by Dan Decker
Twenty lashes as a token? I shouldn’t have opened my fool mouth.
Abel looked at Jorad with pity. It almost seemed genuine, but Jorad was too angry to give it much thought.
The foreman at the podium nodded his head. “The question is posed: shall Jorad be punished for impersonating a Radim, made to swear the oaths, and then be assigned an army?”
“I must protest.” Drake pushed the foreman out of the way. “It’s one thing to accept this man as your rightful heir and grandson, but it’s quite another to give him command of an army right away. That’s just not done. He’s untried. We have no idea of his capabilities. He’s—”
“It’s part of the test, Drake. It is only a tradition he first serves as a Radim.” He gave Jorad another look of pity. “So, you see, it wasn’t a true obstacle to his claim.”
Was Abel doing this because he thought it was the best way forward or because he wanted to remind Jorad of his power? Those last words were meant for Jorad, claiming the lashes were on him. Jorad wasn’t sure he believed it. Nobody had batted an eye when Jorad had spoken of the oaths.
Drake turned to the Council while avoiding eye contact with Abel, who raised his eyebrows at the snub. “Perhaps, but the law isn’t clear on this issue, and it’s up to us to interpret what should happen here. It did not foresee this circumstance.”
“I call the vote.” Abel’s face was firm, reminding Jorad very much of his father. They even sounded the same.
Drake shook his head. “So be it. Call the vote.”
The vote came in as twenty for, nineteen against. Drake was red in the face, and though Abel did his best to disguise it, he was happy at the triumph.
As Jorad witnessed the scene before him, he wished his father were here to help him understand what was going on. Abel’s victory went beyond getting Jorad’s claim accepted, but what else it represented, Jorad could not say.
Drake pushed the foreman from the podium. “The will of the Council is made known. Jorad Rahid’s claim is accepted. He shall be made a general after his punishment for impersonating a Rahid.
Was it Jorad’s imagination or were Abel’s eyes glinting? It was hard to know for sure because he showed no other emotion. He looked at Jorad expectantly, almost as if expecting thanks.
Jorad wasn’t so sure he shouldn’t give it. His grandfather was more powerful than he’d thought. He needed to turn the man to an ally, if he could.
Chapter 11
The excitement of the crowd was palpable, as if what was about to happen was a glorious event, not the punishment of a man who’d done no wrong.
It gave Jorad pause.
I was willing to sacrifice for their protection but am I willing to suffer for their entertainment? For my grandfather’s pleasure? He shook his head, still not sure what to make of how things had played out. Had his grandfather helped him through a quagmire as best he could or had he made sure Jorad would suffer? I’m going to be furious if I go through all this and there isn’t anything but old scrolls in the Rarbon Portal.
He reminded himself again that he wasn’t doing this for himself or even just for the people of Rarbon. He was here to increase their chances of successfully fighting off the Hunwei.
After the Rarbon Council meeting, Jorad hadn’t been able to get in a word to Karn before several of the Council guards were by his side, ordering him to follow, barely allowing him time to collect his things. It was evident he had no choice in the matter, but they made no attempt to take his sword or blaster.
He’d avoided eye contact with Abel as he’d followed them from the hall, wondering if the Council’s vote would have been the same if Abel hadn’t suggested he be punished with twenty lashes. The vote had been close, so perhaps it was for the best.
After putting him on the back of a wagon and driving him to the Napael Army base, they took him inside a small building that was at the side of the parade grounds and down into a dungeon that was wider than the little shack structure was up top. The cell smelled of sewage or worse, and was dark and musty. Once the guards had left with their torches, he’d been in the dark, without a way to guess the time.
At first, he’d paced, furious for mentioning the oaths Adar had administered. He’d thought it would help his case, but it had been clearly a mistake. And Abel had twisted it to his own advantage.
