The Blood King (43 page)

“Expanding your horizons?” Vahanian baited.

Dorran regarded him coolly. “I’ve spent almost a decade rebuilding the career you damaged. This will reclaim my honor. We’ve made an alliance with the new king of Margolan to remind some insur-rectionists about the power of a king.”

“I thought Margolan had an army for that kind of thing.” Vahanian tried to keep his interest from seeming too apparent.

“His army is soft. They lack the will of their king. We’ll teach them. And for that, I’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

Vahanian said nothing more; the point of the dag-ger pricked into his throat.

Dorran twitched the blade, tracing the thin pair of parallel scars that showed where a slave collar had left its mark years ago.

“This time, no one will arrange your escape,” Dorran said, returning his knife to his belt and beginning to turn up the sleeves of his uniform. “I intend to enjoy myself quite thoroughly.” Without warning, Dorran wheeled, landing a kick on the side of Vahanian’s head that sent the smuggler sprawling. “Get ready to see the Lady. Your luck has just run out.”

The beating continued until Dorran, panting and winded, could do no more.

His uniform was spat-tered with Vahanian’s blood. Vahanian lay sprawled on the floor of the Nargi captain’s bar-racks, unable to drag himself to his feet, his wrists still bound in front of him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and one eye was swollen shut. He could taste more blood in his mouth, and the pain in his chest assured him that several ribs were broken.

“Take him to the healer,” Dorran commanded, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked down at Vahanian. “You know the ways of Nargi healers. They’re quite efficient. If I’ve done any real damage, they can set it right.”

“Why bother?” Vahanian asked thickly.

“I haven’t finished my sport yet. Tomorrow, I’m going to let the garrison have a private audience with the general’s great champion fighter. Only this time, it won’t matter if you win or lose. Either way, you’ll still die. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, Vahanian.” Dorran stepped over the fallen fighter and strode into the night. The guards dragged Vahanian to his feet and pushed him, stag-gering, toward the priests’ quarters.

Back in the stockade, Vahanian watched the dawn come with a leaden feeling in his stomach. True to Dorran’s word, the Nargi priests had reversed the worst damage. Vahanian spat blood and nursed his split lip. The priests, ascetics as they were, did not bother with any wounds which might not threaten his life or his ability to fight. Vahanian awoke from a rest-less sleep with the feeling that he had been ridden over by a wagon team. He replayed Dorran’s boasts in his mind. Nargi, ready to march into Margolan. Tris would be cut off from behind, and the influx of expert fighters might be all Jared needed to turn the game.

Vahanian strained against his bonds. There was no way to reach Tris with the crucial information. His sacrifice to save the others would mean noth-ing. All the wishing in the world wouldn’t get him out of here; Tris would walk right into Jared’s trap. With the Nargi on the march into Margolan, Tris’s quest was doomed.

It took all of his will to rise impassively when his captors came for him. The practice ground was full of Nargi soldiers and Vahanian was led into their midst. A soldier cut the strap that bound his wrists. Vahanian rubbed his numb hands. Dorran watched from a chair on the side.

“I’ve highlighted your accomplishments as the general’s champion for those who don’t remember,”

Dorran said. “I told them what a privilege it is to fight you. As you can imagine, there have been many volunteers.”

“And if I refuse to fight?” Vahanian asked.

Dorran’ eyes narrowed. “Fight, and you’ll die a warrior’s death. Refuse, and I’ll have you burned alive with the bodies of the men you killed. Any other questions?” At Vahanian’s silence, Dorran clapped twice to call the troops to order. “Let the first contestant come forward.”

Vahanian faced a Nargi soldier almost twice his size. The two began to slowly circle, each looking for an opening. As in the days of the betting games, neither carried a weapon. That, Vahanian remem-bered grimly, was part of the sport the Nargi so enjoyed. Barehanded combat. Winner lives. The big man lurched, surprisingly fast for his bulk, and swung at Vahanian with fists the size of melons. Vahanian dodged, ducking and coming up beside the man, then executed a flying pivot and landed a kick that sent the big man reeling. The crowd cheered as Vahanian’s attacker roared in rage and lumbered back at a dead run, murder in his eyes. Vahanian narrowly evaded the man again and scored another kick, but the attacker wheeled and caught his leg, bringing them both to the ground.

The big man jerked Vahanian’s arm behind him sharply enough to pull it from its socket. Bucking desperately, Vahanian threw the man off balance and scrambled out of the big man’s hold, swinging wide with his free hand and connecting his knuck-les with the giant’s nose, driving the power of his blow up and in. The soldier staggered, dropping his grip on Vahanian. He gave a deep rattle then slumped and lay still. Vahanian staggered to his feet. The soldiers who ringed the practice area cursed him and called for his blood.

“Very good, Jonmarc. Nicely done,” Dorran praised cynically. “You’re doing us a tremendous service, showing us which of our soldiers are inferi-or. 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 shout-ed 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 dam-age.

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 mili-tary 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 specta-cle, 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 heal-ers his mind was clear, although his body barely moved at his command. By their work, the priests denied him the respite only shock and unconscious-ness 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, stop-ping 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 out-stretched 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 unpre-pared 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 desper-ate 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 make-up 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 gash-es 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 responsi-ble 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 dispassionate-ly, attempting to distance herself enough to work her gift.

“They must have been striking to maim, not kill, because they obviously had the opportuni-ty to do otherwise.”

Tris moved to stand beside her. “Draw energy from me, if it will help.”

“Can you do that without alerting Arontala?”

Tris shrugged. “I’ve never sensed him
when I’ve helped you heal—I’m not sure it’s enough power for him to read. And you’ve pulled from both Cam and Carroway for energy, and they aren’t mages. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

Sakwi appeared at Carina’s side with the caul-dron of steaming herbs and a fresh cloth. For the next two candlemarks Carina worked in silence, easing her way down Vahanian’s body, first healing as best her strength would allow, and then applying Sakwi’s poultices and binding the wounds that remained. Any materials the healer required needed only Jolie’s terse word to the guards outside the door, who returned with the desired articles in min-utes.

Nyall hunched near the fire, clearly overwhelmed by the company in which he found himself. The others stood ready to respond to Carina’s increas-ingly ill-humored commands, as the fatigue of healing coupled with her anger. Jolie stood silent sentry near the foot of the cot, her hard eyes unreadable. Carina worked for more than three candlemarks, until she was pale with the exertion and both she and Tris wavered from the strain.