Brutal flicked his hand and several troops surrounded my three warriors and me, blades drawn.
“Keep her silent,” Brutal ordered. “And skin that beast. I want its hide on my wall.”
I know I screamed. What I screamed I don’t know. The horrible screams of the piebald stallion drowned out my own. Obedient slaves risked thrashing hooves as they moved in with heavy skinning knives. Sunlight flashed off the bright blades before the blood stilled their brilliance.
Still screaming, I drew my sword and lunged forward. Whether I sought to kill Brutal or end the suffering of the horse, I’ll never know. I took three, maybe four running strides before his protectors moved in. Rannon, Yuri and Yuras tried to fight them off, but with a dozen against three, they stood no chance. I dodged those that came at me, but only for a moment. I cut the face of one trooper when two others grabbed my arms.
I struggled, my hair in my face, my eyes blinded by tears.
Dimly, I saw my warriors down, their faces in the dirt, hands behind their backs, their blades taken. Royal troops in purple and gold held my boys down, held them fast. Despite the three holding me, I fought. They took my sword and I yanked my dagger. One grabbed my wrist before I could slice him with it, twisting my arm behind my back. Another seized me about the throat and waist, holding me tight to his larger and stronger body. I tried a kick, only to find even my legs captive to their stronger bodies. Unable to fight or flee, my eyes filled with the horrible sight of an innocent animal tortured.
Blood pooled beneath the struggling, thrashing, screaming stallion, his black and white hide piled high. His raw bloody muscles flexed and strained as the horse still fought for his life, fought to rise to his feet, fought to fight his attackers or flee from them. My shrieks of pain echoed his, my tears running in rivers down my face as his blood ran down his legs. The stallion’s screams echoed in my soul.
My people, the people of the horse, the Kel’Hallan Horse Lords, revered the horse above all other earthly creatures. Our horses had a higher intelligence, a greater courage and a bond of loyalty none could ever rival. Our horses were our kin, our family, our blood. We gave our lives for them and they for us. Through the long ages past, they were the very heart of the Kel’Hallan people, the source of all our strength.
Brutal knew this.
His feral gaze captured my tear-filled eyes. “You should have warned me, bitch. It’s your duty to keep me safe. Your negligence is laughable. This animal is suffering through your fault. And remember this—”
Once more, he raised his right finger raised to waggle back and forth in an almost comical gesture. My fear slackened and my rage planted its seed.
“I don’t need a female.” He bit off the word. “To tell me what to do. I don’t need you or your assistance with my subjects. I can take care of a rebellious peasant or horse with no help from you.”
Loose me and we’ll see whose fault ’twas, I gritted silently.
His eyes lit from within with an unholy light, a vile glee, his avid eyes dancing. His breath came and went from his thin chest in ragged pants. I could not help but see his arousal by this heinous act, this atrocity.
I fought against my captors, ready to kill with my hands alone. I almost got loose, felt their hands slip, but they clamped down tight, their combined strength greater than mine. Still I screamed, my throat raw from screaming.
Brutal’s intense eyes finally left me and returned to his horse. He watched the horse’s torment with cold amusement, ignoring the ruckus of my screams and the soldiers shouting. He stood as close as he dared to the thrashing hooves, reveling in the beast’s terror and agony. A joy lit his dead-brown eyes with an unholy life. How could any human being commit such an act on an innocent animal and find pleasure in it?
Shock finally set into the piebald. His struggles slackened and he gasped for air, his beautiful blue eyes glazed. I recognized a horse who had given in, had surrendered to those who sought to take his life. He could fight no longer.
I could.
I fought on, if only to end the poor stallion’s agony. I kicked a trooper in the knee, felt his hold on me loosen as his pain lanced into him. I almost got free before the others tightened their hold and shut my efforts down.
Brutal’s eyes never left the stricken beast. “Bring oil and a torch.”
Slaves, their eyes round with horror, ran to obey. What could he do now? I think I gave that thought voice, but I couldn’t be sure. If I had, Brutal ignored me. I was secondary now. The stallion, the hapless creature who, through an innocent zest for life, caused him, Crown Prince Broughton, discomfiture. The stallion, behaving as a free spirit might, brought him humiliation. The piebald stallion would pay for Brutal’s embarrassment with his life.
