his legs and the table. Kurd paid no attention to this, gesturing Zalbar closer
to the table as he used his long fingers to spread the edges of the shoulder
wound. ‘I have identified a point in the body which, if pressure like this …’
The man shrieked, his body arching against the restraining straps.
‘Stop!’ Zalbar shouted, losing any pretence of disinterest.
It was unlikely he could be heard over the tortured sounds of the victim, but
Kurd withdrew his bloody finger and the man sagged back on the table.
‘Well, did you see it?’ the pale man asked eagerly.
‘See what?’ Zalbar blinked, still shaken by what he had witnessed.
‘His stump, man! It stopped moving! Pressure or damage to this point can rob a
man of the use of his arm. Here, I’ll show you again.’
‘No!’ the Hell Hound ordered quickly, ‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘Then you see the value of my discovery?’
‘Ummm … where do you get your … subjects?’ Zalbar evaded.
‘From slavers, of course.’ Kurd frowned. ‘You can see the brands quite clearly.
If I worked with anything but slaves … well, that would be against Rankan
law.’
‘And how do you get them onto the tables? Slaves or not, I should think they
would fight to the death rather than submit to your knives.’
‘There is a herbalist in town,’ the pale man explained, ‘he supplies me with a
mild potion that renders them senseless. When they awaken, it’s too late for
effective resistance.’
Zalbar started to ask another question, but Kurd held up a restraining hand.
‘You still haven’t answered my question: do you now see the value of my work?’