Martin Hooijmans | Lars de Ruyter
Gareth spat out a mouthful of blood, courtesy of the gauntleted man in front of him. He grinned, mustering the most defiant smile he could.
“You think of this as a joke?” his enemy grunted. Gareth nodded vigorously, landing him another punch with the iron fist. It threw him on the floor of the dank cellar he occupied, the teeth he had lost little specks of white in front of him.
The brute towered over him. “Confess, or you will not only taste your blood. You shall drink it.” To Gareth he sounded as if he had never experienced a woman’s touch before. A closer look confirmed these suspicions. The man was hideous.
“Confessing would mean lying,” Gareth said. It was a lie in itself. He was as guilty of the crime as he could possibly be. But he would never admit it.
The jailer took hold of his prisoner’s neck and lifted him up with ease.
“I was, but then you grabbed me,” Gareth coughed, dying for air. A split second later he hit the wall, sending his consciousness swimming and his body aching.
“Have it your way, then,” the jailer said. Muttering to himself about all the torture tools he would need, he slammed the cell door so hard that little pieces of stone dropped from the ceiling.
Gareth, coming to once more, gently fingered the key he had just stolen from his torturer.
“I will,” he said softly, smiling, thinking of all the gold teeth he could buy with the treasure he would take on his way out. “I will.”