Change of Darkness

by Jacinta Jade

  Siray noted he didn’t turn to look at any of them as he went by, but she still suspected he was cataloguing everything.

  After passing Loce and then Kinna, Herrin turned and marched his powerful body back to his initial position, about ten paces out and centred.

  ‘Number off,’ he commanded, his deep voice reaching Siray clearly. ‘Starting at sixty-one, with you.’ The trainer raised a bladed hand to point out the wretched female captive who had first started walking.

  As if she had been threatened, the female quivered, hesitated a moment, then managed to stammer out, ‘Six—Sixty-one.’

  ‘Stop!’ The call was instantaneous. ‘Call it out, again,’ Herrin ordered. ‘Nice and clear.’ He drew out the last couple of words.

  The nervous-looking female took a deep breath. ‘Sixty-one!’

  The trainer nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Sixty!’

  ‘Fifty-nine!’

  Herrin was nodding as he listened to the captives sound out the count, but behind him, Siray saw two males approaching from the tunnel leading into the arena. Dressed all in black, they had hard faces.

  Then she realised the countdown was approaching her position in line, and Siray stiffened a little in anxious anticipation as first Zale, then Baindan, shouted out their numbers from beside her.

  ‘Six!’

  ‘Five!’

  ‘Four!’ Siray shouted.

  Kinna finished the count at one, and the captives stood there, tense, each moment of silence Herrin allowed only adding to their sense of unease.

  Even Siray was beginning to doubt her earlier theories. She was sure they had complied with Herrin’s order completely by continuing to run. Hadn’t they? Or was there something they hadn’t done that they should have? Siray didn’t know.

  At this point, the two males dressed in black had crossed the sand to reach the trainer. They did not interact with Herrin but merely waited off to his sides, a pace or two behind him.

  Siray understood their wish to keep a healthy distance between themselves and the trainer, given the lethal swiftness he had demonstrated earlier, but she couldn’t fathom how they weren’t dying of heat exhaustion in those dark uniforms.

  Herrin opened his arms as he gestured to the line of captives. ‘I want one single file before me, starting with number one.’

  Kinna swallowed audibly from where she stood at the front of the line, and Siray knew that the timid female was now regretting her choice of position. The female moved forwards, Loce and Tamot following, and Siray took a deep breath as she, too, stepped up. Close behind her, she could feel the familiar warm presence of Baindan.

  Herrin eyed the nervously shifting string of captives. ‘When you do as you are told, you will be rewarded. When you defy, refuse, or do not comply with an order, you will be punished.’

  Siray’s stomach began to drop within her. At least she had been right about one thing—they were indeed about to be taught some kind of lesson.

  The trainer continued to examine them all, the hard muscle of his arms straining against his shirt. ‘Many of you decided to cease running, despite being given no order to do so. Hence, you will be punished.’ Herrin remained still, while the captives started shifting at his words. ‘And some of you saw others not complying … and did nothing. So you will also be punished.’ The trainer turned his head to one side and dipped his chin.

  At his words, Siray felt her blood run cold, her worst theory confirmed. Unconsciously, Siray’s gaze moved in the same direction as Herrin’s, looking for the threat.

  Were armed guards about to descend upon them? Would they have to fight for their lives against one another, like Melora had before the march here?

  Siray tensed at the sign of movement behind Herrin, and an instant later, felt the slightest brush of a hand against her back. Baindan—probably his subtle way of telling her to wait until the right time to act.

  But the motion Siray had spotted only turned out to be from the two males dressed in black, who were simply reaching up and over their shoulders.

  She relaxed slightly, then stiffened again as she wondered if they had swords or knives strapped to their backs. And when they each pulled out a single black coil, Siray frowned, her body relaxing as she perceived no immediate threat.

  Until the males flicked their wrists … and with a thud, the coils unwound heavily to the sand.

  Siray’s stomach knotted, and a new kind of fear gripped her.

