by Peter Wacht
The audience watched the entire episode in rapt attention, sensing that a change of some sort was taking place. What effect it would have was still in question, yet all knew it revolved around the boy standing before the head table — the boy in chains, his body covered in blood, bruises and cuts; the boy who had defeated the Makreen; the boy who should be free. Anyone with the tiniest bit of political sense knew that Rodric had orchestrated a sham, but like Gregory, they too saw the Armaghian and Dunmoorian soldiers standing behind them.
“Then justice will finally be done,” said Rodric, motioning to a guard standing by the door, who immediately ran out into the hallway shouting orders.
Kaylie stared at Thomas with tears in her eyes. He was going to die, and it was all her fault. She could hear her father cursing softly next to her, Sarelle’s hand covering his own to offer comfort, his voice rife with frustration at not being able to help the boy standing before them. The words tyranny, murder and false accusation mixed with greed and power as Gregory spouted an invective-filled tirade. She glanced quickly at Rodric. Next to him Ragin smiled with glee, clearly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him.
Corelia, on the other hand, studied Thomas much like a predator before a kill. The look she gave him — calculating, shrewd, suggestive — made her skin crawl. There had to be something Kaylie could do. Anything. She leaned forward in her chair, her grief threatening to overwhelm her. It was hopeless. There was nothing for her to do but watch the one person who had treated her as a friend die because of her foolishness.
“We have a criminal before us,” intoned Rodric, speaking as a judge would before an execution. “Justice will be done. Bring him here.”
The two guards standing behind Thomas shoved him forward, knocking him to the ground because of the chains around his ankles.
“Perhaps the demonstration that follows will show that such crimes are not permitted in the Kingdoms, and that as High King, I will do whatever necessary to ensure my law is upheld.”
Many of the lords and ladies turned shocked expressions to the High King, realizing the true meaning of his words. Rodric was going to punish the boy right here. More important, he had said my law. Not the law. Murmurs of discontent ran through the crowd, but quickly ceased when several Armaghian soldiers stepped forward. The winds of change blew strong and cold.
The soldier quickly returned, followed by a dozen more pushing a cart carrying a large piece of wood. It resembled something the hangman would use, in that the two large pieces of oak ran perpendicular to one another. At the end of the smaller piece another block of oak ran crosshairs to it. Attached to that piece were long black chains with manacles affixed to their ends.
The soldiers moved slowly toward the head table, grunting with effort as they approached. Everyone watched in horrified fascination as the soldiers set one end of the wood structure onto the bottom of the cart.
The two soldiers guarding Thomas then removed the manacles from his wrists and ankles, revealing the bloody skin rubbed raw by the steel, and placed the other manacles around his wrists. The soldiers then used rope tied to the top of the piece of wood to pull the structure upright, dragging Thomas backward until he was hoisted into the air. They then placed several steel pins at the foot of the wood block to keep it in position.
To Kaylie, it seemed as if Thomas had been placed on the gallows. The chains spread Thomas’ arms wide, tearing open the wound in his side once more. A slow trickle of blood began to run down his leg, dripping from his foot onto the cart floorboards. Kaylie wanted to avert her eyes, as many of the ladies in the banquet hall had already done, unable to bear the condition Thomas was in. Instead, she forced herself to look at him.
As her eyes ran over his body, she saw the many scars running across his back and chest, the very sight of them making her sick to her stomach. Still, she refused to look away. During the past two days Thomas had demonstrated remarkable courage. She would try to do the same, little good that it would do.
“I see you are not a stranger to the whip,” said Rodric. “Good. Then you are familiar with what is to happen next. I will save you from the pain if you will admit your guilt. Will you, boy? Will you admit your guilt?”
Rodric did not wait for a response, not really expecting, or even wanting, one. This lesson was only in part for Thomas. He motioned to a soldier standing by the hangman’s block who held a barbed whip in his hand. He stepped behind Thomas, flicking the long, black leather behind his back before swinging forward violently. The whip dug deeply into Thomas’ flesh, the sharp crack echoing in the silent chamber. The soldier drew the whip back again, and again, until each sharp crack drifted into the one preceding it.