He’d paced long into the night, learning the limits of his cage. He’d still been processing the meeting, so he hadn’t thought to get a good look at his cell before the guards had left. He remembered a hay pile and a bucket, but nothing else.
He’d stumbled into the bucket while pacing and kicked over the contents. The smell that had been bad before became worse, and he didn’t need his eyes to stay away from that side of his prison cell.
Exhaustion had set in but rather than try out the rotten hay—he wasn’t so sure it didn’t have human feces as well—he settled down beside the wall, as far away as he could get from the overturned bucket.
He’d been dozing when new guards had appeared. One had laughed while the other cursed upon seeing the contents of the bucket on the floor. Jorad figured the man who’d muttered the blasphemy would have to clean it up.
He’d yanked Jorad to his feet. “What are you staring at?”
Jorad didn’t respond out loud. As I’m going to be one of the Radim generals, you should be a more careful.
“I’m going to make you clean this up,” the guard said, his breath smelling of alcohol. Jorad could only guess at the time but figured it was morning if they were pulling him up. Too early to be drinking, especially while on duty.
The other guard reeked of the stuff as well. “We don’t have the time.” The guard smiled at the other’s discomfort while shoving Jorad out of the cell.
“Cursed by Melyah,” the man muttered.
Jorad was blinded by the light when they led him outside and whisked him along, not giving his eyes an opportunity to become accustomed to the morning sun.
They came out from around the side of the dungeon and came face to face with the largest crowd of people Jorad had ever seen. The platform had a pole on one side and a noose suspended from an arch on the other. Atop the pole was a metal ring to which he assumed he would be tied before the lashing began. He didn’t remember seeing the pavilion the night before, but it had been dark, and his mind had been upon other things.
He’d heard it was customary for most of the army to turn up and watch the punishment of a soldier, but this was far more than that. There were just as many women and children as there were Radim soldiers. More, even. It seemed the gates of Napael Army had been opened wide for anybody who wanted to attend.
Jorad let out a measured breath. Napael is to be my army, why else would they have me punished here? He’d wondered about it the night before when he’d remembered that the guards at the gate had mentioned General Kraver was dead. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Abel had wanted him humiliated and punished in front of the men he was about to lead, making Jorad’s job that much harder. Even without Jorad’s blunder with the oaths, Abel might have still arranged for this to happen.
Jorad had been nervous when speaking to the Rarbon Council, all the while doing his best to ignore the onlookers in the chambers. But this sight was something else. Thousands of people had turned out, their fervor reminding him of a festivity. The sense of excitement was certainly the same. A juggler stood in front of the crowd, tossing up balls, a bottle, and grabbing a hat from one unlucky man in the front. The crowd hooted and hollered until they saw Jorad being let up to the platform. There were no stairs, so Jorad was forced to hop up onto it, ignoring the pain in his back as best he could.
Getting down will be far worse.
He looked curiously at the noose, wondering how often it was used. The guards turned him towards the crowd and waited. Jorad wondered if Soret was out there watching him. Perhaps Wes was too. Maybe Soret would take some measure in comfort when he was beaten, thinking it justice.
He kept his b
ack straight, thinking through how events were likely to play out so that he could be prepared. He figured they would secure him to the pole and let it begin. He imagined what it might feel like to have the whip cutting into his already painful back. At least most of his wounds were centered on his lower back, he hoped the upper would take the brunt. He repressed a snort at the thought. He was already a painful mess as it was, what had he done for Melyah to feel like this was something more he needed to pass through?
The seconds turned into minutes, and he began to be impatient, wanting to get the moment over with. Still, he waited, the dread growing while the guards to either side of him stood motionless.
Let this begin already! Jorad thought several minutes later, wishing again he’d never mentioned the oaths Adar had made him take. He growled, focusing on the Hunwei and the damage that they’d done in Neberan and Zecarani.
The people below were just as excited to see him punished as he was to get it over, but their agitation didn’t help his mood.
How am I supposed to help these people when they desperately want to see my blood?