  Whips. The two males each had a whip.

  From the front of the line, Herrin’s head moved as he looked fixedly back at the file. ‘Each of you just called out a number. The number you called out, divided by two, will be the number of lashes you will receive.’

  Siray’s mouth went dry. Two lashes. She stared in dread at the whip gripped in one of the soldier’s hands, trying to block out images of its biting end tearing her flesh. But then the full extent of what Herrin had just said sunk in. Yes, she would be getting two lashes—but the female who was number sixty-one would be getting …

  ‘Thirty-one lashes,’ breathed Baindan from behind her, his voice barely a whisper, rounding up the number as Herrin was sure to do.

  ‘But,’ said Herrin, interrupting the silently rising panic gripping all the captives as he held up one large hand, almost conversationally. ‘The twenty-one of you who continued to run, you will only receive one each.’ His hands twitched slightly, as if they were expressing the part of him that wanted to grin at the power he wielded over them all.

  Siray slumped slightly, swallowing, both relieved and grateful for the reduced punishment. Then she caught herself and closed her eyes tightly, disgusted by her own reaction.

  No one should be getting whipped. None of them should even be here.

  Is this how it starts, Siray wondered, the transition into one of them? Being grateful for small mercies?

  She turned her glaring blue eyes on Herrin, praying to the Mother to supply any one of the dozen torturous deaths she could imagine for him.

  Yet the two males in black pants and long shirts were now moving farther away from Herrin and to the sides, the end of the whips trailing through the sand after them like thin, dark serpents.

  Herrin’s fists clenched and unclenched in anticipation as he walked backwards, his new position enabling him to see both the soldiers and the line of captives.

  ‘Number one and two!’ he called.

  Kinna and Loce walked forwards, both of them stiff, Loce’s jaws clenched, his dark eyes contrasting sharply with his white face.

  Each of the guards pointed to a spot before them, and Siray watched as Kinna, white-faced, stopped on the indicated position.

  The soldier gave Kinna another order, and the female reluctantly shuffled back around to present her back to the male, before shakily bending down to kneel on the sand. Kinna’s eyes snapped up to take in all the watching captives briefly, and Siray felt her stomach tighten as she realised the female was hoping someone might do something to stop this madness. But there was nothing any of them could do, and Siray squeezed her hands into fists, forcing herself to stay silent and still.

  Kinna seemed to come to the same horrible conclusion, and her eyes drifted away from Siray and the others to focus on the ground before her, her midnight-coloured tresses contrasting sharply with her bloodless face.

  To the other side of Herrin, Loce was also kneeling, his eyes closed.

  The guards gave their whips a readying shake, and Siray felt a sharp pain in one hand. Looking down, she realised that her fingernails had bitten into her palm, she was squeezing her hands that tight.

  Just as she was forcing herself to try to relax, two sharp cracks split the air, followed by two grunts of pain.

  Siray’s head shot up, and she saw the ends of the whips trailing in the sand as Kinna and Loce leaned forwards on their knees, their faces full of pain.

  ‘Three and four!’

  Siray couldn’t stop her legs from shaking as she moved forwards
behind Tamot, and she felt sweat break out down her back and under her arms. This time, she didn’t even feel her nails digging into her palms as she approached the soldier on the right, nor the stinging as sweat from her palms dripped into the small cuts.

  As she reached the spot where Loce had left knee prints in the sand, Siray stopped, turning on the spot as Loce had before her, to face the captives still lined up. She absolutely refused to look at Kinna and Loce, who had dragged themselves far off to the side, lest she start hyperventilating over what was to come.

  But looking down at the ground before her feet, Siray’s eyes zeroed in on flecks of blood that spotted the otherwise pristine white sand of the arena. And a random part of her wondered if the scars that would result from this would last, like the ones on her face. But then, the marks that crossed over her eye and down her cheek had almost been burned there, by venom. Anything else, her body could heal, given time.