Gregory felt sick to his stomach. Everyone in the hall knew what Rodric had planned for Thomas, yet still he had to go through with this act. This wasn’t justice. This was revenge. This was a statement. And for what? Gregory promised himself that he would find out, and that he would pay back Rodric many times over for the pain he caused this innocent boy. Gregory’s futility ate into his heart, filling it with despair. The boy had saved his life, and his daughter’s life twice, and he could not return the favor.
Thomas kept his head lowered as the whip bit sharply into his flesh. He was beyond pain now. His waning energy decreased with each strike of the barbed leather. He wanted only to escape the pain now, having lost the desire to fight. He had driven his body too far. Now he just wanted to rest, to let go. The struggle had become too much to bear.
CHAPTER FIVE
Defiance
“A fool hangs before us,” said Rodric, laughing softly. “Admit your guilt, boy!”
Rodric’s taunting words streaked through the cool, inviting blackness that slowly enveloped Thomas, striking a chord within him. He had never given in to anything before, not without a fight, and he was not about to do so now. Not to Rodric of all people.
Calling upon what little strength remained, Thomas struggled to lift his head, the simple movement feeling like the hardest thing he had ever had to do. Finally he stared straight ahead, his eyes smoldering with green fire as he glowered defiantly at the High King.
Rodric matched his gaze briefly, but could not bear it for long. He cursed himself for a coward, telling himself not to give in to the boy. But he couldn’t hold that gaze. No matter. The boy wouldn’t be around for much longer.
“Let everyone see what happens to those who challenge the power of the High King,” he muttered angrily. He motioned for the soldier to continue.
The whip bit into Thomas with a renewed vigor, yet he barely felt it. Strangely, a small smile crept onto Thomas’ face. Even now, Rodric was a coward.
Gregory watched the entire episode, appalled by what was happening. As his eyes wandered around the room, he saw much the same expression on other faces — shock and dawning recognition. This spectacle was as much for the boy as for them, they realized. Rodric was demonstrating his power, and what would happen to any who got in his way. The winds of change blew stronger, howling of what was to come. Gregory sensed that a dark winter was almost upon them.
His anger grew hotter and hotter until it burned brightly within him. Gregory’s hand rubbed the hilt of his dagger. He had to stop this. Rodric could not be allowed to carry on in this way. He began pushing himself up from his chair, his eyes staring intently at the High King, when a strong hand on his shoulder forced him back down.
Infuriated, Gregory whipped around. Kael stood behind him, his hand now resting comfortably on his shoulder. Kael shook his head slightly. Gregory reluctantly acknowledged the truth of his current dilemma. Acting now would be suicide. He took a few deep breaths and made himself relax.
Kael had seen Gregory’s intentions in his posture, having served with the King of Fal Carrach long enough to know his habits. Gregory had considered killing the High King right there, and though a worthy idea, it would have done them little good.
He probably would have succeeded, but the boy would have died anyway, as wo
uld Gregory, Sarelle and all of their men. They were outnumbered ten to one in the Palace by the Dunmoorian and Armaghian troops. If Rodric openly murdered the boy, why not two sovereigns as well? No, now was not the time to act. Later, when the odds were more in their favor.
Kael tried to turn a dispassionate eye to the whipping, having seen many horrible things during his life as a soldier. The boy continued to stare straight ahead, his green eyes burning with anger. Judging by the marks already on the boy’s body, his life had been hard. Still, his ability to deal with the pain was remarkable. As he studied the boy’s features, there was a certain familiarity about him.
He looked very much like a Highlander, though not completely. Perhaps just his mother or father. There was a strength in him not seen in most. A pity that it would be wasted, stolen from him by a vindictive bastard. The boy did not deserve to die, but again, there was nothing he could do. At the moment anyway. But on another day perhaps he would be in a position to pay back the High King. It was the least he could do for his countryman.
