Gnary jerked as if from a slap. Coming from Hadjar’s mouth, it had somehow sounded overly offensive.
“You know perfectly well that even if they survive a further ten lashes, they’ll be cripples for the rest of their lives,” he continued.
Hadjar turned and went to the wooden posts. Covered with sweat and blood, they reminded him of the ten years he’d spent wandering in the freakish body he’d used to inhabit. During that time, he’d known the whistle of the whip better than human speech.
The soldiers parted before him. They didn’t understand what was going on, but soon enough, they realized what he planned to do.
Hadjar knelt in front of the post and laid his hands on it.
“Tie me up,” he said to one of the soldiers who had a rope in his hands.
“But, Senior Officer...”
“Tie me up.”
“But…”
“This is a direct order, Private! Now TIE ME UP!”
With trembling hands, the soldiers tied Hadjar’s hands to the post.
It was still silent across the clearing, and, in the background, there was only the faint mumbling of soldiers describing the events back down the line for those too far back to make out what was happening with their own eyes.
“You have a whip in your hand!” There was an animalistic roar to Hadjar’s voice. “Here is my back in front of you. What are you waiting for?”
“This is very noble, Senior Officer Hadjar.” Gnary laughed. “But if you want to take the punishment upon yourself, then... you’ll have to take not just ten lashes, but ten lashes for each of the five culprits.”
Whispers went through the ranks of the soldiers.
Fifty lashes from a seven-tailed whip? Even a practitioner at the Transformation of the Body Stage could hardly survive that.
“Untie him!” Serra cried. “Why are you just standing there? Untie him!”
Nero put his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him, but he only shook his head.
“Well, if you insist,” Gnary said with a smirk.
The whip cut through the air with a whistle. Hadjar’s back was immediately engulfed in pain, like a red-hot iron had touched it. Hot blood drenched his skin, but no cries of pain sounded in the clearing. No moaning escaped the officer’s throat.
In the deathly silence, surrounded by the soldiers who were silent and gazing toward the ground, the investigator repeatedly lashed the whip’s barbs across Hadjar’s torn and bloody back.
He knew that he would survive more torture. It wasn’t the first time he’d been whipped.
But those five soldiers... They would’ve died here, tied to the posts.
The whip whistled again.
The soldiers remained silent...
A metallic hit sounded.
Then another, and another, and another.
Then the thousands of soldiers watching the ‘dogs’ torture their illustrious officer started banging their weapons against their armor and shields.
Hadjar smiled.
The sound soon drowned out the whistling of the whip. Now it was more like a mournful squeak, forced to give way under the onslaught of a steel ocean.
Another lash...
Hadjar just clenched his teeth.
Chapter 86
Fifteen lashes could turn even the most powerful and steadfast of warriors into weak, screaming, and weeping creatures. And that was if they even managed to stay conscious. When a whip removed enough layers of skin to expose the muscles beneath, the pain became unbearable. Even demons would shed tears of sympathy for a punished man’s fate when the whip’s thongs began to caress ribs.
Hadjar withstood fifty lashes.
Without screaming.
Without groaning.
The posts were covered in his sweat and blood, and his knees were submerged in a sticky, red puddle. He was breathing heavily, but he was still alive and, even more surprisingly, he was still barely conscious.
Message to host:
You have taken damage.
Threat to the host’s viability:
above average
Wiping the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, Gnary lowered the whip and sat down heavily on the bench. She looked tired and frazzled and she couldn’t believe her eyes—the damn officer was still alive. And no matter how hard she’d tried, she hadn’t made him utter a single sound.
Damn. She had made far stronger men cry and scream. But this young man…
She looked at the bloody mess that had once been the officer’s back. White bones could be seen under the crimson sheet of blood, while muscle and patches of skin hung down like the peel of a poorly pared fruit.
The soldiers were no longer hitting their weapons against their shields. Instead, they were gripping the handles so tightly and breathing so violently that their desire to kill, to tear the ‘dog-officials’ apart, limb from limb, could be easily felt amongst the masses.
The golden-armored soldiers stood in a circle. They were visibly trembling, and their armor smelled strongly of sweat and musk. They were afraid of the army crowded around them. At the beginning, there had ‘only’ been a few thousand soldiers from the Moon General’s army watching, but now...
The news of Hadjar’s deed had quickly spread around the camp, and now a veritable sea of soldiers was present. They stood in rows, exposing their weapons and looking at the investigators with pure hatred in their eyes.
The horse riders held bare spears, poised and ready to throw.
The archers had already nocked arrows, lifting their bows to aim them at the despicable officials.
The soldiers shifted impatiently from foot to foot, fiercely gripping the handles of their weapons as they waited for the order that would never come.
“Just a moment, my friend.” Nero gently untied the ropes around Hadjar’s wrists.
His long, black, sweaty hair had stuck to his forehead, and his strong hands shuddered as he weakly flexed his fingers. Even the barest touch of wind caused further unbearable pain to Hadjar.
