The iron was cold on Roth’s tongue and his spit tasted like rust as it trickled down his raw throat. The bit, much like a horses harness, kept him from speaking while the other iron, chains and manacles, kept him from moving.
“We should kill him.” Came a deep voice, baritone and black.
Laughter like a brook responded to this, quickly joined by the giggles of children. Above this, another voice, older and cracked, emerged, rising over the mirth of the lady in scales and the small things that clustered about her. “Do not be hasty Glakos Vorathack the Sunless. If you used the head in that helmet you’d know that it is not a viable option.”
The man in hydraulic armor said nothing, steam spouted from his shoulders.
A fourth voice, imprisoned and hollow, as if spoken through an old nineteen-thirties radio crackled from the dark doorway. “He cannot be killed.”
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