[vgunn]

Much appreciated if you could give me some feedback on this chapter.

Thanks in advance!



"Tomorrow they’re going to cut off your head, old man."

Sarn looked out into the night through a narrow window built high into the old man's cell. Three moons hung in the dark sky. Ciliin, a milky crescent, shone brightest, illuminating the feeble, sickly figure who was now jarred awake by the intruder. Draped in threadbare rags, the old man was leaning against the wall, seated on a crude stool, the lone piece of furniture in the cramped cell.

"It is all I have left to give," the old man said. "They have already taken my hands and feet."

He held out the ends of his arms while sliding his leg stumps across a floor of sand and pebbles. He moved closer to the bars separating them.

Sarn felt little remorse. The man was a criminal. Just after dawn, in the cold morning air, he would be taken out to the square and executed. That was the law.

"Did you bring the wine?" the old man asked.

"Yes," Sarn said. "Two bottles."

"Good. Very good."

Sarn retrieved a bottle from the folds of his black juma and uncorked it with the same lock-pick he had used to break in.

"Sorry, no glasses tonight," Sarn said, a barely perceptible smile lingering on his face.

"No worries my friend. I'm sure you will think of something."

Crouching down, Sarn passed the bottle between the bars and pressed the opening to the old man's lips.

He let him get a small taste before pulling it back.

"Do you have it?" Sarn asked.

The old man nodded.

"Show me."

"Please. I promise. Give me another drink."

Sarn relented, allowing himself to play the game; he tipped the bottle again.

The old man sighed. "A strong red."

"Enough of the mirage, now tell me," Sarn hissed, grasping the bars.

"You too are the fool then. Did you not look into my eyes and take notice when you first saw me?"

Angered, Sarn nearly let the wine bottle slip from his fingers. "I did not have to come tonight,” he said. Remember that."

Lurching at the iron bars, the old man rasped, "Look, damn you!"

Sarn had no choice but to continue the morbid charade. Steeling himself, he looked past the old man's haggard, bearded face, filth ridden hair, disheveled clothes, and sickly pallor. He tried to ignore the stench of old piss and **** and the putrid breath behind the old man's brown, rotted teeth.

Sarn focused on the old man's eyes. One of them was fake.

With recognition now registering in Sarn's eyes, the old man nodded and cackled an approving laughter. "I knew you would see the truth! Jehal did it for me! Burned it right out, he did!” He paused. Sarn waited. “There wasn't much pain. I'd endured so much already. He did a fine job with the marble, I'd say. They never even guessed it."

“How proud you must have felt," Sarn sneered, his curiosity piqued.

The old man squeezed his face between the bars. "Take it out! I'd do it myself, but you know I can’t ... " At this he raised his right arm, its stump heavily scarred.

“What the fcuk for?"

“You know why," the old man replied. He stared at Sarn with a sense of anticipation. "Don't feign ignorance with me; and don’t insult me. Jehal hollowed out this glass orb. And that is where you will find it."

Sarn didn't hesitate. He pressed his thumb against the old man's eye socket, and with one quick motion, plucked the marble out. He dug the hidden object out of the hollow and quickly palmed it.

“Now, give me back my eye," the old man said.

Sarn fitted the marble back into the old man's dank socket, fighting back a wave of revulsion.

He observed a small button, with ridges carved in its surface, and five small strands of what appeared to be hair woven in the buttonholes.

"Do not lose it,” the old man warned. “I went through great pains to find this for you."

Knowing full well that it was the key to his freedom, Sarn carefully pocketed the object. He then retrieved the second wine bottle from his juma and removed the cork. Sarn would let the old man drink his fill. That, at least, was deserved.

After some minutes, he watched the old man’s head nod into oblivion, both bottles empty at his feet.

Sarn leaned in closer. “When the morning comes and you pray to Ala’i for the last time,” he whispered to the old man, “remember, father ... God is great.”

[bobnagga]

So it leaves you wanting more. For the love of god, why is he gonna die tomorrow? What was in the eye? For god's sake, give it to us, man!

[vgunn]

So it leaves you wanting more. For the love of god, why is he gonna die tomorrow? What was in the eye? For god's sake, give it to us, man!

This is what I am really hoping for. Any concerns with the chapter?

[Elixir]

Ok, I've got one.

Earlier, you demonstrate your character's revulsion with finesse.

"he looked past the old man's haggard, bearded face, filth ridden hair, disheveled clothes, and sickly pallor."

Later, this one action stood out as "telling" by comparison.

"fighting back a wave of revulsion."

Other than that, you have a brilliant start that is brilliantly written. Keep it up!

[Window Bar]

Vgunn-

It's very good writing. Yes, I could find some small polishes to suggest, but only if you're involved in final draft. If this is a work in progress, just keep progressing. There's much to be said for momentum.