Nero lifted his friend, lending him his strong, steadfast shoulder to help bear his weight.
“I think we’re finished here,” the fat man said with a smile.
No one listened to him. The archers didn’t waver and the soldiers didn’t step aside. They still kept the ‘dogs’ trapped within the steel ring of grinding metal.
“We are leaving.”
The portly man took a step toward the exit from the camp. None of the soldiers moved. There was only deathly silence in the air, marred by the croaking of ravens which had arrived earlier, anticipating an easy meal.
“Get out of my way!” the rotund man screamed.
Nothing changed.
“This is treason! This is treason! I’ll…”
With a heavy, sorrowful look, General Leen was about to let the worthless ‘dogs’ leave, but then something that no one had expected happened.
“I demand satisfaction,” a voice wheezed across the clearing.
Holding his friend’s shoulder, Hadjar raised his sword from the ground. He straightened up gingerly, wincing as he did so.
“Let me go,” he whispered to his friend.
“Are you sure?” Nero’s voice was full of concern. He had witnessed the abuse his friend had only just received, as had everyone else in the clearing.
Instead of answering, Hadjar just nodded.
He didn’t think that he would be able to utter another word without a pained cry tearing its way out of his throat.
“According to the Statute, outside of one specific formation, a soldier can only call for satisfaction if the senior ranks of both parties are present,” the fat man jabbered so quickly it looked like he was afraid he would forget how to talk.
“For our side, the Moon General is here,” the one-eyed Helion snarled.
“But no one is here for our side!” the desperate, pitiful investigator screamed. “My rank is too low to…”
Suddenly, Earl Vaslia stepped forward.
“I’ll bear witness to a duel.”
“But-”
“Don’t forget, Eliot. I may currently lack my officer’s rank, but my noble title is still there. I’m an Earl. It is enough.”
The fat man continued mumbling, but no one listened to him. Everyone looked at the taller investigator.
“A duel?” Gnary laughed, rising from the bench. “With the illustrious Officer Hadjar? One of the heroes of the battle at the Blue Wind Ridge...”
She unwound her whip and waved her hand. The seven thongs snapped and the steel tips parted.
“Tonight, bards will sing songs, but not about your courage, Hadjar. Instead, they shall be telling the tale of your stupidity.” A sadistic look flashed in the investigator’s eyes. “I accept your challenge.”
Nero glanced worriedly at his friend. Hadjar still looked like he could hardly stand. Damn it, even a walking corpse was healthy compared to him. However, the man’s blue eyes still burnt with an unyielding, steely will.
The soldiers immediately formed a circle around the pair.
Laughing, Gnary rounded on her enemy. She cracked the whip, scattering the earth before her with a multitude of sparks.
The nearby soldiers brought their shields forward so as not to get caught by any lashes.
Standing in the middle of the improvised arena, Hadjar remained calm. He had gradually gotten used to the pain. Now it almost felt like a caress. What he could never get used to were people who’d forgotten about honor.
When they spoke about it later, no one could truly claim that they’d seen what had happened.
Gnary waved her whip and orange sparks landed on the bloody land. A haughty laugh burst from her throat, and she seemed like she was going to begin moving toward Hadjar.
He only placed his hand on the handle of his sword, Moon Beam.
No one was able to see anything else.
But they all heard the cry, full of horror and pain.
Gnary was kneeling and squeezing the spot where her right hand had been only moments ago.
Her severed hand, still gripping the whip, lay on the ground before her. Gnary screamed again, trying to relieve the pain and stem the flow of blood that gushed from the stump where a hand had once been.
Hadjar, who had been standing a few yards away, suddenly appeared behind her. He calmly sheathed his sword, and at that very moment, the investigator’s screams subsided.
Her head fell to the ground. Her body was still now and her face portrayed the agony she’d felt before her end.
“Get out!” shouted General Leen.
The soldiers parted and the fat man, like a frightened rodent, rushed toward the exit. He floundered in his clothes and then lifted them up like a woman lifting up her skirts. The soldiers laughed, having clearly seen his smoothly shaven ankles as he departed.
The golden-armored soldiers followed him as the Earl brought up the rear.
Shooting a quick glance at the motionless Hadjar, he saluted the General and followed after his colleague.
Nero ran over to Hadjar.
“Buddy, are you...”
The Senior Officer’s eyes turned glassy. He was still standing upright and keeping his hand on his sword, but his mind was no longer present.
Nero put his hand to his friend’s chest and exhaled with relief after feeling the measured beat of his heart beneath his ribcage.
“Who will help me carry the officer to the healer?” Nero shouted.
All the warriors took a step forward at once.
After making a stretcher out of their shields and covering it with their cloaks, the soldiers carefully placed his unconscious body on the stretcher, then lifted Hadjar over their heads. Thousands of soldiers, banging their weapons against their shields, set off for the healer of the ‘bear’ squad, carrying the man that they would follow to the ends of the earth.
***
Hadjar woke up three days later. Feeling a little wobbly from the pain, he sat up and looked around.