As the whip cracked against Thomas’ back, every muscle in his body quivered in protest. He tried desperately to hold back the pain, but it became harder and harder with each stroke. His strength continued to drain away, and with it his desire. He was tired. Tired of the pain, the struggle.
The blackness that had welcomed him in the cell beneath the Palace had returned, beckoning to him, caressing him. If he would just let go, he would find the peace he sought, away from the pain, free from the struggle. The blackness was so inviting. Thomas reached out for it, letting it soothe his weariness, his pain—
No! He couldn’t allow it. Not yet. Thomas drew away from the darkness, running from it. Inviting it may be, but once he gave in to it, he’d never escape. No! He refused to give Rodric the satisfaction. He would never surrender. Never! Talyn Kestrel would look on him with shame if he did. If he was to die this day, then so be it. He would die with honor just like his grandfather did those many years before.
Thomas held his head up, eyes burning brightly. He may not be able to escape the situation, but he would meet whatever came next with dignity. If nothing else, when his grandparents heard what had happened to him, at least they could be proud of him. There was nothing left to him but that now. Nothing at all. His hope for survival had been quashed as soon as he saw Chertney sitting behind the High King.
“You call this justice, Rodric?” Gregory asked angrily. The whipping stopped as Gregory spoke. “This is torture. End this demonstration, Rodric. We all know who it is really meant for.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Gregory.”
Rodric turned toward the King of Fal Carrach, his voice filled with poison and hate. He was clearly enjoying himself, and he would decide when it came to an end.
“This boy is a criminal, and according to the law criminals are punished.”
“Don’t hide behind the law, Rodric. The boy doesn’t deserve this. No one does.”
“On the contrary,” said Rodric, almost spitting out the words, “He does!” Rodric motioned to one of his captains, who waited patiently by the door.
Gregory cursed himself for a fool. His mind worked furiously, once again looking for a way to put a stop to this horrific spectacle. Yet he could think of nothing. And at the same time he put himself and his daughter in greater danger. He looked at Sarelle, hoping she might have a solution to their dilemma.
She shrugged her shoulders apologetically, the sympathy in her eyes plain. The captain Rodric had motioned to led a squad of soldiers to where Gregory, Kaylie and Sarelle sat. Rodric held all the cards at the moment. Gregory wondered just how far Rodric would go.
The whipping continued, the soldier’s motion slow and methodical. Kaylie couldn’t bear to watch any longer. How could she have done such a horrible thing? How could she? Every time the whip struck Thomas’ body, she winced. Tears streamed down her face. Because of her Thomas was going to die. She buried her head in her hands, hearing an accusation with each crack of the whip: Traitor. Murderer. Traitor. Murderer. She jumped when she felt a gentle touch on her forearm.
“Watch this, Kaylie,” said her father softly, but his eyes intent. “I know this is difficult, but you must learn from it. See the people we are dealing with for what they truly are. Give Thomas the respect and honor he has earned.” Raising her head and wiping away her tears, she forced herself to watch.
“Enough,” said Rodric, an evil grin on his face. The hall was silent. Thomas turned his head back toward Rodric, forcing the High King to look away. “My man’s arm is tired. We will soften the boy up a bit before we continue. Place him closer to the fire.”
Rodric’s squad of soldiers hastened forward to obey, pushing the cart as close to the fireplace as they could without having to worry about it catching fire. A rumble of conversation started up in the hall then, with many averting their eyes. Rodric had gone too far. This lesson was becoming more terrible by the second.
As the soldiers added wood to the fire, the flames licked higher and higher until they almost touched the soles of Thomas’ feet. Two soldiers stood guard, one on each side, but they served little purpose. There was no place Thomas could go, and the finality of his situation began to set in.
