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The Poet and the Torturer

A folk tale of Talabheim


Talabheim has always been infamous for the arcane complexity of its legal system. Though it remains a place where retribution is set above justice, it is no longer the city of horrors it was during the reign of the Otillian Emperors. The bitter suppression of the cult of Sigmar during those times saw the torture and execution of numberless men and women: a debt of blood that can never be repaid. - JWG


In the days when the Empire of the Otillia stood apart from the heresies and corruptions of the neighbouring lands, the dungeons beneath the great palace in Talabheim were always full. Those who had turned their gaze from Ulric, Father of All, to look instead upon the empty promises of devils, came chained and wretched to the palace, hidden within armoured wagons. Men and women, rich[1] and poor: no distinction was made. The guilty were herded into cells far below the lavish halls of the Otillia.

And from the cells they were brought to the chambers of interrogation, where they might learn to confess their sins and save their souls. Many died in those chambers. Others were taken to the courtyard, and burned. None were released[2].

Among the torturers of that place, there was one of surpassing skill and cruelty. There was no technique unknown to him, no engine nor apparatus he had not mastered. Like the others of his craft he wore black trousers and boots, and a black mask in the aspect of a grinning devil. His arms and torso were heavily muscled, and his skin had the bitter whiteness of one who never sees the sun.

Every day, new victims were brought to his chamber, and every day he performed his duties with savage and terrible devotion.

One day, the guards brought a thin young man to the chamber. This man was perhaps no more than twenty. So slight was he that his bones might have been as fragile as a bird's, and so wide and blue were his eyes that they seemed almost larger than his head. He did not resist when the torturer seized him, stripped him, and bound him to the rack.

Now, the torturer had made it his habit to begin a session by enquiring into his victim's life: he would ask about their profession and their family and other such light matters. "Sir," said the young man, "I have no living family so far as I know, for all have been swallowed up into this dreadful place. As to my profession, I am a poet. I arrange words so as to form pleasing patterns, and so bring beauty into the minds of my readers."

This answer intrigued the torturer greatly. He asked the young man to speak one of these poems to him, and the young man duly obliged. It was a short piece, only a few lines in length - but so wonderful! The poem sang within the torturer's mind, taking him away from his world of hot iron and dripping stone to scale mountains of light and swim seas of hope. When the time came for the burning brands, he applied them but lightly. The guards came and took the poet back to his cell, and still the poem echoed in the torturer's mind.

The next day, the poet was brought back to the chamber, and again he recited one of his poems. This one was better even than the first, and again the torturer was sparing in the application of his art. So it continued for many days.

Then one day the poet recited something that was not beautiful. It was harsh and angry, denouncing the Otillia and the cruelty of her realm. Indeed, even the Father of All was cursed in those lines, and the false god Sigmar elevated and praised.

The torturer was filled with rage. At once, he set the iron clamps that are known as Ermingard's Kiss upon the poet's knees. By degrees he tightened them, all the time crying out for the poet to repent of his blasphemies. But the poet only spoke louder, his voice echoing through the chamber and resounding through the walls and down the corridors. Tighter and tighter the clamps became. Still the poet spoke, his voice now violent as a thunderclap, implacable as death.

And then came the awful shudder of splintering bone as both knees were crushed. The poet gasped only once, then fell silent. He was dead.

The torturer tore the mask from his face and cast it onto the floor. Weeping, he took up a steel-toothed scourge and laid about himself with it. Bright blood sprang from his pale flesh where the thongs touched, and he screamed. After a time, the guards came into the chamber. One of them held back the torturer's arm, drawing the scourge from his unresisting hand, while the others took away the ruined body of the poet.

The torturer lay abed for many days, sorely wounded. In time he recovered, and returned to his work. To those brought before him in the chamber, he was more terrifying than ever. Ugly scars covered his arms and chest, and he set to his work with enthusiasm and skill. For just as the poet remained a poet to the last, so a torturer will always and forever be a torturer.




[1]It is hard to believe that anyone with money could be submitted to such treatment. More likely, they would have been able to bribe the arresting officers and thus secure their escape from Talabecland.

[2]Likewise, this seems to be pure rhetoric. Undoubtedly there were many prisoners who were in fact released - whether because they informed on others, or because they were able to convince the examining priests of their sincere repentance.