[vgunn]

Vgunn-

It's very good writing. Yes, I could find some small polishes to suggest, but only if you're involved in final draft. If this is a work in progress, just keep progressing. There's much to be said for momentum.

Thank you. I am hoping this the final draft before sending out for submission.

[benh]

It's really good man. I hate to say this but many instance when I take the time to read a piece posted here for critique, I often don't make it passed the first paragraph. I read all the way through yours. It is really fun and interesting.

I do have to say that the swear word pulled me out of the story. It felt, to me at least, jarring and unncessary. But hey, that's personal to me, and in no way affects the quality of your story telling.

Keep it up!

[kmtolan]

This is good. Worthy of submission as well, providing you can keep the momentum. Would like to know what Sarn really looks like, and I am a bit concerned that this character doesn't sound like one a reader would readily identify with.

That said, it does keep me reading and wondering, so your initial objective has been achieved. Well done!

Kerry

[vgunn]

Thank you for the responses!

[vgunn]

Thank you for your responses in my previous thread. I would like to submit a few more for critique. I would really appreciate the feedback.


Silence.

Gone were the hysterical screams drawn from unspeakable pain as wax-acid poured over feet, and then legs, eating away tissue, muscle and bone. Still, there were no pleas from Wahed Alyalah--nothing revealed out of desperation and terror.

The torture on the sufi lasted for more than two hours. Each drip of the candle wax sizzled as it seared skin and mingled with blood—a sickening sound that could be heard quite plainly once the wailing had ceased and the old man had finally died.

Farik Derul surveyed the corpse, now leaning against the curved side of the room. The white distemper paint on the wall around the body, now charred black, had peeled away, and a thin layer of ash dusted the stone floor. Lifeless eyes gazed from within Alyalah’s emaciated face, his mouth agape. Shriveled, cracked lips receded to expose a smattering of brown and yellow tobacco stained teeth. The sufi’s blood soaked suriah robe was torn away at the navel as though he had been bitten in half by a shark; there was nothing left of Alyalah below the waist.

Derul could smell the melted flesh—despite the clove-laced cotton stuffed into his nostrils. He blew out the last of the candles used to torture the sufi, his face so close to the flame that it flared amid the gray, death tinted shadows.

He had already worked his way through every room—from the top of the tower, down the three hundred sixty-five steps to the crypt and anbar buried deep beneath the surface. This was the last room left and soon enough he would locate the sufi’s private records. Located somewhere within the walls or floor of this mirsd—this sacred chamber—rested a hidden cache of manuscripts that contained secrets so powerful they would change the thoughts and beliefs of nearly everyone alive in the world.

Wahed Alyalah had turned the manuscripts over to the siri Hiril Altair to smuggle out of Qatana, possibly to turn them over to the Elisians. Derul had outwitted him, though, by sending Sarn out to kill Altair. After killing the siri, Sarn was to return the manuscripts to this hiding place where Derul would retrieve them.

It was imperative that Derul possess these manuscripts. They would equip him with wealth and power to rival even that which the sultans commanded.

The room was small and barren with no windows or furnishings. Embedded in the floor was a mosaic of brown and tan square tiles, laid out in an intricate circular pattern, progressing from large to small until it reached a ring, one foot in diameter in the center of the mirsd. Within this ring was set a copper seal engraved as a burning sun. From high above, light filtered down from a gap in the domed ceiling, illuminating the mysterious pattern set in the floor.

Derul picked up a brushed brass candleholder, twenty-six inches long, fashioned like a spear. He rapped it hard against the floor, sending the wax stick skidding across the tiles. He wedged the pointed end beneath the copper seal’s edge and worked it clockwise around the perimeter until he felt it stop against a hidden clasp. He pried until the clasp was exposed, applied a quick, hard snap, and then broke the barrier. Removing the disc revealed a shallow recess with just enough room to house a small book.

The cache, however, was empty.

Impossible!

Derul screamed in rage, slamming his fists on the floor. He stared down at the empty hold, noticing that stone had been crudely chipped away from the bottom and was now filled with fresh dirt. Derul dug his hand into the loose soil, searching until his fingers found the slender neck of a glass bottle. He pulled it out. Derul wiped the grime from the green glass. Empty. He examined the smudged and dirty paper on the wine bottle.

It was his own fcuking label.

Derul seethed with rage. Hiril Altair was dead; there was no question about that. He’d received word himself only an hour before setting off to deal with Alyalah. His plan had allowed plenty of time for Sarn to kill Altair, retrieve the manuscripts, and return them to the sufi’s living quarters and place them in the hold before the man came home. Derul had watched as Alyalah returned to the tower, obviously unaware that his confidante had been killed only hours previous.

Did Sarn take the manuscripts for himself?

The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became.

Sarn, he thought. I will cut your head off and **** down your throat.

Somewhere in Havar he knew the assassin was laughing.