The Infiltrators by Daniel Lawlis

been in captivity for years,
and by now he knew there was certainly going to be no rescue party.
He had seen several Varco attempt escape only to be impaled on
pikes as a warning to the others. Even if he miraculously did
manage to escape, he knew he stood little chance of convincing both
the jury and the king that he was not incompetent. The general rule
of thumb was that if you were held captive for six months or more
before “escape” your chances of being cleared of both incompetence
and corruption charges were effectively nil.
     
    What could be the harm in teaching
techniques to a worthy adversary? It would allow him an enjoyable
respite from his chains from which he was currently only freed
about once a month to be doused in cold water while ten crossbowmen
surrounded him at point-blank range.
     
    “I’ll do it,” Zolgen said.
     
    A wave of silence descended upon the
group, no one, not even Pitkins, having expected this answer, yet
only one or two of the most cynical guessed that Zolgen’s motives
had little to with his concern about Vilizen’s fingers. Truth be
told, Vilizen had been largely to blame for Zolgen’s current
capture, his aim with a blowgun having been just slightly off,
cutting the carotid, rather than the larynx, of an approaching
guard, whose ensuing blood-curdling scream brought a whole host of
Sogolian guards, who overwhelmed Vilizen and Zolgen, albeit at
great loss.
     
    “TRAITOR!” shouted Vilizen.
     
    Men grabbed the hilts of their swords,
like wagon passengers gripping their seats in preparation for a
rough patch of road. Faux quarreling amongst Varco was a known
diversionary tactic. A few of the Sogolian officers had been narrow
survivors of it, having thought their help was needed to break up a
bloody fight between two Varco only to discover them fighting as
one a half-second later and severing the throats of the intervening
Sogolians.
     
    Pitkins watched Vilizen closely, and it
seemed to him that perhaps his passionate objection had been the
result of his misreading Zolgen’s intentions, thinking that he
wished to stage a quarrel.
     
    “It beats sitting in chains all day,”
Zolgen replied softly, which seemed to take Vilizen off guard,
though only the subtlest of hints could be seen in the shrewd man’s
face.
     
    “Where are our friends—our compatriots,
Vilizen? You know we’re both as good as dead, should we ever leave
this place. Do what you will. I will teach . . . but only under
certain conditions,” he said, looking carefully at
Pitkins.
     
    Pitkins’ icy stare was his only
invitation to state his proposals.
     
    “I will only teach you and your ten
highest-ranking officers. Not one more. If I am going to part with
this knowledge, it shall only be to the most worthy.”
     
    Pitkins eyed his fellow officers. Few
would dare question him now. Not only did his rank exceed theirs,
but few wanted to test the temper of a man who had just suffered
such tragedy.
     
    “And I have my condition for you,
Varco,” Pitkins began. “If you so much as injure me or one of my
chosen officers, I will lift the Sogolian ban on torture for your
sake and your sake alone. We will slowly cook you over a fire. Even
Varco pain tolerance has its limits. And I will first strip you and
starve you for five days to ensure you do not cheat torture with
one of your Varco herbs. Do we understand each other?”
     
    “When do we begin?”
     
    Pitkins knew the condition about
limiting the instruction to his ten highest-ranking officers was
symbolic rather than practical. In reality, the Sogolians had
little use for the highly sophisticated empty-hand techniques,
called Gicksin, that the Varco thrived on. Gicksin was for the
realm of assassinations and ambushes. Sogolians prided themselves
on their mastery of open combat, where their heavily armed force
faced its enemy with swords, axes, and other instruments to
determine mastery of the field.
     
    Such engagements were seen as the
height of