He carried the tube with him now and could feel it pressing against his hip as he sat on the cold ground with Zac, waiting for their dinner. The sky rumbled disturbingly, and Tarja silently hoped that it would rain and rain hard. He had a much better chance of escaping if the Defenders were huddled under shelter, trying to escape the inclement weather. An escape in the middle of a storm was just as likely to be, if not ignored, then overlooked as long as possible. Who wanted to hunt down a miserable escapee in the rain?
“Gonna be a good one tonight,” Fohli remarked as another loud rumble rolled across the compound.
“Sure is,” Tarja agreed. He felt somewhat ambivalent about Corporal Fohli and Sergeant Lycren. The part of him that still felt pride in the Defenders was appalled by the men. They were unshaven, slovenly, lazy – everything Tarja despised in a soldier. Had either been in Tarja’s Company, they would have been straightened out very smartly indeed. On the other hand, were it not for their slackness, Tarja would have little hope of escaping.
It was almost completely dark by the time Tarja and Zac were handed their meals. Tarja offered to collect Fohli’s meal, too, and carried it back to the feeble shelter of the cookhouse eaves. It was a simple matter to tip the watery contents of the tube into Fohli’s stew. Tarja handed him the bowl, and the corporal wolfed down the contents hungrily. Large raindrops splattered intermittently across the compound. Fohli urged his prisoners to eat faster and had them handing in their bowls and heading back to the relative warmth of the cell block almost before they had swallowed their last mouthful.
They were back in the cell block when the corporal doubled over with pain as a stomach cramp clutched at his guts.
“Mother of the Founders!” he swore, clutching at the back of a roughly carved chair for support. Like model prisoners, Tarja and Zac waited patiently for the corporal to recover. When Fohli showed no inclination to move them anywhere, Tarja stepped closer.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You don’t look at all well, Corporal.”
Fohli yelped as another spasm took him. His skin was ashen, and Tarja worried for a moment that there had been more jarabane than he suspected in the tube. He didn’t want to kill Fohli, just disable him. Zac thoughtfully lit the lantern on the guard table and waited for Fohli to recuperate enough to lock them up.
“It must have been the stew,” Fohli gasped, as another cramp seized him.
“Should we get someone?” Tarja offered.
Fohli shook his head. “In there.” He waved vaguely in the direction of their cells. “Have to lock you up first. OW!”
“Not tonight,” Tarja said, mostly to himself as Fohli collapsed semiconscious against the scrubbed wooden table. With a sigh, Zac stepped forward and scooped the Corporal into his arms. He turned his dull eyes on Tarja.
“You go now.”
Tarja looked at him in surprise. “Go?”
“Escape. You go. I take care of Fohli.”
Tarja was astounded that Zac had read his intentions so easily. “Come with me.”
Zac shook his shaggy head. “Got food. Got bed. Zac stay here.”
“Good luck, Zac.”
“You need luck. Not Zac,” the big man pointed out simply.
Thunder continued to roll through the small walled township like an invisible avalanche as Tarja quickly wended his way through the back alleys of the Grimfield. Months of hauling garbage had taught him where every lane and alley led, and he made good time through the backstreets. The uniform he planned to steal was right where he had hoped it would be, although it was damp and proved to be a tight fit. He shrugged on the jacket as he ran.
The storm broke as he neared the quarters of the married Defenders. Within seconds he was soaked as the rain pelted down in sheets. He kept moving, using the storm for cover. As he neared the street where Wilem’s house was located, he slowed. The street was deserted but for a couple of miserable-looking horses tied up outside the house. Tarja cursed silently, wondering to whom they belonged. If there were Defenders visiting Mahina, extracting R’shiel from the house would be next to impossible. He moved stealthily up the street until he reached the small fence surrounding Wilem’s house. He stepped over it and slipped around to the back. The owners of the horses were a corporal and a trooper, standing on the verandah talking to Mahina. The old woman was holding a lantern, but he could not make out what was being said over the roar of the thunderstorm.