At least Wes wouldn’t be swept up in this excitement. As the sun beat down on the crowd, the excitement only grew. Some members started to jeer, and somebody chucked a rotten tomato that hit him in the head, the overripe fruit bursting and covering his face. As the remains of the tomato dripped down and into his eyes, he let out a long sigh. At least it was a better smell than his dungeon had been.
I asked for this, I didn’t know it at the time, but that was what I was doing. He resolved to be far more careful with anything he said to Abel. The man was crafty and though he wasn’t happy to have Jorad show up and make a claim he had managed to turn it into a show. How am I going to lead all these people when the first time they see me is getting strung up and whipped like a criminal?
The sun was much higher when the crowd broke apart so a carriage could approach. When it pulled to a stop in front of the platform, Drake got out. He was followed by several more who Jorad did not know but recognized from the night before.
More time ticked by as more carriages came. All the generals either showed up on foot or on a horse, not a single one arrived in a carriage. Once again there were seven. The dead general made eight. Where was number nine? The generals lined up in a row in front of the pole, making Jorad’s heart sink even further. This was worse than a bad start. He might never recover from this.
Several of the male generals and one of the female made eye contact. The other woman kept glaring but would look away whenever he looked at her. Jorad held their gaze, keeping his frown small.
As the anticipation built, the foreboding grew within his chest. The dark, smelly dungeon with nobody for company was better than standing in front of the crowd of people, all of whom eagerly awaited his punishment.
What if after all this, the Rarbon Council revokes my claim and I’m thrown back into the dungeon? If it came to that, he would not go willingly, that was certain. He would fight his way free whatever the cost. There was too much at stake to be kept in a dungeon. I will never again willingly return to a cell.
A stir in the crowd caught Jorad’s eye. Several more carriages had just entered the Napael Army grounds through the gate to the city, and it was hard to not stare. The horses were wider and taller than any he’d seen before. The carriages were also the finest he’d ever seen. Was that gold work wrought into the side?
This could only be his grandfather, the Rahar. A man would have thought Abel the king of the city, based on the opulence alone.
And perhaps he is, Jorad mused, thinking of how quickly the Council had supported him. There had not been any discussion about Abel’s suggestions and they’d all been accepted, albeit with ever worsening margins.
As the crowds parted to let the carriages through, it dawned on Jorad for the first time just how much Abel had to lose if Jorad was successful in making a claim. Having failed at his own attempt, Abel could never be anything more than a Rahar.
Jorad had heard from Karn that many in the city—in secret, of course—blamed Abel for his mother’s murder. He’d only had one private conversation with the man, but Jorad would be hard pressed to find any likeness between Abel and Adar. Apart from the physical similarities, the two couldn’t have been more different.
The carriages rolled to a stop. The people in the first disembarked without fanfare, but all eyes were on the second. It took Jorad a moment to figure out that it was because of a sword and snake insignia on the sides of the door. The first didn’t have that, so he assumed this was the symbol of the Rahar.
It was strange Adar had never mentioned the sigil to him, but his father put little stock in such things. It was that, or this was something that had happened in the years since Adar had fled from Rarbon.
A hush fell over the crowd as the second carriage came to a stop. Seconds passed while the crowd waited with anticipation as several guards approached. One opened the door while the other took up position to the side, spear pointed into the air, eyes scanning the crowd.
Jorad’s eyes narrowed when a young man stepped out, realizing this was his uncle, Cor. The kid was tall for fifteen but spindly, hardly looking like he had any muscle on him at all. A woman who looked younger than Adar by several years came afterwards.
It wasn’t until Abel himself stepped out that the crowd burst into a roar, stomping the ground and clapping their hands.
Abel held up his arms, a broad grin on his face. Jorad looked again when he noticed a thin silver circle of metal that rested upon Abel’s head. It was so small he could have easily missed it.