Slaves poured the oil into the raw meat of the still living, screaming horse, but Brutal himself threw in the torch. Flames leaped high, almost hiding the brutality. Heat scorched my face. I scented the sickly sweet stench of roasting horsemeat. Oily smoke nearly concealed the atrocity. Yet I saw it all. On Nephrotiti’s holy altar, I saw it all.
Brutal stepped in close, the only one who dared the thrashing, deadly hooves of the piebald stallion.
Brutal himself cut the ropes.
My last vision before turning in the troopers arms and vomiting was of the horse running, fleeing, trying in vain to outrun his agony, the wind of his passing kicking the flames higher…
* * *
I don’t remember the walk back to my apartments. I know Rannon, grim, filthy, cursing under his breath, held my arm. He held me upright, kept me walking forward. Yuri and Yuras strode to either side of us, their swords out. My throat raw, my mouth tasting of salty tears and vomit, I walked as one in a daze.
As I walked, the vision of the horse and Brutal’s evil joy slowly began to fade into the background. My rebellious stomach settled. My rage, its virulent seed sprouting, grew. Brutal would pay. By Nephrotiti herself, Brutal would pay. I would never marry that despicable Brutal for all the Kel’Hallas there are. If he didn’t like my decision, my father could kiss my backside. Nephrotiti herself couldn’t command me in this.
My plan to escape via the Festival of Summer still held merit. We would escape, and someday…somehow, I would kill Brutal for what he did this day. I would kill him slowly, an inch at a time, remove his nasty skin tiny bit by tiny bit. I would delight in his horrid screams of agony. He would die wishing he had never heard of Kel’Halla or the vindictive vixen who ruled her.
I came to myself at the door to my suite of apartments. I flung the door open before Rannon could open it for me and stormed inside.
“I will not marry that—that—animal!”
I vented my fury with a string of curses that caused Alun to turn red with embarrassment. Kel’Ratan looked up from his documents on a table in the common room. Several women warriors paused in their domestic tasks to gape at me. While blooded and accomplished warriors in their own right, they also served as my personal servants, seeing to my every need. They hurriedly continued with their chores, knowing my temper as well as they did, no doubt with ears flapping to catch every word. Their prowess as warriors did not detract one whit from their female love of gossip.
The other warriors not on current guard duty at the stables or around the apartments also glanced up from their daily tasks of sharpening weapons, making arrows, examining bows and bowstrings for excess wear and tear.
Kel’Ratan rose from his chair. “Ly’Tana, what’s wrong?”
Unable to speak for the fury choking me, I whirled and kicked the door shut. I barely missed Rannon, who quickly sidestepped, his own face drawn and pale at what we had just witnessed.
“I thought you went riding with Prince Brut— er, Broughton,” Kel’Ratan said.
Still unable to speak, I simply glared at him. He wore, as I did, tight-fitting leather vests, breeches and soft knee-high boots. A silver armband encircled his bulging right bicep, his sword belted at his hips. His bow and quiver of arrows leaned against the table nearby. Mu
stache quivering with suppressed irritation, his blue eyes snapped as he controlled a scowl at me. Not a patient man, my cousin.
I rested my own bow next to his, dropping my quiver next to it. My hair, unfettered, hung in my face. Impatiently, I swept the thick annoying mass behind my shoulders.
“Ly’Tana?”
“I did,” I snapped.
Pacing about the room helped curb my temper enough to think and speak coherently. Thus, I paced, warriors both male and female stumbling over themselves in their haste to get out of my way before I stepped on them. They reminded me of a silly flock of pigeons, scattering to the four winds at any threat, and regrouping once the threat passed by. The image merely angered me further and I violently suppressed the urge to kick Witraz, my friend from childhood, in his arse as he scrambled for safety near the big bay window.
I took a deep breath to control myself. “The Prince and I went riding. He wanted to discuss certain issues regarding our betrothal. Unfortunately, he picked a rather fractious mount to ride.” I laughed sharply. “I reckon he wanted to impress me with his royal horsemanship. Of course, the horse threw him.”
Kel’Ratan shrugged. “I’m not surprised. He is a rotten rider. Is that all?”
“Of course it’s not all,” I snapped. Still pacing, I counted slowly to ten to curb the urge to call him a dolt in front of the others.