The rear yard was deserted as Tarja made his way to the back door. He eased it open gently and was relieved to discover the kitchen was empty. Leaving an unavoidable trail of wet footprints next to the scrubbed wooden table, Tarja crossed to the door that led into the hall. Voices reached him as he opened the door a fraction. He stopped to listen, hoping that whatever business the troopers had with Mahina, it would not take long.
“I’ll do no such thing!” Mahina was declaring in a tone that made Tarja smile in fond remembrance. “You go back and tell Loclon that if he ever sends me an order like that again, I’ll personally see that he is whipped! Now get out of here! Find Prozlan. That’s her job!”
Mahina slammed the door on the hapless message bearers. Tarja wondered for a moment what Loclon had asked of Mahina that had her in such high dudgeon. He moved back quickly as Mahina turned and headed straight toward him. Glancing quickly around the kitchen, he realized there was nowhere to hide. Even had he found a place of concealment, his muddy footprints left a telltale trail straight across the floor. Tarja sighed and stepped back against the wall as Mahina stomped into the kitchen. If he could not hide, then there was no point in trying to.
“Hello, Mahina,” he said as she stormed into the room.
She squawked with surprise at the unexpected voice and spun around to face him. “By the Founders, what are you doing here?”
“Escaping.”
“Escaping?” she scoffed. “What took you so damned long? You’ve been here two months or more. Like the food, do you?”
“I’ve had my reasons.”
“Fine. Escape then. Why are you hanging around here?”
“I came for R’shiel. She’s in danger.”
“Well you’re too damned late,” Mahina snapped in annoyance.
A door opened off the side of the kitchen, and Sunny stepped into the room, rubbing her eyes sleepily. They widened at the sight of Tarja, and she glanced at Mahina.
“I heard voices.” Sunny appeared uncertain as to how she should react to finding Tarja in the kitchen admitting to an escape.
“You heard nothing,” Mahina snapped at the young woman. “Where is R’shiel?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since lunch.”
“We have to find her,” Tarja said, as it occurred to him that if Loclon was still in the town, he might well be the ranking officer at present. That gave him almost unlimited power until Wilem returned.
“Why?” Mahina asked. “So you can get her into even more trouble?”
“Loclon raped her on the journey here.” Sunny nodded in agreement as Mahina glared at both of them. “You know the penalty for rape, Mahina. If she ever reports it, he’s as good as dead. He has to silence her.”
Mahina’s faded eyes grew cold. “I’ve had just about enough of Loclon,” she snarled. “That arrogant little upstart just sent an order for me to attend to him. Can you believe that? He demanded that I come to him to deliver a whipping to... Oh! By the Founders...” Mahina’s face paled in the lamplight.
“What?” Tarja asked impatiently.
“Tarja, I think he’s already found her.” She sank down into a chair, looking every one of her sixty-seven years. “He ordered me to deliver a whipping to a female convict who was attempting to escape. Do you suppose it’s R’shiel? He wouldn’t ask me to do that, would he?”
“Oh, yes he would.”
Mahina stood up purposefully. “I think perhaps it’s time I had a little chat with Captain Loclon.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t
be stupid, Tarja. Escape while you can.” She reached up and touched his cheek fondly. “Don’t let what has happened sway your resolve, Tarja. Medalon needs you. Go back to the rebellion, get it moving again and unseat your damned mother. I’ll take care of Loclon.”
“I plan to,” he promised her. “But I’m not letting you confront Loclon alone.”
Mahina grabbed her cloak off the hook on the back of the door and slipped it over her shoulders. Sunny stared at them blankly, as if she didn’t understand what was happening.
“Come if you must, Tarja,” Mahina said, “Just don’t get in my way. I have a few things I want to say to young Mister Loclon.”
Tarja opened the door for her. Together they ran toward the stables. The rain was still pelting down to the accompaniment of a thunderous orchestra. They shook off the raindrops as they entered the relatively dry stables. Mahina reached up and hooked the lantern she had brought from the kitchen on a nail driven into the doorframe.
