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Force Feedback (Eredin)

* * *

Eredin had seen many cowards. He saw the crying dh'oine crawling from the battlefield. Gathering their guts with trembling hands. But this was the first time he'd ever seen such cowardice. Dh'oine preferred to jump out of the window to avoid the sword in his belly. And took an innocent soul with him.

He even had time to call for help from his kin. Eredin heard short, curt commands in the corridor. The men were gathered around the door, ready to rush in at any moment. And should they do so, they would come face to face with the Wild Hunt. The band of poor fools wouldn't last half an hour.

As long as this coward had Zireael in his hands, suicide would not save him. Eredin reached out to grab dh'oine's shoulder when he was horrified to see a chunk of ice block fly past. Diable, Caranthir!

Eredin looked down, saw two figures flying down, and cursed. This tower was the tallest he'd ever been in. If Zireael was still in the grip of the stupefaction, the Elder Blood would have to be scraped from the stone streets

But no, of course not. The dh'oine's first instinct was to survive no matter what, and Zireael disappeared into the green haze. So much for the human blood in her, but nothing... Everything human can be etched out. Eredin turned sharply, ready to reprimand Caranthir, but a sharp flash of light burned his eyes.

A ringing noise in his ears. Eredin staggered - and felt iron shards strike the ice shield. A human figure was barely recognizable in the bright flash. A moment to teleport, and another to draw his sword. Dh'oine looked around, aiming the wretched weapon wherever he could - clearly not expecting his opponent to be behind him already. He had an iron arm like that coward's but of rougher workmanship. Sparks flew from the limb.

The sword pierced the helmet. There was a juicy, wet crunch of crushed skull. The enemy fell dead without even a death rattle. Fighting always begins with the first death. The flash dissipated, and Eredin saw the ice block hit the back of another dh'oine aiming for him. The body fell to the ground a step away from him; the magic pierced through both flesh and armor, exposing the spine. The spine was not made of iron.

When there is too much blood, it begins to resemble spilled wine, evoking no emotion. The others hide in the corridor. Eredin ordered the navigators to teleport behind them, blocking the escape route. Judging by the confusion on the human faces, the art of portals was unknown to them.

The fools have never seen Aen Elle in all its splendor, never seen what their mages can do. The Dh'oine are armed with pathetic weapons that spit lead. Like children with tubes. How can they compare to the steel forged in the finest forges of Tir na Lia?

Imlerich stepped out of the portal in front of him. It took him less than a moment to find himself in the thick of the fray, transformed into a deadly whirlwind, disappearing and reappearing. He had always been too impulsive for Eredin, but that made Imlerich one of the best riders: bloodlust.

Burning with icy flames, Imlerich's sword cut through armor like butter - a mesmerizing sight. Death. Around the dh'oine leader's neck - judging by the fact that he was still trying to give orders during the dance of death - Caranthir tightened the icy lash with a slight movement of his hand. Death.

The magical currents in this world were all theirs. The wild, unbridled power was more tantalizing than elven dust.

The few remaining men were in a tight ring. The spits of iron bounced off the riders' shields and hit their companions. The coward was armed with something stronger, Eredin thought, remembering how the shockwave had shattered his shield.

Eredin took his rage, his frustration at missing Zireael again, out on those unfortunates. A severed head rolled across the floor. The dead face had the same crude human features, except the teeth had learned to heal. As big as their kin on the Continent. Like horses.

The floor was sticky with blood. It was time for them to leave, they'd left a graveyard behind. A reminder that human scum is no match for Aen Elle.

A reminder of...

Eredin choked. It was as if an invisible fist had struck his lungs, and he tried to inhale sharply, gustily. His eyes blurred, and Eredin sank to the floor, right into the pool of blood of the dh'oine he had killed.

He glanced at the riders, who were clutching at their throats, trying ineffectually to inhale. Eredin tried to hold his breath, but the vile poison had already soaked his lungs.

"Bloede dh'oine," the elf wheezed.

As if in a half dream, he saw a silhouette looming over him. An unusually tall woman, forged of iron. Eredin felt the point of a heel on his throat... Not a heel... A hoof. A demoness. An iron demoness.

She pressed harder, and Eredin coughed. There was no strength to resist, and an animal, almost human rage swelled inside. This thing's skull would shatter as soon as he woke.

If he wakes up.

* * *

A compulsive buzzing. An endlessly repeating sound. Bzzzzzzz.

