The pain rushed back in on Teldin, distorting his senses. He was keenly aware of sweat running down his temples, soaking his hair, and the roaring noise that returned to fill his mind with grinding and hammering. Shoulders popped and cracked, biceps burned. All he could see was a single point on the ceiling. Time became meaningless. At last, the tearing pressure eased again and faded to a steady burn of his tortured muscles.

“Again,” instructed the neogi in a whisper just loud enough for Teldin to hear.

The torment flooded back, swallowing the farmer in it. Once more it faded, then returned again at a word. The cycle continued endlessly-peace, pressure, suffering, then peace again. The torture pulled a scream from the victim’s lips, one he could not stop even when his throat was raw.

“Enough,” commanded the neogi again. Teldin, his arms wrenched and twisted, hardly noticed the difference when the umber hulk let go. He didn’t feel himself lying on the table, panting in choked spasms. Slowly the neogi’s face, floating overhead, swam before his eyes. The beast reached down with spidery legs and dragged the tips across his chest. They were surprisingly sharp, slicing the remains of Teldin’s shirt and pulling the sweat-and blood-soaked rags from the human’s bare skin. In his current state, the farmer could only eye the neogi with mute terror and rage.

“You perhaps now talk,” the neogi murmured, its face pressed close to Teldin’s ear, “but I want to listen not yet.” The razorlike limb tips etched Teldin’s shuddering chest, slowly creating a web of thin cuts across the skin.

“Overmaster,” hissed a familiar voice, “mine to tattoo meat is!” The enraged neogi stopped its bloody tracings and drove the claw tips into Teldin’s chest. Though not deep, the punctures ignited pain. The farmer writhed under the touch, only to have the immense lordservants wrench him back down onto the table.

“Bold my quastoth, kin slave M’phei, grows. Will overmaster challenge?” said the torturer to the hidden speaker. “This meat I take, then remove unnecessary parts I will- first a tongue.” The neogi glared at its opponent.

There was a scrabbling noise near Teldin’s head, the clicking walk of a neogi. “Confused overmaster is. Without tongue, meat will talk never about cloak,” the voice, M’phei’s, shot back. “Perhaps ready to join yrthni ma’adi overmaster is."

The golden-skinned neogi, the captain, the overmaster, from what Teldin understood, jerked its head up with a rasping hiss. Struggling in the arms of its lordservant, the neogi lunged outward, making a biting snap at the air in M’phei’s direction. “Overmaster I am. Quastoth, slave kin you are. You threaten me not!”

Moving slowly, Teldin painfully managed to turn his head enough to see the other neogi. He judged by its tattooed colors and the hissing voice that it was the creature that had captured him. “Tattoo meat I will, not overmaster,” M’phei coolly answered. The overmaster bristled in rage. “Unless,” the challenger continued, “overmaster’s errors all quastorh to know overmaster wants.”

Teldin was not quite sure why, but the other neogi abruptly paused, then slowly returned to his upright position. “Human meat you will have, quastoth M’phei, but cloak I claim.” The words came out in icy, venomous tones, clear even to the cloakmaster’s untutored ears.

“Quickly do it then, overmaster,” M’phei said with equal vehemence, “or remember your errors again I will.”

The gold-hued overmaster clicked his teeth in a fierce snap, then turned once more to Teldin. The eelly creature lowered its head until its razorlike teeth brushed the farmer’s ear. It whispered, “The Reigar’s cloak is where?”

Teeth clenched tightly to suppress the rivers of torment inside him, Teldin fought to keep from shivering. The farmer could feel the neogi’s fetid breath on his neck, making the muscles tighten and cramp, as if parts of his own body were trying to crawl away from the creature. “I don’t know,” the human slowly said, articulating each word with excessive care to prevent all his other feelings from rushing out. Greatest of these was the urge to manifest the cloak in hopes that it could protect him. Frantically Teldin drove back that thought before the magic took effect.

There was a snap and a sudden burning pain in his ear. Teldin’s back arched with a jerk, only to have the umber hulks slam him down again. The neogi rose back up, its mouth bloodied and a piece of Teldin’s ear dangling between its jaws. “Cloak is where?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Teldin screamed, his face contorted in pain. The lordservants yanked at his arms, reviving the shearing agony. The dimly lit room started to go gray, swirling into oblivion.

“Overmaster, my meat maim not!” shrilled M’phei’s voice. “Meat must be whole or your errors I report. Work meat must do. No broken bones, no torn limbs.”

“No broken bones," the overmaster sullenly agreed, “yet.”

For Teldin, the speakers were growing distant and faint and the pain grew less and less. He only vaguely heard the overmaster’s voice, filled with disgust. “It talks not yet. Lordservants, fill meat with pain, but mutilate body not.”

There was a strange clicking and buzzing voice as one of the umber hulks replied. “Yes, little master. Your slaves do as little master commands.” With the words came a searing pain, then darkness and nothing.

It was later. How much later, Teldin did not know, for time had been replaced by a wheel of pain and numbness. There were centuries where the lordservants towered over him, clicking their mandibles as they pulled and twisted Teldin’s inert body. The centuries were broken by hours when the overmaster appeared to ask Teldin a single question in its stilted tongue: “Cloak is where?” Sometimes Teldin thought of answering, just to end the pain, but each time something else in him stopped the answer from coming.

The farmer struggled to hold the cloak at bay, keep it from doing anything. Teldin knew that if he slipped and let the cape make the slightest sign, everything was lost, his life and possibly even his world. So far the human had managed to deny the overmaster his prize, but each refusal brought another century of pain, followed by the oblivion of unconsciousness.

At one point, the farmer dimly feared all his resistance was for nothing. The umber hulks, searching for some new torment, noticed the thin cord and silver clasps, all that showed of the cloak the neogi sought, around Teldin’s neck. Fearful that the lordservants would try to remove it and discover his secret, he feebly tried to raise an arm to push them off, but the best he could manage was a weak wave of one hand. Arrogantly, one of the creatures batted his hand with a wave of its own claw, ending the attempt. The farmer’s hand burned from the savage blow.

For all his pain, luck had not abandoned Teldin. The clasp was small compared to the umber hulks’ grotesque claws, and they were unable to work the silver buckle. Neither could they slip their talons between the chain and his neck, except perhaps by gouging Teldin’s throat. Under orders not to mutilate or kill, the umber hulks gave it up and returned to the better understood agonies of their trade. It was then that finally, blissfully, Teldin passed out and remained unconscious.

From this moment of non time Teldin slowly awoke and recovered. He still lay on the table, stained with his own blood. A lantern in one corner cast a dim light over the slaughterhouse. To the captive’s numb surprise, his torturers were gone; indeed the room, or as much as the farmer could see of it, was deserted. They had left him alone and unbound, but it mattered little, since Teldin barely had the strength to roll his head from side to side.