  Dropping first to one knee, then to the other, seemed to take a substantial physical effort, though keeping herself upright and her face as vacant as possible was even harder.

  Never before had she felt this kind of helplessness. Not even while being tortured by Silver in the depths of the Research Centre in Lalinta. There she had been able to show her defiance, to fight back in whatever way she could.

  Here, wherever here was, acceptance seemed the best method of survival. And she wanted to survive.

  On her knees now, Siray turned her head slightly to the left. Just enough to see the silhouette of Tamot as he knelt before the other guard. Behind him, she could see the guard drawing back the whip.

  As her hands began to shake, knowing that as she did so, the guard behind her was preparing to strike, Siray looked away from Tamot, her eyes automatically searching for something that could offer her comfort.

  She locked gazes with Baindan.

  His grey eyes seemed to rage like a violent storm, and as they held hers, they seemed to promise a slow death for those responsible for what was about to happen to her.

  The slightest whisper of air behind her, then pain seared across Siray’s back as a loud crack exploded in her ears.

  For a moment, Siray was stunned—her body and mind in shock. But that protection faded all too quickly, and the intensity of the pain in her back escalated rapidly, making her curl forwards over her knees, the movement only making the pain in her back worse. Such was her suffering that she couldn’t even let out a moan—her voice refused to work at all.

  ‘Next!’

  The cold voice of Master Herrin broke through Siray’s pain, and the fear of further punishment if she didn’t move was the only thing that compelled her to push herself up to her feet.

  The effort of standing seemed to double the pain, as the torn muscles of her back fought to stabilise her waving body. Yet once she was up, walking was slightly easier, although each impact of her feet upon the sand caused searing pain to burn its way up her spine.

  Tasting blood in her mouth, Siray vaguely realised that she must have bitten her lip to keep from crying out as she stood, but she couldn’t even feel the injury she had caused herself as she kept her eyes on the ground and simply pointed her body in the direction that Kinna and Loce had gone.

  At least she could be thankful that she had a smaller distance to traverse than Tamot to get clear of the whips.

  Siray had almost reached Kinna when two more cracks rent the air, and she flinched before she could consciously remember that she was now out of range. But then she forgot everything as a fresh wave of pain raked her body.

  Feeling slightly faint, Siray considered letting herself drop to the sand where she was. But she whimpered as she considered the pain that would cause and chose to remain standing.

  Tamot, meanwhile, had dragged his feet through the sand until he had moved past her and stood on the far side of their small, pain-racked group, his eyes hard as he gazed unseeing at the ground. Surely he wouldn’t do anything stupid …

  A moment later, a tense, warm body came to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, and looking up, Siray saw golden hair and eyes.

  ‘I’d ask how you’re doing, but I’m pretty sure I know exactly what your response would be.’ Zale angled his body so that Herrin would be unable to see that he was speaking, and he looked up as Baindan also painfully manoeuvred himself to stand close by.

  Siray adjusted her own position slightly, grimacing as she did so, her gaze flicking over Baindan’s face before returning to Zale. ‘I feel like this is some form of cruel test.’

  Zale peered carefully over his shoulder, winced at the pain the movement clearly caused him, and then jerked his chin back around.

  His actions gave Siray enough warning to brace herself.

  Sure enough, two more cracks split the air.

  ‘If it was a test, then you passed. You didn’t make a sound.’ Zale’s voice was quietly admiring, but Siray could hear the agony underlying it.

  Siray ignored the praise and simply said, ‘Trust me, it wasn’t by choice.’

  Zale shook his head slightly, either not believing her or just expressing his disbelief at what was happening.

  Another pair of cracks sounded, and Siray couldn’t stop herself from automatically twisting to look—with an accompanying gasp at the flare of pain that accompanied the movement—to see Wexner on his knees, turning his head to glare at Herrin, his spine ramrod straight despite the freshly torn skin that now adorned his back. And even though Wexner could be difficult at times—rude, even—Siray almost felt like running over and kissing him for the way he held Herrin’s eye as he carefully stood, then looked away dismissively from the trainer, as if saying, Is that the best you can do?