Eredin's eyes snapped open at the sharp, wrenching pain. His muscles cramped. He was bound hand and foot, unable to move. Where is he? Darkness.

They'll regret not killing him right away.

Darkness and pain are the executioners' favorite combination. If they think torture will accomplish anything, they will be sorely disappointed. Eredin was taught to endure pain without a sound when he was barely forty. Few are initiated into warriors at such a young age, and few can withstand the test of torture. To realize that the secrets of Aen Elle are more precious than flesh and reason.

An unpleasant feeling of discomfort loomed in my subconscious. It was like liquid ammonia flowing through his veins. Something was burning from the inside - the pain was concentrated at the back of his head. Poison?

Because of the iron restraints, Eredin could not move a finger. Even his head was fixed in one position. Eredin had never been taken prisoner before. He had an involuntary admiration for the unknown enemy. But they had made the mistake of leaving the prisoner to speak. That mistake would cost them their life.

"Praeses alio fero," Eredin said, barely moving his lips.

The ropes were covered with ice. A pleasant cold burned his skin. Eredin should not have the slightest trouble breaking them once the dh'oine who had dared to take him prisoner showed her ugly face.

Bzzzzz.

Not a single sound except the annoying, ear-scratching buzzing. Eredin waited patiently. The strange sensation of something foreign, something deeply wrong, would not let him go. What the shit was running through his veins?

It was a long time before he heard footsteps. The scrape of iron against the stone floor. And light, quick footsteps.

A blinding light flashed sharply in the room, but the second time, the tricks were not as impressive. Some of the most bizarre creatures he'd ever seen stood before Eredin.

They were women. But Eredin doubted that they were human. One of them, a demoness, he vaguely remembered - but his memory did not capture the sharp, rough features of her face, the shaved head on one side. Something about her reminded him of the Zerrikan women Eredin had glimpsed before the Aen Elle had left the Continent.

The second, however... slanted eyes and a frail, thin body. Looks like a half-elf. Judging by her proud posture and frozen, arrogant expression, she was from the upper classes of the local society. A porcelain figurine in lace and gold embroidered clothes. It would be easy to twist that thin neck. The other's throat was protected by a metal collar, but her temples were open to a direct hit.

"State your name," said the noblewoman in common, viewing the captive with detached interest, like an outlandish beast.

The King of the Wild Hunt was captured by two dressed-up women. He hoped the minstrels would omit that detail when they composed ballads.

Eredin was at her side in a flash - before the noblewoman could even blink - with his hands around her throat. She didn't even flinch. Eredin saw the strange cracks in her body. It was like a doll that had been put together piece by piece.

He shouldn't have hesitated, he should have killed her immediately, because in less than a moment he felt his body betray him. A sharp pain at the back of his head paralyzed him instantly. Eredin collapsed to the ground.

A second humiliating defeat in such a short time. Did Carantir lie to him when he said the local dh'oine didn't know magic?

The noblewoman did not change her face, looking at the body sprawled on the floor with the same mechanical curiosity.

"Я действительно это видел? (Did I just see what I think I saw?)"

A man's voice. Eredin couldn't make out who had said it. Unable to turn his head, however, he noticed from the corner of his eye shadows on the walls. Silhouettes.

"Он холодом уничтожил ремни, да. Если бы не чип в его голове, я была бы уже мертва. (He froze the ropes to dust, yes. If it wasn’t for the chip in his head, I presume I would be long dead )" The noblewoman answered.

This language was unfamiliar to him. Perhaps Avallak'h would recognize it - but the traitor was no longer to be found. He had betrayed not only Eredin but Zireael as well, not daring to follow her into a dangerous world.

"State your name."

"Eredin Breacc Glas," Eredin replied in a muffled voice, "King of the Wild Hunt. And if your people have heard anything of her, you should realize your mistake by now.

Eredin knew now that his threats were worthless, but what language should he speak to his enemies? He is no diplomat, no dodgy snake. He was born a warrior.

"Eredin Break Glass. What an... unusual name," the dry, emotionless sarcasm in the woman's voice made him feel like he was speaking not to a person, but to a semblance of one.

//'Is she deaf? - Eredin thought irritably. - How can she hear that instead of my name?"

"Он себя только что назвал королем? (Did he just call himself a king?)" The voice out of nowhere spoke again.

"Король Эльфов? «Да, я веселый озорник ночной. Сам Оберон смеется надо мной». (A king of the elves? I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon and make him smile.)," another shadow answered him.