“You haven’t changed a bit, you know,” Tarja told her as he led the first horse out of the stall.
“We’ll need a horse for R’shiel, too. And yes, I have changed,” she corrected. “Now I’m meaner.”
He had finished saddling the horses when Sunny suddenly appeared at the entrance to the stable, clutching one of Crisabelle’s impractical velvet cloaks around her, not caring that the rain was ruining the garment.
“Can I come, too?” she begged. “If they know I saw you and didn’t raise the alarm, I’ll be whipped.”
Tarja had no particular feelings for Sunny, one way or the other, but having been on the receiving end of the lash, it was not a punishment he would wish on anyone. And she spoke the truth. Annoyed by the added burden but unable to see any other course open to him, he nodded.
“Can you ride?”
“I’ll learn as I go,” the court'esa assured him. Then she reached into the folds of the dripping cloak and handed him a sheathed sword. It belonged to Wilem. He recognized the distinctive workmanship of the Citadel smiths in its wire-wrapped hilt. “I thought you might need this.”
Tarja accepted the gift and helped her up into the saddle of the mount he had picked out for R’shiel. “Come on then. And you’d better keep up. We won’t wait for you.”
Sunny wiggled uncomfortably in the saddle. “I’ll be just fine, Captain.”
Tarja swung up into the saddle of his own mount and led the old woman and the court’esa out into the rain, full of doubts and afraid of what he would find if Loclon really did have R’shiel.
chapter 41
“Trying to escape, eh?” Loclon asked. R’shiel backed away from him, bumping into the wet bulk of the trooper behind her. “That’s what she was doing, wasn’t it, Corporal Lenk?”
“Runnin‘ flat out across the Square, sir,” Lenk agreed. “Where were you running to?”
R’shiel did not bother to answer. There seemed little point.
“What’s the punishment for attempting to escape, Corporal?”
“Five lashes I believe, sir,” Lenk replied helpfully.
“Five lashes? Delivered publicly?”
“No, sir. The Commandant don’t allow women to be lashed in public. It’s done by one of the Sisters, out of sight.”
“Then be so good as to deliver a message to Sister Mahina, Corporal,” Loclon said, leaning back in Wilem’s chair with a proprietary air. “Tell her that I have a prisoner in custody who requires a lashing, and I would be most grateful, if the good Sister would attend to it for me.”
“Sir... well, it’s usually Sister Prozlan who does it, sir. Sister Mahina, well... she’s retired.”
“You have your orders, Corporal. The prisoner will be fine with me.”
Lenk glanced at his companion for a moment before he saluted and left the office, his partner in tow. R’shiel glanced at the door, wondering if she could get through it before Loclon reached her.
“By all means, try to escape,” he suggested, turning the whip over and over in his hands, almost lovingly. “That would be two attempted escapes in the one day. Ten lashes. Maybe you could get through them without a whimper like your brother did, but I doubt it. Ah, but then he’s not your brother anymore, is he? You’re nothing but a nameless bastard, these days. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
“Why did you send for Mahina?” she asked.
Loclon stood up, walking slowly around the desk, stroking the plaited leather tails.
“Well, you see, Mahina will either send Lenk off to see Prozlan, or she’ll come here herself. Either way, I don’t care. Watching you lashed by that old hag you call a friend would almost be as much fun as doing it myself.”
She backed away from him as he approached her, afraid to turn her back on him, moving deeper into the room, until eventually she met the solid resistance of Wilem’s desk. Loclon took another step toward her. Trapped by the bulk of the desk she looked around, realizing her mistake. Loclon stood between her and the door. She was trembling, soaked to the skin. He moved closer.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned.
“Or what?” He brought the handle of the whip up under her chin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to force her head back. With his other hand he reached out and touched her face with surprising gentleness, running his thumb lightly over her lips. His scar was dark against his skin.
R’shiel bit him with all the force she could muster.
