"Very good, Jonmarc. Nicely done," Dorran praised cynically. "You're doing us a tremendous service, showing us which of our soldiers are inferior. You may now test the training of another soldier." He made an abrupt gesture, and a second soldier entered the ring. Setting his jaw, Vahanian moved to meet his opponent.
He bested three of Dorran's men before he could no longer fight. The contest became a free-for-all, and might have ended there if Dorran hadn't shouted for order and sent guards into the fray to pull Vahanian from the angry mob. They dragged him back to the priests for healing. This time, it took longer for the priests to repair the worst of the damage.
When the priests were finished, Vahanian was led to a post in the middle of the practice ground. A guard tore away what remained of Vahanian's shirt, and lashed his wrists around the post. Vahanian's heart thudded as he saw Dorran approaching with the quartermaster, who held a knotted whip in his hands. He had seen Nargi martial discipline meted out during his captivity. Forty lashes could leave a strong fighter incapacitated. More than forty at one time were likely to kill. He hoped his expression was impassive as Dorran and the quartermaster stopped in front of him. A Nargi priest stepped up beside the quartermaster.
"Offenses in a military camp are subject to military law," Dorran announced as the camp began to assemble in a circle around the post. "For the crimes of murder, theft, trespass, impersonation, and blasphemy, I sentence Jonmarc Vahanian to death."
The crowd roared its approval. Vahanian watched balefully as Dorran basked in the spectacle, then held up a hand for silence. "I'll mete out the final punishment myself," Dorran added, to the cheers of the group. "But first, it is only fitting that he pay fully for his crime."
Dorran looked at Vahanian. "I could have you flogged to death. You've seen it done."
Dorran turned back to the crowd. "Forty lashes," he pronounced, and the crowd cheered for more. Dorran looked to the priest. "Keep him alive. I don't want to be cheated out of the satisfaction of killing him myself."
Vahanian closed his eyes, bracing himself. He clenched his jaw as the whip snapped, and the first lash fell.
NIGHT had fallen when the guards returned Vahanian to his cell, throwing him in to land face down on the hard-packed dirt.
"Wben I call for you the next time, I'll kill you." Dorran said from outside the stockade. "You can't know how much I enjoyed this afternoon. You truly are the best fighter I've ever seen. Pity. I've had the healers patch you up to keep it from being too easy. I do enjoy a challenge. Sleep well, Jonmarc. Perhaps tomorrow, if you beg, I might cut my pleasure short."
"Go to the demon," Vahanian managed, tasting dirt in his mouth.
"Not this time. You'll see Her first."
The only way out of this one is in the arms of the Dark Lady, Vahanian thought. Thanks to the healers his mind was clear, although his body barely moved at his command. By their work, the priests denied him the respite only shock and unconsciousness could bring.
The camp was silent when Vahanian heard the call. It roused him from a distressed sleep, barely audible over the snoring of his guards. A child's voice, calling his name. Sure he was hallucinating from the pain, Vahanian raised his head. The camp lay in a heavy shroud of fog, so thick that he could not see the banked fires across the practice area. As he watched, the door to his prison swung open. In the doorway stood the transparent image of a young girl, beckoning him to come.
"Come, Jonmarc," the apparition said. "It is time."
Vahanian had passed the point of fear. Already resigned to death, the vision made him catch his breath. "Are you the Childe?" he rasped, his swollen lips barely able to form the question.
"Come," the vision repeated impatiently. "It is time."
Vahanian crawled toward the open door, stopping part way to glance back, expecting to see his own crumpled form behind him. "It's time to go," the ghostly child urged, standing with an outstretched hand just beyond the stockade. In the distance, Vahanian could hear the thunder of a horse riding at full gallop, and heard the guards rouse. But he dragged himself to stand, clinging for support to the posts of the stockade. He was unprepared for the sight that burst through the fog. A
cloaked rider on a white horse, riding at demon speed. Beneath the heavy cowl, eyes burned like fire.
"The Dark Lady!" Vahanian whispered, sure now that he was dead.
The Nargi soldiers pointed at the specter in terror. Half of the them fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before the rider with a babble of desperate prayer as the priests begged the apparition for mercy. The other soldiers, frightened but dubious, held their ground, freeing a hail of arrows at the rider that bounced harmlessly off its cloak. With strangled cries, the archers dropped their weapons and fled.
Heedless of the confusion, rider and horse bore down directly on Vahanian, never breaking speed. The cloaked figure reached down, grasping Vahanian's arm and tossing him like a broken doll across its lap.
Borne into the fog, Vahanian lost consciousness.
When the rear door opened at Jolie's place, the room erupted into chaos. Nyall took the body of the unconscious fighter from the arms of the cloaked figure and carried him to a cot. Sakwi looked up from stirring a cauldron of healing herbs. Carroway and Carina rushed forward to help Nyall.
The cloaked figure shrugged back the cowl to reveal Tris's face. The illusion of the Dark Lady blinked out of sight, leaving only the theater makeup Carroway had improvised. Kiara handed Tris a moist towel to wipe away the last vestiges of the night's work.
"You found him," she exulted, helping Tris out of the heavy cloak, exposing a breastplate of leather and ring mail.
"Thank you for insisting on the armor. Nargi are quick archers." Tris released the buckles on the armor, and set it aside. "And thank you for the cloak." He handed her the magic-shielding cloak from the Sisterhood. "I felt a little less like a beacon for Arontala, even though it didn't require much actual magic."
"The river ghost, did she come?"
Tris chuckled. "She thought it was a great game. I hate to imagine what Jonmarc made of it."
"When he finds out he's still alive, he may forgive you." Kiara planted a quick kiss on his cheek. She took his hand and they approached the cot where Carina worked.
"Sweet Chenne," Carina swore under her breath, surveying the damage. Vahanian's face was purpled and swollen almost past recognition, and the gashes and deep bruises on his chest and arms bore mute witness to his ordeal. "Let's see what we're dealing with on the back," Carina replied, her growing anger clear in her clipped instructions. Carroway complied, gentling Vahanian onto his side.
Carina blanched. Welts criss-crossed Vahanian's back, evidence of a thorough lashing. Red and angry, they already bore signs of infection. Reflexively, Carina laid her hands over them. Some of the marks immediately began to fade, losing their color and puffiness. She signaled Carroway to ease Vahanian back down.
"How bad is it?" Tris asked. Jolie stood behind him, her expression making it clear that she would have no difficulty taking the lives of those responsible for Vahanian's injuries.
"He's been healed several times—deep healing. Damn them!"
"I don't understand," Kiara said.
"They didn't heal to end the pain, they healed to prolong it. They fixed just enough so that he didn't die too quickly and spoil their game."
"Can you help him?" Jolie asked.
Carina nodded. "Whoever healed him before knew what they were doing. What's here is bad, but not life-threatening. Some broken bones, a lot of deep bruises, some torn muscles and tendons, deep cuts—his back is a mess," she listed dispassionately, attempting to distance herself enough to work her gift. "They must have been striking to maim, not kill, because they obviously had the opportunity to do otherwise."