Unfamiliar voices. Perverse theater - watching him without showing faces.

"И правда, что-то в этом есть от Шекспира. А девочка назвалась дочерью императора. У них у всех явно мания величияx. (Something Shakespearean about it indeed. And the girl called herself the daughter of an emperor. They all have the superiority complex)," the noblewoman continued in her bizarre language, pacing the room with her arms crossed over her chest.

Eredin tried in vain to identify the structure of the spell that had taken hold of the body - but he could find no magical flow that shaped it. How was that possible?

"Where did you come from? What do you want in our world?" It's not a face, it's a mask. Not emotions, but an imitation of them.

//"Now," Eredin thought, "I will not leave this world until it is a scorched desert. Hate is the only emotion that is not threatened by insincerity.

"What about my riders?"

"They won't live long if you don't change your tone. Have you no pity for your subjects, Auberon?" The invisible watchers responded with laughter at the irony in her voice.

Why did she call him Auberon? Their scouts hadn't reported a change of power on Tir on Lia...? The Iron Demoness smiled at the odd joke. It must be a familiar. They always ingratiate themselves with the summoners.

"How do I know they're still alive?"

"You don't. Tell me, King," she leaned over him, rustling her embroidered lace collar, "why did you seek the girl?"

"Что гораздо интереснее, зачем ее искал Шариф? (The real question is: why was Sarif looking for her?)"

The Elder Blood is more valuable than gold - these creatures are already rubbing their hands together in the hope of obtaining it. Will it play into his hands?

"Did you need it, too?"

The noblewoman wrinkled her nose, making her look like a predatory beast. There was nothing feminine about this woman, only a detached, cold stiffness.

"I'd say that's what they call those who answer a question with a question in our world. But I'd rather show you what they do with them," the corners of the noblewoman's lips stretched in different directions as if someone had pulled some strings.

What Eredin felt immediately after that phrase changed the very concept of pain. It was as if all the pain he had ever experienced in his life - fireball burns, broken bones, puncture wounds - had been felt at once. It wasn't pain. It was the quintessence of it.

Every civilization, no matter how advanced it may seem, has means of torture, and a well-thought-out system of justification for their use. Eredin knew that better than anyone.

He didn't remember if he screamed - the agony had yanked him out of reality, robbing him of clarity. He remembered only the shadows on the walls, the outlines of the faces watching him. There was nothing to see - the pain that had become the epicenter of existence was reflected only in his eyes.

It's unnatural. Pain should be caused by something... Fire. A blade. A fist... Magic... But pain itself? Concentrated, consuming consciousness, destroying all other emotions? The people who invented such torture are not worthy of life.

Eredin should have fainted, but something held him, kept him from falling into oblivion. He knew what they expected. Pleading. One word from him and it would be over. He clenched his jaws so hard his gums bled.

He was taught how to escape the pain. One thing in the world is more intoxicating than pleasure: pain. It's a stupefaction you can use, a nightmare you can escape into. To a parallel world in the mind, a world where... Eltara. White... white dress... in blood.... Long blonde hair. The images disintegrated into shards in his head. He must survive. The people need him....must....

"Полчаса уже прошло, нет? (Half an hour already, is it?)"

"Достойно восхищения. (Truly remarkable.)."

Eredin did not distinguish the intonations with which the shadows spoke - everything blended together.

Bzzzzz. Pain.Bzzzzz. Pain. The worst kind of torture is repetition. The same sound. The same pain.

"Достойно или нет, у меня нет на это времени. ( Remarkable it may be, but I don’t have time for this,)" the noblewoman threw in irritably.

He was left alone with the silent demon. There was no hatred or pity in her gaze. There was nothing in it at all. Green eyes, accentuated by makeup like the elves' - but what was supposed to accentuate beauty looked battle-colored on her. She reached up to her ears and touched the pointy tips. She pulled back his upper lip.

The King of the Wild Hunt had been reduced to a horse with a picky merchant looking into his teeth. Eredin couldn't even look away and instead imagined chopping off this creature's hands that had lost all fear. She noticed the disgust and a nasty metallic gleam appeared in her eyes.

He lasted long enough for the jailer's patience to wear thin. And when the jailer's patience wears thin, they become more resourceful. More skillful. Eredin asked them about the riders, and in doing so he made a mistake.

The iron demoness gave Eredin back the ability to move, and without a word, she made it clear that the pain would return if he made one wrong move. For the first time he could look around, the room was ugly and ascetic. Smooth black walls, a rectangular pulpit on a dais. The furnishings were sparse.

