Page 3 of War Mage

Her eyes narrow into a wary glare. “So the queen kept me alive just so that she can torture me? Typical noble sadist.”

I ignore the continued slights to my queen.“You will not be tortured unless you refuse to comply,” I return, my voice still even, reasonable. “Are you saying that you won’t comply?”

“What could she possibly want to know about me?” she demands, looking angry and small on the floor. “What information could I possibly have that would benefit the Crown?”

“Let’s start with your name,” I say, looking at her intently. “What are you called”

“So you want my name and you won’t give me yours?” scoffs the mage. She is still angry, defiant. The reality of her circumstances hasn't sunken in yet. That will change.

“You are not the one in power in this situation,” I point out calmly. “Anything I give you is a boon that I would grant you, a reward for good behavior. Anything I want from you is something that you are required to give me in order to keep from pain. Do you see the difference?”

“Bastard,” spits the mage, her eyes burning with rage. I’m sure that if we were not in an anti-mage chamber she would be summoning actual flames right about now.

“Tell me your name and make things easier on yourself,” I command, my voice smooth and level. I could yell at her, I suppose, but that’s not my way. I don’t need to lose control to make another person break.

“Cara,” the mage says finally. “My name is Cara. Happy, orc?”

I sniff the air and am greeted with the scent of prevarication. She’s given me a false name. I almost sigh at the ridiculousness of lying at this point. We haven't even gotten to the harder questions.

“You lie,” I cock my head. “Try again.”

“My name is Cara,” she insists, sitting up straighter, her eyes directly on mine. She’s a good liar, I’ll give her that. She has conviction and confidence, but she’s no match for an orc’s nose.

“Orcs can smell lies,” I tell her, “and half-truths. You cannot lie to me and not be caught.”

She stubbornly sits in the center of the room, her mouth hardening into a tight line.

I’ll try the gentler tack. For now. “Tell me your name and I’ll feed you. You’re hungry, aren’t you? You haven’t eaten in a full day. Maybe even longer. Your belly must be cramping, tightening, caving in on itself. Just think of a slice of freshly made bread, chewy and filling. And all those flames earlier, I’m sure you are thirsty. Think of a glass of cool, refreshing water, quenching your parched throat. I can give you both of those things, in exchange for your name.”

Her belly chooses this moment to gurgle loudly in the silence. The sound is almost violent in its intensity, most likely spurred on by my words. I was right to press on that weakness.

“Such a small thing,” I say softly. “Your name for a bit of comfort.”

The mage flushes at the betrayal of her own body. I can tell the moment I win: her eyes screw tightly shut and quietly, almost in a whisper, she says. “Adara. My name is Adara.”

I sniff the air again and all I smell is her scent, like cinnamon and smoke. No lies.

“And your family name?”

She shakes her head. “I have no family, only the Tower. They called me Flameborn.”

More truth. Finally, we are getting somewhere.

“Adara Flameborn,” I repeat, rolling the name around my head. It isn’t familiar to me, but no matter. It will be. With her name and the Mage’s Tower connection, it’ll be easy to get information. I’ll send one of my spies to the Tower immediately.

“The food?” she asks, a hint of shame in her voice. She doesn’t like that she gave me what I wanted because of her weaknesses. But she should get used to giving me what I want. She is no match for me.

I snap my fingers and an orc guard appears at the grate in the cell door.

“Bring food and water to the prisoner,” I order.

The orc gives the sign of respect, then leaves, his footsteps echoing down the dungeon hall.

“Now, Adara,” I say, sounding conversational, “let’s try some harder questions. For every answer you give me that is true, I will let you stay in this room in relative comfort. Every time you lie to me, however, I will activate another rune in this room. Do you know what that will do to you?”

“Tickle?” she says sarcastically.

Ah, so she’s one of those. The type to confront fear with bravado and humor. That must have served her well in the war, but it will be no help to her in this cell. She will break under my technique. It is a matter of not if but when. Therefore, I choose to ignore her snark. I’m sure that she knows what she’s in for, but a reminder will help to break down whatever defenses she thinks she has. I begin, explaining as if she were a child, “Mages, as you must know, get their magic from an excess of soul. From their mana, as that excess is called. To cut a mage off from this magic, one must also cut them off from their very soul. Currently, I have this chamber activated just enough that you can't do magic. A small separation, barely noticeable. The more runes I activate, the more distance there is between you and your soul. The connection thins and strains. I’m told that is very uncomfortable, especially for those who are more powerful and used to having a deep connection with their mana, like you. Should we test it, or will you answer my questions?”

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