Striding about, my breath came faster as I recalled the horror of Broughton’s actions. My chest tightened painfully. I grabbed a skin of liquid from the table, and poured blindly down my throat, not caring what it was I drank. I needed wine, water, anything to wash the gruesome taste of burnt flesh and vomit from my mouth.
Between gulps, I told him and the still listening warriors what had happened. I calmed a fraction as I spoke, yet suspected the wine had more to do with calming my outraged nerves than speaking. Rannon nodded as I spoke, murmuring side comments to a few who gathered around him. Yuri and Yuras merely leaned against a wall, finding comfort in each other.
My people waited for the rest of my story with horror, yet also waited on my word that would launch them against Prince Brutal. On my word alone, they would avenge a dead horse.
Not caring what anyone thought, I drank the skin to its dregs. I dropped it back down beside Kel’Ratan, where it lay limp and deflated, like a dead animal, half-drooping off the side of the table. A single drop of wine slid out from its neck to splash onto the slate tiles at my feet. When I spoke again, my voice had calmed considerably. Without it, I doubted I could have found voice to say what happened.
“Brutal commanded his slaves to skin the beast. Alive.”
Outside the horrible vision still within my mind’s eye, I saw Kel’Ratan’s face grow grim, his lean, tanned face darkening with anger as I went on, recounting the horror. As I finished my story with my shameful admission to vomiting on the troopers’ boots, he, too, paced, up and down, his hand fondling the hilt of his sword. I stood back, my own need for physical activity over, for the moment, anyway. I searched the immediate vicinity for another skin of wine, not finding any.
Witraz, ever knowing my mood, held a fresh one out to me. Under normal circumstances, he would have also made a cutting remark to accent his gift. No remark erupted from his clever mouth, and his one eye narrowed tightly with suppressed rage. I wiggled the wax stopper from the mouth, and took another long draught. At this pace, I’d be dead drunk before dinner, I thought with morose humor, and comatose not long after.
“Holy Lady, help me,” I muttered.
I did not realize at first how badly I shook until I saw goose flesh rise on my arms. Holding my arms close against my body, I rubbed the chill away, trembling. My steel wrist cuffs clanked against my armband. I forced myself to relax and calm down, taking another long pull from the wineskin.
Kel’Ratan stood close, gazing down at me. Then he rudely jerked the skin from my hands, tossing it aside and into the hands of Rannon. Rannon, ever the smart one, yanked the stopper out and took a long drink before passing it to Yuri.
“That’s bloody enough,” he growled.
My anger rose. I drew myself up haughtily, ready to tell him exactly what I thought. The thought process died in infancy when he reached out to brush an errant lock of my hair from my eyes. Then, suddenly, all I wanted right then was to fall into his strong arms and sob like a child.
“We’ll find an excuse to end negotiations,” he said quietly. “We’ll be on our way home in a few days.”
I could only nod, feeling sick, unable to lose the sight of the flaming horse from my eyes.
“Brutal looked at me.”
Kel’Ratan froze at my tone, as though he knew what I was going to say. I gazed up into his eyes, unable to stop the quaver in my voice as I spoke. I hated myself for it, but realized the wine, while quieting my nerves, also accented my raw emotions. I gulped, sweating, and went on.
“What he did to the horse was a warning. To me. Should I fail to please him. That piebald’s fate would be mine.”
Kel’Ratan, my cousin, my protector since birth, my best friend, took me into his arms and held me close. I shut my eyes against his chest, let myself be comforted by his calm strength. Close to tears, I struggled to force them back. I succeeded in preventing them from falling, but they did sting my eyes something fierce.
He held me close for what seemed like a very long time. I relaxed into his strong male comfort, hearing his heart beat in long thick strokes through his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, scenting the clean masculine scent of him. Distantly, I heard the hurried whispers, the movement of my warriors as they moved about, talking in low tones. I merely existed, finding solace in the great strength of Kel’Ratan’s arms.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was more probably a few minutes, he took me by the arms and gently pushed me away. He smiled at me, encouraging me to smile unwillingly back. “We’ll leave tomorrow,” he said.
As he stepped away, he spoke over his shoulder. “You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”
“Only at the top of my lungs.”