A crown? Adar had never mentioned that, and it was something Jorad was certain he would have heard about at some point. Abel thinks he’s a king. Jorad swallowed, all the sudden more afraid than he had ever been, even when the Hunwei had invaded Neberan.
“My people, my people!” Abel cried. “I too rejoice in the return of my lost grandson, come in our hour of great need. Turn all adulation to him!” He turned to Jorad as well, clapping his hands slowly. His piercing eyes reminding Jorad of how a cat would regard a small bird.
Not knowing what else to do, Jorad gave a little nod, trying to keep the trepidation from his face. Abel wouldn’t do this unless he were certain I wasn’t going to be a threat. He swallowed. Or could be easily removed.
During a break in the uproar, Abel held up his hand again, and the crowd became silent, everybody straining to hear what he’d say next.
Abel appeared to know they were hanging on every word and wasn’t about to miss the opportunity for theatrics. So different from Adar in almost every way. The more Jorad saw, the more difficult it became to imagine the two as father and son.
“Jorad returned with proof the Hunwei have returned. He’s made a claim that has been accepted. There is, however, one matter that must be attended to. Through no fault of his own, Jorad was wrongly sworn to the Radim oaths. Now, the typical punishment for impersonating a Radim is death but as there are extenuating circumstances I don’t believe it inappropriate the Council had mercy.” He smiled, all teeth. “Obviously, I agreed with their decision.”
Drake’s expression soured, but Jorad doubted anybody noticed. It was clear the two were not allies, something Jorad took note of, hoping he might make use of the information at some point. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be anytime soon because Abel’s handling of things the night before had probably put a wedge between Jorad and Drake that was going to be a problem for some time.
“While it is highly unusual for one who just made a claim to be lashed, it is also a fitting preparation for trials that lie ahead. The future Ghar is meant to be tested. We must know of his mettle before he ascends.”
He nodded his head, and the guards to either side of Jorad took hold of his arms and led him to the pole. As they tied his hands to the ring that hung above his head, a massive man approached and jumped up onto the platform. His arm muscles rippled as he yanked on a leather whip, his eyes glinting i
n the sun. Despite being well built, he was shorter than Jorad by a few inches. His eyes were hard.
Jorad swallowed and cut off a sigh as the men yanked on the rope to remove the slack. As they tied him to the pole, the man who was doomed to clean up the spilled sewage spoke.
“Open your mouth.” His demeanor was still rough, but his tone wasn’t as harsh. Perhaps the man had finally remembered who Jorad was and what he was going to do after his punishment.
Jorad remained mute and didn’t open his mouth.
“Do as he says,” said the other in a tone that brooked no discussion. In the guard’s hand was a thick piece of leather. He held it up. “It goes easier if you have something to bite. You’ll scream less.”
He realized that what they offered made sense and he did as instructed. The guard inserted the leather, and Jorad clamped down his teeth. He caught a glimpse of it as they put it in his mouth, and saw that it was stained. He tried not to think about how the stains had got there or whether it had been washed before being given to him. Unfortunately, his tongue was unable to avoid the leather. It was difficult, but he refused to think about what he tasted.
The crowd fell silent when the guards stepped away from him. Jorad was inclined to tense up, but he forced himself to relax as best he could, pushing his hands up against the wooden pillar for support and bracing for impact.
The guards hadn’t removed his shirt as he had expected. He thought of asking them to remove it, but after seen the face of his punisher, he’d decided against it. The man doing the lashing looked the type who might have aimed for his wounds.
The first one came suddenly. The only warning was a woman at the front who gasped just as the guard brought up his arm. The lash bit into his back, inches away from where Barc had stabbed him and lower than Jorad had hoped for.
Pain flooded through him as he bit down on the leather and groaned. His back was on fire, the new wound smarting with the old. It came again, like lightning in a storm, giving his whole world more pain than he thought possible for a man to experience as the old pain was reignited and combined with the new.