“Bitch!” he yelled, snatching his hand away. He backhanded her across the face, throwing her back onto the desk. Too stunned to move out of the way, her mouth filled with the salty warm taste of her own blood mingled with his, she struggled to a half-sit. With a wordless cry he punched her again. She toppled off the desk to the floor, taking several stacks of parchment and an inkwell with her. The cut-crystal well shattered as it hit the floor, the ink pooling darkly beside her. Shards of broken glass glittered in the dim light of the single candle.
As he came at her again, something inside of R’shiel snapped. Her fear and pain vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar feeling of invincibility. She climbed to her feet as the strange feeling engulfed her. Unaware of the change in his quarry, Loclon grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. An inexplicable wellspring of power surged through her.
Instead of fighting him, R’shiel slid her arms around Loclon’s neck and kissed him deeply, open mouthed, making him gasp. Stunned by her sudden capitulation, he fumbled at her clothes, tearing the wet shirt easily from her shoulders. She threw her head back as he buried his face between her breasts. Lightning and thunder crashed in unison with her sudden power surge. She could feel Loclon trembling, shaking from the need to possess and humiliate her. She wanted to cry out as the strength welled up in her. She wanted to feel him trembling, needed to see him quivering at her feet. She ran her hands through his hair as he fell to his knees. She grabbed a handful, jerking his head back savagely. In her right hand the thin paring knife flashed in the jagged glare of the lightning.
Loclon came to his senses with astounding speed. She stood over him, her long hair hung damply over her breasts. Her eyes blazed with power, burning black, even the whites of her eyes consumed by the unfamiliar power. She did not understand the feeling or try to. The paring knife she held to his throat was rock steady. He had the sense to remain absolutely still. It was possible that he had never been so afraid in his life.
“Don’t be... s... stupid,” he gasped. “P... put it down.”
In reply she pressed the point into his neck and a warm trickle of blood slid down the blade.
“No!” Loclon sobbed.
She slid the knife sideways. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him think she was cutting his throat. She drew the thin blade across his exposed neck, the terror in his eyes thoroughly intoxicating her. The blood oozed out of the thin cut, running down his neck and over her hand. The sharp smell of urine suddenly mingled with the sweet-smelling blood, and R’shiel smirked at the dark spreading stain on the front of Loclon’s trousers.
<
br /> He thought he was dying. Before she was through with him, he would beg for death. Lifting the blade to his face, she pressed it into his cheek with the intention of carving a matching scar along the right side of his face. Tarja had given him that scar. For killing Georj. It was time to give him another one. For killing a part of her.
Loclon suddenly threw himself backward, jerking her off her feet as they tumbled to the floor. The blade was slick with blood, and it slipped from her grasp. With strength born of desperation and fear, he pushed her off him and lunged for the knife. She landed against the desk and cracked her head against the solid carved wood. The power surged again. Without warning, a faggot detached itself from the fire and hurled itself at Loclon. It caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, but it was enough to deflect him from the blade. He spun around, looking for his new, invisible assailant as another log hurtled across the room toward him. He ducked it as R’shiel dragged herself into the corner. He looked at her in horror, truly seeing her eyes for the first time. He moved toward her, barely avoiding the small three-legged stool that barreled toward him. Her head throbbed with pain from the blow against the desk. She felt the potent strength fading. Whatever strange power had filled her it was losing its strength.
Loclon saw her eyes change. On his hands and knees he scooped up the paring knife and threw it out of reach, never taking his eyes off her. Struggling upright he retrieved the Tiger’s Tail from near the hearth. R’shiel lay unmoving, as weak as a newborn, lacking the strength to defend herself. As if time had slowed almost to a standstill, she watched him raise the barbed whip above his shoulder. Still on his knees he moved toward her.
Suddenly a booted foot kicked the Tiger’s Tail from his hand. The boot swung up again and caught the captain squarely in the face, throwing him backward in an unconscious heap against the hearth. R’shiel’s eyes rolled back as a wave of blackness engulfed her and she fainted.
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