“Who doesn’t?” Gelbus answered.
The guard ignored his remark. “And you look like you’re quite parched. Is your throat dry, my Gnome friend?”
Two moons, yes!
But he answered with a resounding, “No.” Then he had to look away from the wine barrel; it was almost too much. He could taste the sweetness on the tip of his tongue, feel it spilling down his throat, feel his head thrumming from the alcohol.
No, I must resist. Even if I wanted to spill the secrets, I can’t. If I tell them that, though, I may die of thirst.
“How about a taste?” the guard asked. “The closer you get to telling us what we need to know, the more wine we will spill down your throat. Understood?”
Gelbus nodded. He hated himself then because he knew what was going to happen; he was going to die because of his penchant for wine.
“So, how do we do it?”
“That’s quite a personal question, don’t you suppose? Something your parents should’ve covered with you when you were a young—”
The guard backhanded Gelbus hard enough for his vision to go fuzzy.
He brought his fingers up to his enflamed skin. Ouch. Very ouch. “I guess you don’t have much of a sense of humor,” Gelbus said aloud. He tasted his own blood in his mouth. “That’s okay. Didn’t really expect you to.”
“Pour him a glass.”
One of the guards stuck a pump into an opening on the side of the barrel. He pressed once, and dark purple nectar spilled out. Gelbus licked his lips.
“Here,” the main guard said, handing Gelbus the glass once he had it in his possession.
Gelbus eyed it hesitantly. When the guard didn’t pull it away, he reached for it. That’s when the guard tilted the glass and let the wine splash on the dirty floor.
It was a sucker punch to Gelbus’s gut.
“I have no problem letting the entire barrel drain into the sewers, my friend. Somehow, I think seeing wine wasted would hurt you more than any physical harm we could inflict on you. Am I right?”
Gelbus didn’t answer. He just watched the river of violet run down the sloped floor toward the drain where the girl that may or may not have been a hallucination had stood.
Slowly, Gelbus’s heart broke.
“He’s not going to talk. Dump it,” the guard ordered, flicking his head toward the other two guards.
They nodded. One took out a flat, iron bar and began to pry open the top of the barrel, both he and the wood straining. Suddenly, the top gave, and wine sloshed out with the movement, making a slapping sound as it hit the floor and traveled toward the drain.
“Wait!” Gelbus said.
A smile spread across the main guard’s face.
“I’ll talk.”
The guard put up a hand, and the others tipped the barrel of wine back to its proper place. “Go on…” the main guard prompted.
Gelbus measured the words in his head carefully. These very well could be the last ones he’d ever speak; he had to make them count.
After a few seconds—seconds that he did not have to lose—he said, “The only secrets I know are about your mother. I don’t suppose you want to know those, do you? They’re quite naughty.”
The guards stared at the Gnome, probably wondering how a creature whose life was in their hands could be so stupid.
Gelbus just smirked, taking it all in.
All was quiet for a moment, though he could sense their rage boiling below the surface, ready to explode. The main guard’s face went from ashy pale to a heated red. Suddenly, flames erupted from his fingertips and shot out toward Gelbus.
The Gnome winced, trying his best to shrink up against the wall. The fire licked at his face. An instant sheen of sweat dampened his forehead, and he smelled burning hairs—probably his mustache, or Moons forbid, his thick hair.
“You think you are clever, Gnome?”
Gelbus shrugged and nodded—not the best idea.
The flames jabbed at him again, sending searing pain all up his body, before pulling back.
“Your last interrogators must’ve been soft on you. But I, Macran, am not like your last interrogators.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Macran yelled out. The flames from his fingertips crossed in the air, combining to take on the look of a great, fiery sword.
Gelbus closed his eyes, trying to picture his life before the darkness took him.
This is it, Gelby, old boy. You’ve had a good run. Remember all the fun, all the knowledge, all the friends…
The whoosh of the sword coming at him stilled his blood. With his eyes still closed, he bit his tongue hard enough to wince in pain. He was expecting death.
But it never came.
The roar of the fire and the heat went away.
This must be death. Huh, I didn’t even feel a thing.
“What is it?” Macran demanded.
Drats!
“Hunter is gathering us all near the lake. There’s been a big development in the resurrection,” a foreign voice said.
Gelbus now opened his eyes. Another Dragon Tongue, this one lowly and dressed in tattered, graying robes, had entered the cell. A worried look was on his face.
“Come, come! He seems close to anger,” the lowly guard urged.
The two guards by the wine barrel looked at each other with fear, as if making Hunter angry was the worst possible thing.
Macran glared at Gelbus. “I’ll come back for you, Gnome. And when I do, you’re in for a world of hurt.”
“Very clever,” Gelbus said softly, and then screamed as Macran lunged at him, feigning a punch.
The two guards rolled the barrel out of the cell, and Macran walked backward, his eyes never leaving Gelbus. The lead guard slammed the cell door shut with a bang, rattling the steel in its frame, then stuck out his forked tongue and swiped around his lips. With two fingers, he pointed from his eyes to Gelbus.
‘I’m watching you,’ he mouthed.
As the guards’ footsteps receded, causing the dog to rail off in another burst of barking, Gelbus let out the