He hadn’t been in the medicinal tent for a long time, and he had forgotten just how cool and spacious it always seemed to be. Near the bed, there was a jug full of sour but still tasty water.
“Senior Officer!” The five people who’d started the incident in the first place immediately jumped up from the neighboring beds.
Bandaged and looking even worse than their savior, they fell to the ground and hit their foreheads against the floor very forcefully.
“We thank you and ask that you punish us according to the Statute!” they shouted in unison.
“Punish you...” Hadjar sighed.
He looked at them. They had fought shoulder to shoulder with him during the battle with the nomads. He even remembered one of them—he’d covered Nero and him as they had dashed for the barricade. If he hadn’t been there… Who knows what might’ve happened...
“This will be your punishment. Listen well.”
“Yes, Senior Officer!” The soldiers hit their heads against the ground once more.
“Your punishment is to fight in the war against Balium with the same courage you displayed in the battle at the ridge.”
The stunned soldiers looked up and saw Hadjar’s calm face. Neither malice nor hatred could be seen in his expression. He looked as calm as he usually did.
“Yes, Senior Officer!” Fighting back their tears, they hit their foreheads against the ground one final time in confirmation.
Hadjar leaned back against his pillows. He had a long night ahead of him. He just hoped his back wouldn’t fail him...
Damn it all, he felt like an old man.
***
Earl Vaslia sat in his small room in a tavern on the outskirts of Spring Town. It was funny, well, maybe not to everyone, but the whole district where he now lived was smaller than a single wing of his previous palace had been.
Now, obeying a commoners’ orders, he had been traveling around the country for ten years. He had been banished from the capital and deprived of his position. The only thing left was his noble rank—which had now been useful to him almost for the first time since his disgraceful actions all those years ago.
He sat in an old chair and looked at the bed, which was covered in roaming bedbugs.
He drank cheap wine and looked at the fluttering curtains. Simple wooden shutters, instead of glass, covered the window.
These past ten years had taught him humility. And wisdom. And misery...
In all that time, the Earl hadn’t seen his family. Had his daughter turned into a beautiful lady? What had become of his son? Was his wife waiting for him or had she found herself another lover?
These questions tormented his very soul.
The Earl raised his ‘glass’ (a simple, dirty, wooden bowl) and saluted the window.
As he did so, he saw a warrior wearing golden armor running across the roof, toward the tavern. A black, curved saber flashed in his hands.
What a stupid masquerade, the tired Earl thought.
The shutters moved to the side and the room suddenly became extremely cramped. It hadn’t been designed for two people.
“Hello, my Prince.” Vaslia bowed his head slightly.
The stranger took off his helmet.
“How did you recognize me?” Hadjar asked, perplexed.
Chapter 87
Not finding another chair in the tiny room, Hadjar sat on the edge of the table. It wasn’t difficult to do as he was only wearing the light golden armor.
“You’re the spitting image of your father.” Vaslia smiled.
He looked like a man ready to accept his fate—calm and thoughtful. Not the predatory vulture that Hadjar remembered. Many years ago, during the coup, he had been at the head of the Palace guard corps.
He’d stood behind Primus as the warlord had killed Hadjar’s mother. At the time, he hadn’t looked like an old man, but rather, like a man in his prime. That was probably who he really was.
Now he was a dying man. An illness wasn’t killing him, but h
is own thoughts. You might even say it was karma.
“Nonsense,” Hadjar said, refusing the wine offered to him.
He didn’t look like his father or mother. The years in his broken body and Traves’ heart had made sure of it. There was not a single hint of his royal lineage in his appearance.
“I’m not kidding.” Vaslia drained his ‘glass’ in one long gulp. “Of course, I don’t mean physically. But there is something in you that Haver also had. And something, alas, that our current King does not.”
“You say that, and yet you helped him take the throne.”
Hadjar squeezed the hilt of his sword angrily. By the gods, at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to swing the blade and remove the traitor’s head from his shoulders.
“I had no choice.” The Earl shrugged.
He was calm and without fear as looked into the eyes of his executioner. The Earl knew that he would die. Here. Today. Therefore, he didn’t see any point in worrying about it. He just drank his crappy wine and thought about his family some more.
His punishment for treason wasn’t really death, but the fact that he would never get to see his children again. Did they remember him? Or had they forgotten the man that had besmirched their family’s reputation?
“We always have a choice.”
Vaslia just smiled again. His smile was both condescending and tired.
“Young men,” he said. “In your eyes, the world is always so simple...”
“You are simply looking for excuses, Earl.”
“Excuses... interesting. What kind of excuses did your father look for when he had no choice?”
Hadjar twitched. He had already heard something similar from the healer of the village in the Valley of Streams. She had said that Haver hadn’t been a holy man, and that Primus had had every reason to rebel. Hadjar had tried to find out more about this, but he had, up to this point, failed to do so.
Dragon Heart: Iron Will. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 2 Page 8