Most of the people in the hall could no longer bear to look at him or at Rodric. The High King was enjoying himself immensely, laughing heartily and joking with Loris and Ragin, the black shadow of Chertney hovering behind them. To see humor in such a situation was sickening. Thomas looked around the room, taking it all in. No one could help him now. No one. His head slumped against his chest, the pain and heat both working against him now.
CHAPTER SIX
Finding His Way
Voices began to whisper through Thomas’ mind, their words drifting in and out of his consciousness. Let go. Let go. Welcome the peace. He fought against them, trying to open his eyes, but found the effort to be too much. Let your burdens go. Let them go.
Maybe he should. No, he had to remain strong. He had to. He had sworn an oath to his grandfather. He had promised to free the Highlands. But the Highlanders never cared about you. The voices were right. They thought he was a strange little boy, the son of a witch. Why should you care about them? Why?
Light dances with dark, green fire burns in the night, hopes and dreams follow the wind, to fall in black and white. The prophecy. Rynlin had told him he was the one. He was to become the Defender of the Light. And Thomas knew it was true. He had discovered that much after joining the Sylvana. He couldn’t give in now. There was too much he had to do. Too much that was required of him, whether he wanted it or not.
Let go. Let go. The voices continued to play through his mind and he struggled to ignore them, the battle raging within him for several seconds. He fought to open his eyes, and after what seemed like an eternity, he finally succeeded. He felt the silver of his necklace, given to him by his grandfather in memory of his mother, the same necklace that confirmed his place among the Sylvana, on his skin. The necklace that had guided him to safety from under the Crag.
The voices receded into the darkness, watching, waiting, knowing that soon their time would come. Soon Thomas would be too weak to stop their inevitable whisperings. Thomas tried to concentrate, using the necklace as his focal point. He had to find a way to escape. There was too much depending on him. But how? There had to be a way. At the very least he had to try.
The heat of the flames licked the soles of his feet, and instinctively he raised them. One of the guards at his side roughly knocked them back down with the haft of his spear. Maybe there was a way he could escape, if he still had the strength. His grandparents had always said he was as loud as an elephant when using the Talent. In fact, he had even seen an elephant once not too long ago, when Rynlin took him on a trip—
Thomas forced his mind back to its purpose. He had to concentrate, otherwise he was going to die. Thomas freed some of the pain he had locked away in the back of his mind. His back immediately sizzled and
his side ached. The pain burned away the blackness, allowing for a clarity of thought that had escaped Thomas for most of the last two days.
Thomas reached for the Talent. He was able to grab it with his fingernails, his hold tenuous. Gradually, he pulled more of the power in, allowing it to wash through his body, giving him renewed energy and cleansing his wounds. He reveled in the strength it gave him.
Delicately he mixed its power with that created by the fire beneath him. He glanced quickly at Chertney to see if he had noticed, but the shadowy warlock had not, the energy of the fire masking his work. Chertney was deep in conversation with Rodric, who scowled at much of what he had to say. Good, very good. Thomas knew he was in no condition to challenge the warlock, so he would have to be extremely careful.
Slowly, Thomas pulled himself up, taking hold of the chains with his hands just above the manacles around his wrists. He then channeled a tiny bit of the Talent into the manacles. The Talent was completely undetectable, as the heat of the fire hid it from Chertney, who continued to lecture Rodric. In just a few seconds, the links of chain connected to the manacles melted.
He was free! He forced himself to remain calm. There was still much to do, but at least the first part of his plan had succeeded. He looked around quickly, pleased to see that no one had taken notice of what he had done. No one wanted to see what he endured.
Continuing to hold onto the chains, he surveyed the banquet hall, looking for a way to escape. The possibility of surviving rejuvenated him a bit, but his weakness remained despite the help of the Talent. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it soon.
There, just above him. A banner hung down from the ceiling. He could climb that to the unoccupied balcony. Yes, that was certainly a possibility. But would he be able to pull himself up the twenty feet of cloth to make it there? Maybe, maybe not. Nothing else came to mind. He was about to make his move when a voice cut through the din.