull too hard and break the string, so he began twisting it in circles, trying to loosen the nail further.

It took much longer than he expected, but in the end, he managed to pry it out just enough to grab it. Finally. Though it made some noise, it blended in with the cart’s constant creaks and groans, along with the endless murmurs of soldiers and horses marching up the mountain pass. Carefully, he positioned himself over the other end of the plank and used the nail he had to pry out the one holding that side in place. It wasn’t easy, and he had to stop a couple of times, pretending to sleep when knights passed nearby to check on him. But in the end, his efforts paid off. He managed to pull out the second nail, and with it, the plank.

It was longer than he needed and heavy. It was perfect. He patiently waited for the cart to take another sharp turn, one where the fall would surely be fatal. He checked to make sure no one was watching. Then, with great care, he slid his arm out of the cage, holding the plank with the intention of smashing it down on the driver’s head with all his fury.

And suddenly, a hand grabbed his wrist. A delicate, soft woman’s hand—but with the strength of a bear. Or several bears. That damned redhead. She had appeared there, in an instant. Once again sitting next to the driver, as if she’d been there all along. She squeezed his wrist until he couldn’t help but groan in pain and drop the plank. The driver turned around, startled, but all he saw was Brisur lying on the floor, grimacing in pain, his hand reaching out into the air of the cage.

"Stop being stupid, or I’ll tell them to tie your good arm to a bar," the soldier grunted, turning his attention back to the road.

"That man is right, my dear Crab. I won’t let you take your own life," the woman whispered softly.

"Damn witch, I won’t let you use me against my comrades!" Brisur roared, his eyes filled with rage.

"What did you say?" the soldier, clearly annoyed, turned to look back again. "Did you just call me a witch, you deformed bald fool? Now you’ve done it. Hey, we need to tie this guy up! He won’t stop acting like an idiot!"

"See what you’ve caused?" she continued mockingly. "But tell me, would you really have been capable of sacrificing yourself for your friends? You?"

"Of course I would, damn it. Their lives are worth far more than my..."

"Your own?" she interrupted. "I know. You’re nothing more than a human wreck. Do you really think that sacrifice would have redeemed your soul? That good old Crab would have balanced the scales that way? No, my dear. Your past is far too dark. I’m sure you haven’t told Alaric about many of the things you did as Sweetmouth. Should I remind you? Do you want me to bring back memories of the jeweler’s wife you allowed to be raped in front of her husband so you could take the goods?"

"I didn’t rape anyone," Brisur replied. His hoarse voice no longer reflected anger, though it did show some uncertainty.

"Of course you didn’t," she said condescendingly. "But you didn’t do anything to stop it. You just stood there, holding the poor man while he begged. Should I remind you of that afternoon with the merchant you robbed and slit his throat because he had nothing of value? Should I remind you what you did to his children, so there would be no witnesses?"

" I... I didn’t mean to hurt them... They shouldn’t have come out of the cart..." He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. It was an image he had tried to erase from his memory. And now it came back with force. The look on those frightened children’s faces as life drained from their necks in a crimson cascade.

"I don’t judge you, dear," she continued, her false sweetness dripping with cruelty. "After all, you were the new one. You had to earn the Raven’s trust. Climb the ranks. Sometimes, to get something beautiful, you have to do horrible things, right? Shall I continue refreshing your memory? I’ve seen everything you keep locked away in that big bald head of yours. I could go on all night."

"Shut up!" he shouted. He couldn’t help that it came out almost as a plea.

"No, Brisur. Alaric gave you a life as an ‘honorable’ thief as Crab. But you will always be haunted by those dark sins you committed as Sweetmouth. Your friends will risk their lives to save you. And you know very well you don’t deserve it."

"Curse you..."

"And yes, before you die, I will give you the chance to do something great. You will help me come into this world. Even if it’s against your will, it doesn’t matter. Think about it. For you, I am like a god. I will grant you absolution, atonement for your past, for your sins. You will be a saving angel, a saint. Saint Crab, they will call you," she finished, laughing.

The soldiers opened the cage. Without further ado, she vanished once again. The next thing he felt, with his eyes blinded by tears of rage and helplessness, was three soldiers beating him with sticks while others tied his arm to a bar. He didn’t resist. He was defeated, both inside and out.