  The whippings carried on, and Siray watched the other captives who had run beside her take their punishment, some with scarcely controlled panic, and a rare few, like Melora, with barely restrained anger.

  Soon the line of captives reached those who had walked, and by this point, the remaining forty-two captives in the line had had plenty of time to watch the whippings and the pain caused by just one lashing. As such, many of them were now pale, and a couple had thrown up whatever had been in their stomachs.

  Herrin merely clenched and unclenched one fist as he called out the next numbers. ‘Twenty-two and twenty-three—you’ll receive eleven and twelve lashes, respectively.’

  When the next male captive was too scared to step forwards, Herrin tilted his head, that scarred face impassive. ‘Twelve lashes for you both, then. Shall I keep increasing the number?’

  When the shaking of the male’s hands only increased, Siray sucked in a breath, pushing sweaty strands of her long red hair away from her face, realising that the male was simply rooted to the spot in fear. She glanced to Herrin, whose stance was lazy but tensed, like a predator about to spring.

  The trainer opened his mouth—

  And the male captive stumbled forwards abruptly, taking three steps before blinking, and then a couple more. After gaining some initial momentum, he seemed able to get his body to obey, and he angled off towards one of the guards holding a bloody whip.

  Behind him, grim-faced and resolute, stiffly walked another male with pale-red hair—Canvell. Siray recalled the male’s face from the Gonron tunnels just before the Faction had captured them. And Siray realised that Canvell had pushed the first male forwards.

  To save him. To save them both from Herrin’s lust for violence.

  In silence, both took their places kneeling before the guards.

  In silence, the pair of guards flicked their wrists.

  Crack! The two whips sounded as one at the first blow.

  The red-haired male grunted, then Siray saw his teeth bear down on his lip.

  Crack! Two. This time, both males groaned a little.

  Crack! Three. Only silence now, as the pain began to make the male’s grow dizzy.

  On it went.

  Siray’s breathing became more rapid as she watched blood begin to fleck the side of the
males’ faces and form dark trails down their bodies as it flowed out and away the wounds in their backs.

  By the time they had made it through their allotted twelve lashes, both captives had their hands braced before them on the ground to support themselves—and then only because not doing so and allowing themselves to collapse fully would give the Faction guards just more skin and vulnerable flesh to shred.

  And certainly, the pair of torturers seemed to be enjoying their job, their faces a reflection of each other as they let their pleasure at carrying out their bloody task show.

  ‘Twenty-four and twenty-five!’ roared Herrin.

  Still kneeling, the ground around them beginning to turn red as their blood soaked into the sand, the male captives attempted to stand. And failed.

  Siray’s mouth open and closed, watching them. She wanted to do something. Wanted to help them. But would Herrin allow it?

  She looked to Herrin, whose eyes were narrowing as he noted the males’ lack of movement, and she took a hesitant step forward.

  And gasped as two other forms bypassed her to go to the males’ aid.

  Zale and Kinna.

  The two separated, Zale going to Canvell on the far side while Kinna dropped to her knees on the bloody sand next to the other male and attempted to help him to stand.

  That was enough for Siray to start marching forwards, and she refused to look at Herrin as she strode across the sands to assist Kinna, clamping down on her fear of what the trainer might do to them for helping. Together, they managed to half support and half carry the almost-unconscious male captive from where he had been kneeling towards the area where the captives who had only received one lash were waiting.

  As they hobbled along, Baindan passed them, heading towards Zale, who was also beginning to lead Canvell back.

  Upon reaching the group, it was clear that the male Siray and Kinna were supporting wouldn’t be able to hold himself up, so Siray directed Kinna to lay the male down on his front, where hopefully no sand would get into his wounds.

  Then Siray made the mistake of looking down at the male’s back.