Kel’Ratan wheeled, his face stricken. “Ly’Tana, nay.”
“Why not?” I snapped. “I’m certainly not going to keep it a secret—” I stopped, only then realizing what I had done.
I felt my jaw gape. Stunned at my own stupidity I fumbled for a stool and sat down hard. My teeth clapped shut on my tongue, but I scarcely felt the pain. I had just planned to escape without warning Brutal. Now I lit a fire under his arse.
“He would not dare,” I murmured.
“He would dare,” Kel’Ratan growled, his face as grim as I have ever seen it. “He will not lose Kel’Halla. We are leaving. Now.”
Upon Kel’Ratan’s orders, the warriors hastily packed. Pandemonium ensued as we all tried stuffing clothes, weapons and other belongings into saddlebags. I mentally calculated how long it would take to reach the stables and our mounts, counted the number of warriors on guard duty. We would gather their things along with our own and scoop them up as we fled to the stable. I glanced out the window to gauge the time. It was only a short hour after noon. It seemed like days since I rode cheerfully out of the stables with Prince Brutal, yet it had only truly been a few hours.
I shoved spare clothing, riding leathers, a cloak, extra daggers and whetstones, flint and steel into my saddlebag, finding some room for more fletching materials. Several jewels, two great diamonds, a ruby the size of a hen’s egg that Brutal gave me followed them in; they might pay for supplies we cannot obtain by hunting or foraging. I found a large pouch of Federal gold crowns and frowned down at them. I had forgotten where they had come from. Oh, right. Brutal had given them to me as well, to resupply my warriors. Well, so they would. I tossed them in, glad to have them.
A quick glance around the apartments showed me that nearly everyone stood impatient to depart, their weapons ready to hand and saddle bags hung over shoulders. Quivers stuffed with arrows protruded stiffly from backs,
leather thongs held back long hair in the expectation of combat. Left and Right stood guard duty on either side of the main chamber doors, their expressions blank and impassive, as always.
“You two,” I snapped, garnering their immediate attention. Their backs stiffened perceptively. “You, Yuri and Yuras and Kel’Ratan guard our rear. Witraz, you—”
The doors to the common room crashed open, cutting off my words. Left and Right immediately sprang to defend me, whipping swords from sheaths. Yet, as quick as they were, the Federal troopers moved faster. Wooden halberd butts lashed out, connecting solidly with their heads. The twins staggered back, blood crimson on their faces and dripped from their hair. Helping arms caught them before they could hit the slate floor.
More swords sang from sheaths, my own one of them.
High Priest Theodoric, Prince Brutal’s toady, filled the doorway. A dozen, more, soldiers wearing the white and gold livery and turbans of the Synn’jhani raced inside, swords and shields ready, spoiling for a fight.
“Hold fast!” I barked, seeing the hallway outside packed with more of the Synn’jhani, the royal guard, far more than I wanted to see ready to fight my handful of warriors. Not taking their eyes from the Synn’jhani before them, nor sheathing their weapons, my band obeyed me, staying their instinctive urge to retaliate. The Federates also froze, swords leveled, but halted in their attack. The ages old enmity between Kel’Halla and Khalid seemed on the verge of explosive renewal, here in my chambers.
Theodoric glanced about at the frozen tableau, at the soldiers and warriors ready and willing to attack one another, given the slightest provocation, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
“Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing low from the waist. “Forgive the intrusion.”
“Leave now and I’ll forget it happened.” I made my voice as coldly dangerous as I could, hopefully concealing the quaking I felt within.
“Of course, my lady,” he continued smoothly. “I will obey just as soon as I deliver this message from His Royal Highness Crown Prince Broughton.”
My gut clenched. I knew exactly what this “message” was. I saw it written in the plump folds of this pudgy toady’s leering face and thick smiling lips. How loathsome that face looked. I suddenly remembered how much I disliked this round priest with the sanctimonious air when I first met him months ago. I knew he plundered the charitable contributions of Usa’a’mah’s worshippers left for the spread of his worship, as though he himself deserved the monies more. He lied. He cheated. He stole from the innocent. I hated his supercilious sneer the most. My dislike instantly sharpened into hate. My hand itched to bury my sword between his evil eyes and erase that nasty smile forever.
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