The rest of the rooms looked no better. When the pungent odor of alcohol hit his nostrils, Eredin thought they were in the medical wing, but the fancy machines reminded him of Avallac'h's laboratory.

Through the wide glass, he saw his subjects were bound like animals. Creatures in white robes scurried between them, shouting tearing, short commands. Imlerich. Caranthir. Alive - for now.

Caranthir is alive, but... Bloede dhoine. What Aen Elle has spent centuries creating, they mutilated overnight. Cut off his arm down to the elbow. The cloth on the stump is soaked with blood. Why? To humiliate? What was the reason for this monstrous cruelty? Eredin knew no more pity than any other warrior. But the meaningless abuse was distasteful to him.

//"They needed blood. Muscles. Joints. And bones," Eredin did not possess the art of telepathy to the same extent - he was only capable of transmitting the simplest thought, orders. The art of mental dialog was only mastered by the highest mages. Such as the Golden Child. The voice echoed in his skull. Eredin's physical pain could barely compare to the desperation he heard in Karanthir's voice. //"Butchers. They didn't need to cut off the whole arm - I suppose they just wanted to intimidate. Learned technology - but they remained butchers."

The subjects should not pay for the king's mistakes. Eredin underestimated his opponent, and because of that fatal miscalculation, the Golden Child lost his hand. Only blood can atone.

Those butchers will pay. But for them to pay, he'd have to talk.

"Call the mistress."

The response was the customary silence.

* * *

"That girl is a traitor to the race. There's nothing special about her," Eredin said in a muffled voice."

The noblewoman leaned back in the wide leather chair, examining her impeccably manicured nails. Her face was a frozen white mask, like charcoal lines drawn on a face.

"Let me decide that."

She's not just a noblewoman. Judging by the luxurious dwelling and the guards at the front door, she belongs to the authorities. And the way she talks. It's the way someone who isn't used to being crossed speaks. It's the way he talks.

"Somehow you and your men..."

He had fallen low enough as it was. Not enough for the Red Riders to be called human.

"...my elves...."

The woman laughed playfully. //"I'll freeze you alive, bitch," Eredin thought, "freeze you alive and smash your ugly mask to pieces.

"...Your elves managed to find her."

He needs to buy time. When he regains consciousness, when the pain stops, he will order Aen Elle to mobilize all forces to attack this world. Destroy it, burn it, freeze it, erase all memory of it. Auberon has slept too long. He slept through the emergence of an enemy as powerful as these dh'oine.

"I can find her from the blood trail."

"That's so poetic."

There was nothing poetic about it, but what could this scum possibly understand about art.

She slid the globe toward him. Eredin had almost no strength, but he still had an unbreakable will. At one glance at the layout of this world, the image of magical streams running from mountaintops to foothills, from forests to deserts, appeared in his mind. They formed a map - and there were flaws in it. Flaws caused by the Elder Blood.

He pointed a finger on the globe to where Zireael should be. It was indicated by the huge crater in magical space that she had left by her barbaric use of magic.

"Он же не может знать, где мы находимся, Елена? Это уловка?" (He cannot possibly know, where we are, can he, Yelena? Is it some sort of a trick?)

The iron demoness shook her head.

"It's interesting," she addressed her subordinate in a language that Eredin understood, and he quickly realized why: "Yelena, you will go with him. If anything goes wrong, kill him. We have plenty of other... elves. A new king will be elected."

In Eredin's fantasies, all that was left of the arrogant bitch were severed chunks of flesh.

Yelena ordered him to follow with a short, gruff nod. Eredin had lived for centuries, but no woman had ever dared to tell him what to do. He muttered through his teeth. Yelena noticed the displeasure but, expectantly, did not utter a word.

She stepped close to him and smiled a cruel, cold smile. A familiar pain flashed through his consciousness. Usually, the body gets used to the constant pain, but not to the artificial imitation of it. Yelena grabbed his chin with icy iron fingers.

"Скажи Намиру, что я буду его ждать. ( And tell Namir I will be waiting for him),"

The poison in his nervous system was eroding from the inside. It's how you beat a naughty dog until it obeys. He needs to find an antidote at any cost.

He'll pierce that thing with his sword first. If there's flesh under the armor and not iron. And if it's iron... he'll find a way to kill it. Cold destroys everything sooner or later.

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86809/568969

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP