In for a penny, in for a pound, Brelan thought dismally. He let his grin fade and locked his stony gaze with the pig-like malicious orbs. "If it had been up to me, he wouldn't have died."
"And what would you have done, Saur?" The fat jowls quivered in anticipation.
Saur could feel the anger directed at him by more than a few men. "We'll never know, will we? He'd not have cared for it, I assure you, but I wouldn't have let him die."
Appolyon cupped the chin of the prisoner, caressed the face with its ragged growth of beard. "Would you have tortured him, Saur?"
"Possibly," Brelan answered, thinking that had it been up to him, he would have spirited Conar out of the country, well away from Liza. That would have been a torture of the first order to Conar McGregor.
"Would you have enjoyed it?" Appolyon tugged gently on the prisoner's chin.
"Probably," he said, thinking that, at that time, he would have enjoyed Conar's mental torture.
The Commandant ran the backs of his fingers over his prisoner's cheek, chuckling as the sagging head pulled away. He realized the man was aware of what was being said. His voice was oily as he spoke. "Did Conar McGregor's great pain please you, Saur? Did his pain amuse you as the flesh was stripped from his body?"
"It…" Brelan strove for the right word. "It intrigued me, Commandant."
"How so?"
"I wanted to see just how much pain he could stand before death." Brelan felt his stomach lurch at the lie.
"Then this should please you greatly, Saur!" Appolyon crooked one stubby finger at Brelan.
Brelan stepped forward, no thought in his mind other than the fat man was even more gross than the Commandant who had preceded him. As he drew near the prisoner, his nostrils quivered at the rancid smell. He let his scrutiny wander from the bare, blistered, heavily callused feet, to the ragged breeches that barely covered legs and hips, to the filthy chest criss-crossed with the scars of old lash marks, up the sunburned shoulders and neck to the dirty, snarled hair. He had to steel himself not to flinch as the Commandant grabbed a handful of the man's hair and viciously jerked up his head.
"Well, Saur?" The fat man chuckled.
Brelan Saur's mind ceased to function. He stood perfectly still, unable to move, staring into the face of a ghost.
Chapter 8
* * *
Conar felt the vicious tug on his hair as Appolyon jerked back his head. He gritted his teeth against the fiery pull on his scalp. He was fast approaching the limits of endurance and knew it. He could feel his life ebbing away, could feel his willpower, his desire to go on living, draining. If he had to suffer even one more day of this brutal existence he knew in his heart and mind he would go stark, raving mad. He groaned, thinking not of what was going to be done to him, although that would be bad enough, but of what might be done to his friends because of his futile attempt to escape this hellish, nightmarish life.
He heard Appolyon's snide voice, but he was beyond understanding the words. He was beyond feeling anything except the vile touch of the fat man's slimy hands on him. He was beyond caring if he survived the coming ordeal.
What did it matter? he thought. His life was over anyway. Death was close, calling to him. Might as well look it in the eye and embrace it as though it were a welcome lover, accept it as a man instead of the quivering animal he had become.
Calling on what little reserve of dignity he had left, he forced himself to open his eyes.
Conar saw total recognition flooding Brelan's startled face, saw terror, panic, sheer disbelief flit across the pallid plains. Then he saw the pity, and he lowered his gaze.
Conar wanted to sink into the sand never to rise again. Such pity, never seen before in Brelan's eyes, had cut him to the quick and his heart was bleeding, crumpling inside him like the dried remnants of his former life.
"Look at me!" Brelan ordered, his voice thick and rushed. He forced up Conar's head and stared.
Brelan wanted to scream. He wanted to kill whoever had smothered the fire in his brother's eyes. If he could have, he would have run away, but he couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. He felt as though he had been turned inside out. He put his hands on Conar's cheeks. It nearly killed him to see Conar refusing to look at him, to see the shame in the ravaged face, to see the scars that had been added over the years to the twin furrows that Kaileel Tohre had made. He looked into this man's battered face, striving hard to find his lost brother beneath the filth and the beard, but there was precious little left of the man he had hated so freely and passionately over the years. Nothing remained of the Prince Regent of Serenia, the once proud, defiant young man who had been meant to one day rule his homeland.
"Are you pleased, Saur?" came Appolyon's question.
Mentally shaking himself, tearing his stare away from that grotesque parody of his brother's never-forgotten face, Brelan forced a false smile to his lips. "More than I can say, Commandant. Seeing this man alive will make my time here more than worth the journey!"
Appolyon slapped a conspiratorial arm around Saur's shoulders. "Then you won't mind being the one to punish him for me this time, will you?"
Saur felt an icy-cold numbness settle in his chest. He let go of Conar's cheeks. "What do you want done?"
"Your little brother doesn't seem to enjoy our company. This is not the first time he has shown disdain for the rules. His disobedience must be dealt with, don't you agree?" The fat jowls wobbled as he laughed.
Aware of the others watching, Brelan made his decision. With a slight nod, he locked his gaze on the Commandant. "I was sent at the King's orders, much against my will I assure you, to serve the Tribunal's needs." He glanced at Roget's stiff spine. "I will see to the guards, Commandant. I leave such matters as discipline up to you."
A hollow chuckle came from the fat lips. The commandant squeezed Brelan tighter. "Tell me, what do you think we should do to him?"
Bile rose in Brelan's throat at the intimate contact of his body with that of the slug-like bastard holding him. He had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. "Isn't it customary to lash a prisoner who tries to escape?"
"It's customary to hang 'em!" Lydon Drake scoffed. "Of course, we can't do that to the Traitor."
"Solitary confinement?" another guard offered.
Appolyon waved his free hand in annoyance. "I've grown bored with that, and I don't think it bothers him all that much. What else?"
"Double shifts?" Brelan hoped his voice had not been too eager.
"He gets that already!" Sentian snarled. "Always has!"
Brelan saw pure rage lining the Heil's mouth. Surely the man was exaggerating.
"Is he afraid of being in confining places, perhaps?" Appolyon suggested hopefully. "Some men don't like to be put down one of the mineshafts and left dangling."
Brelan forced his eyebrows to rise in amusement. "Hardly. The little bastard used to hide in his armoire to get away from me!"
Conar lifted his head, stared at his brother.
Appolyon sulked. "There has to be something we can do to teach him a lesson."
Brelan shrugged. "From what I know of him, there's nothing he truly fears. Pain doesn't seem to bother him."
"Unfortunately, it doesn't." There was a long breath. "Of course, we could torture his friends in front of him. He seems to dote on some of them."
Conar's eyes came alive for the first time. "Please, don't," he croaked.
"Did he say something?" Appolyon squealed, fury rushing across his face.
"No!" Brelan answered. "The Tribunal does not wish for any of these men to be executed or tortured. They were sent here to be punished. I believe Arch Prelate Tohre would be rather upset if one of them were harmed. He might need them one day."
A sneer passed over the fat face. "Too lenient! I've tried to make the priest understand that you have to break a man before you can get him to do what you want!"
"Nevertheless, those were the Tribunal's orders."
"I know," Appolyon snapped. He t
urned his eyes to Lydon. "What do you suggest?"
"What about crucifying him?" Lydon snickered. "He won't likely forget that!"
Brelan saw horror on du Mer's face and knew the same look was on his own. He struggled to not let Appolyon see even a trace of fear on his face. "Will that not keep him from working?"
Obviously bored by the conversation, eager to see Conar hurt, the Commandant turned on Brelan. "I find it a fitting punishment for his running away. It is the customary punishment, though we haven't used it in years."
"From the looks of him, he might not survive such action," Brelan warned.
"He's stronger than he looks!" Lydon quipped.
"He's also been in the desert sun without water for a few days," another guard said.
"So, give the bastard water!" Lydon strode to the water barrel and scooped a gourd full, then threw the contents in Conar's face. "Does that suit you, Nelson?"
"Give the man water to drink, fool!" Brelan ordered, meeting Drake's narrowed gaze with his own. "You might have thought you were top dog before I arrived, but you'll work by my orders from now on. Do I make myself clear enough for a half-wit like you?"
Drake's face turned scarlet. He started toward Brelan, stopping only when the Commandant's high-pitched laughter peeled out. "He's your boss, Drake! Better listen!" Appolyon eyed Brelan with newfound admiration. Any man who would dare speak so to a thug like Drake had more balls than he had given him credit for having.
For a long moment, Drake glared at Brelan.
"Don't ever make me tell you twice to do something," Brelan said, his voice deceptively smooth and polite. He jerked his thumb toward the water barrel.
A snicker of hate passed over the guard's dark visage. "Get it yourself!" Lydon turned to walk away.
Brelan took a step backward, pivoted on his left foot and swung the other in a high arc, connecting his right foot with Lydon's chin. Drake dropped with a surprised grunt and lay immobile.
"Anyone else want to test my authority?" Saur shouted, his glare sweeping the courtyard.
"I'll get him water!" one of the guards snapped and ran to the water barrel. He gave Conar water, but Brelan pushed the gourd away from his brother's eager lips.
"Not too much!" he ordered. "Too much will bloat his gut and make him ill." Brelan looked at the Commandant. "You know," he began, his voice sly and steady, "I think I know a punishment that might be better."
"There's no need for discussion," Appolyon interrupted. "Do what has to be done, Saur! Or if you are not up to it…" He shrugged his massive shoulders.
Brelan had no choice. If he backed down, if he let some other guard do this to Conar, he'd lose face with the Commandant. Since his whole scheme depended on having the fat man's trust, he knew what he had to do. He saw Thom Loure. "Get the tools," he demanded, gruffly.
Thom shook his head. "I won't be a part of this."
Brelan heard a bellow of rage and saw men struggling with Hern. He saw the big man go down amidst fists and what appeared to be a small log. Brelan glanced at Grice and saw his old friend frowning with worry.
"Well, Saur?" the Commandant snapped, one thin brow raised. "Do you do it or do I wait until Drake is awake?"
"You can't do this," Jah-Ma-El told his brother. "You can't let them do it, either. Look at him Lord Saur. He's barely able to stand. If you stretch him out there in the hot sun, he'll die!"
"Shut that man up." Appolyon said.
"Please!" Jah-Ma-El screeched as the guards hurried toward him. "He's your brother! For the love of Alel, don't let them do this to him! He only tried to get away from their tor—"
His voice was choked off as one of the guards backhanded him.
Brelan was finding it harder to breathe. There was a crushing pain in his heart, a constriction in his throat. He could actually hear his blood pumping through the arteries in his head. He looked at Roget, but du Mer turned his face. Looking at the others—Grice, Chand, Tyne, Chase, Rylan, Paegan—he could see fear and horror on their faces. Looking at Thom, Storm, Ward, Shalu and Sentian, he could see strong hate. When someone extended a mallet and set of spikes to him, he could only stare at the instruments with a dazed, pained look on his chiseled features.
"Can't do it, can you?" a guard taunted.
Brelan saw Conar nod in understanding.
"Be about it, Lord Saur," Appolyon ordered.
Brelan glanced at the men holding Conar. He took a deep, ragged breath. "Lay him down."
They half-carried, half-dragged Conar to the center of the courtyard where an X-shaped wooden frame had been built on the ground long ago. The guards laid Conar over the cruciform, spread his arms and held them down as two guards tied his spread ankles to the cruciform's lower limbs.
"He's ready, Lord Saur." Appolyon chuckled.
Kneeling beside Conar was the hardest thing Brelan had ever had to do. With the mallet griped in his right hand and one of the six inch spikes in the other, he felt sweat in his palms. He shifted the mallet to his left hand and ran his palm down the leg of his breeches. The jolt of what he was going to do ripped through him like lighting when he heard his brother's sad, forgiving words.
"It's all right, Brelan," the cracked lips parted to say. "Just do it."
Saur would never know what made him do it. He hadn't meant to, didn't really want to, but something evil moved in his soul, sprang up at him from the very bowels of the Abyss. His guilt rolled in his gut, he thought of Liza, of how much she loved this man, and he felt an anger that had to be directed else he would explode. Some nameless evil lifted his hand and brought it back over his shoulder. Some loathsome power uncoiled like a striking serpent, making him slap Conar with such force, with such unexpected cruelty, the two guards let go of Conar's arms, transfixed as they stared at Brelan's face with something akin to true fear.
Blood trickled from the corner of Conar's mouth.
Completely shocked by what he had done, furious at his lack of self-control and loath to admit he could do something so unnecessarily evil, all Brelan could do was scream at the guards. "Hold his damned hands on that wood!"
Sentian's scream of rage, Thom's bellow of fury, Jah-Ma-El's whimper of pain, did not stop Brelan. Du Mer's falling to his knees, Chase's shout did not stop him, either. Brelan placed the first spike in the center of Conar's outstretched palm and drove it through Conar's flesh.
Conar's body jerked violently. A muffled groan rent the air.
"Go back to your huts!" Brelan screamed, coming to his feet and thrusting the mallet at the nearest man. "Go now!"
Thom and Storm took hold of Sentian and began to drag him away. He shouted his fury, but neither man would let go of him. "He enjoyed it!" Sentian snarled, bucking against their hold. "The bastard enjoyed it!"
* * *
The men from the mining shafts emerged from the tall bluff the next afternoon and were surprised to see rain gently falling from a soft, gray sky. The ground was covered with puddles of water and a thick, cloying smell of wet sand hung in the air. Steam wafted over the drainage ditch and over the rolling lake waters. The temperature had dropped since early morning when the men had trudged wearily back to work in the mines. Now, a light breeze wafted over them to cool their sweaty flesh.
They all looked at the man staked out in the center of the courtyard. No one had expected to see him still there that afternoon. Neither did anyone go near him for fear of prolonging the punishment. Teeth clenched and tempers rose, mumbles grew thick with curses, but the men walked past Conar McGregor's semi-conscious form and entered their huts.
Across the compound, Brelan stood gazing moodily over the courtyard. He'd had no sleep the night before. He had listened to Hern's violent threats coming from the Indoctrination Hut. But it wasn't Hern's bellowing or his pounding fists that had kept Brelan awake. He had sat on the edge of his cot, staring at his hands, not believing he had actually nailed his brother to the cruciform. No matter how he had tried to justify his actions, he found he couldn't. In his soul, h
e knew he would suffer for that one inhuman act for the rest of his life.
Now, staring at Conar, wishing he could hold him, beg his forgiveness, Brelan felt like crying. What would Elizabeth say when she found out what he had done? Would she understand why he'd had to do it? Would she, could she, forgive him? Could he forgive himself?
He buried his forehead in the crook of his upraised arm as he leaned against the window.
No, she wouldn't understand. She had sent him to bring back her men. The gods only knew what she would do once she found out Conar was alive. What would Legion, who loved Elizabeth with all his soul, do? What would the world do with a man thought dead all these years?
"Saur!" Appolyon's shrill voice brought up Brelan's head. The fat man was standing in the doorway of his quarters, one finger beckoning.
Controlling the urge to split the man in two, Brelan walked out of his hut and to the Commandant's porch. He gazed at the man with as much respect as he could feign. "How may I serve you, Commandant?"
"Take some men and pry up that scum. The sight of him is getting tedious." The pug nose wrinkled with distaste. "And the stench is unbearable."
Brelan nodded, knowing that if he spoke, the venom would pour out. He turned toward Roget's hut and wasn't surprised to see Sentian watching him.
"Heil! Get du Mer and come here! On the double!"
Roget reached him first. "Can we take him up?"
"Get a crowbar, Heil," Brelan ordered in a gruff voice. Brelan turned, startled by the bulk of the Necroman holding a crowbar. "Du Mer," Brelan continued, "take his right hand. The Necroman can—"
"Shalu," the big man told him, eyeing him with disdain. When Brelan glanced up, the dark man's chin rose. "My nationality is Necromanian. My name is Shalu." Arrogance entered his eyes. "King Shalu!"
Brelan's lips twitched despite his anger at the delay the man was unknowingly causing. "Then take his left hand, Shalu," he said, stressing the name. He looked at Sentian. "And you take the crowbar and lever the spikes out."
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