Despite the threat of punishment, Jorrell and Cael had refused to lower themselves to the level of rapists and thugs and had steadfastly refused to be a part of the brutality that was now being meted out to the Naidacan people. Inspired by their honourable stance, other soldiers began to voice their dissent.
The commanders, even the ones who had disagreed with the waging of war on innocents, could not allow such mutiny to go unpunished. In one way, it had had the desired effect; the raiding parties were halted while punishment was delivered to the objectors.
Twenty of the loudest voices, including Jorrell and Cael, had been put under military arrest. There had been no official court martial process. Those who wanted the dissention silenced were happy that they had imprisoned the guilty people, and did not care if innocents had been caught up in their wrath. Three days after they had been seized, Jorrell and Cael readied themselves to endure their punishment.
Crosses had been fashioned from thick, sturdy lengths of wood. They had been set into the ground at the edge of the forest, with two points in the earth and two pointing to the sky. The prisoners had been bound to the structures, by the wrists to the skyward points, and by the ankles to the ones below.
The constant drizzle moistened Jorrell’s chilled skin. He was shirtless. He would have been an imbecile not to be afraid of the pain he knew was coming, but as he looked at the bodies hanging from the trees on the edge of the forest, the corpses of babies, children, women, the elderly and the crippled swaying in the breeze, he hoped that this sacrifice, this statement, would not be in vain. The prisoners had all agreed that the agony must be endured with stoicism, or their suffering would achieve nothing.
The ranks were assembled to watch their disgrace. One of the commanding officers read out the charges; Jorrell paid them no heed. He had known precisely what crime his actions would be assigned.
The lieutenants stepped forward; Jorrell heard the squelch of their boots in the mud. Someone called out “ONE,” and it began.
The first lash of the long whip stung like a line of fire, like he’d been struck by a fork of lightning. He had tried to mentally prepare himself for this, but all his preparations had involved the assumption that at some point he would pass out, or that the pain would become some kind of ache. He had been wrong.
A small part of Jorrell’s mind reminded him that he wanted to be concerned about Cael, that, to a lesser extent, he wanted to be concerned about the other men suffering along with him. But the pain overrode everything. It was all he could feel - the vicious bite of the leather. It was all he could see - a red haze behind his closed lids. It was all he could smell - the rich, salt tang of his own blood. It was all he could hear - swoosh, crack, pain, swoosh, crack, pain, swoosh, crack, pain...
And so it went on, and on and on, and on, and on...
He concentrated as best he could beyond the pain. Some of the men were moaning and screaming, but he would not. He would not. He would remain silent. The pain obscured his hearing for a time. He wasn’t sure that he hadn’t blacked out. When lucidity returned and he could hear past the screaming of his body, he focused attention back onto the lieutenant counting the blows and was surprised to find that only a few were left.
It hadn’t taken long to deliver the fifty lashes, an hour at most, but it was the longest hour of his existence that he’d ever known.
Two foot soldiers came to cut him down. They were friends, not foes, and they whispered encouragement as they sawed through the ropes with short blades. That their knives struggled with the hemp and caused his arms and shoulders to move with their movements, set fresh agony coursing through Jorrell’s body.
He wanted to be able to stand, but his knees had all the strength of water, and as the last strand of rope tugged free, they gave way. But he would not be carried from this field. He would not.
The soldiers who had cut him down, sensed the will behind his attempts to lock his knees, and looped his arms around their necks. Although it hurt horribly, Jorrell forced one grudging foot in front of the other. Every single movement released more pain into his body, but he tried to take what meagre strength he could from the draughts of fresh air he sucked gratefully into his lungs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cael being assisted in a similar way. Stubborn bastard.
Jorrell was sure that he did fall into a brief unconsciousness from sheer relief when he was dropped, face first, onto a pallet in the infirmary tent. He was wrenched from the blissful darkness by a bucket of burning salt water being tipped over his back. It might well have been acid eating at his wounds. It was supposed to prevent infection, but Jorrell suspected the indelicate method of application was part of the punishment.
He let out the breath he’d sucked in as a long hiss. When he was able to crack open his clenched lids, he found that Cael had been deposited on the pallet next to him. Cael grunted as he received the salt water treatment. As the blood was sluiced away and the wounds revealed, Jorrell received the first hint of what his own back must look like. Being able to associate a visual with the pain made it hurt worse.
When a physician started to palpate and probe the splits in his skin, looking for debris to remove before stitching the deeper lacerations, Jorrell gave in to the beckoning fog and let it drag him under.
~o0o~
For seven nights, he hadn’t moved more than was necessary to breathe, at least, not under his own volition. The attendants in the infirmary had smeared salve over his wounds and had bandaged them. They’d changed the bandages at reasonably regular intervals. Jorrell was half glad to know that he was being treated with enough attention to stave off infection, but at the same time, he wanted every godless bastard in the army camp to keep their motherfucking hands off him, because every time they touched him his body burned with pain.
He and Cael had not talked much during their residency. The other mutineers who had been whipped had been brought in. One or two had cursed Jorrell and Cael, laying the blame for their misfortune squarely at their feet. Jorrell had not needed to deliver an argument to defend his decisions or to remind them that they had acted under their own free will; others had asked if those whinging and moaning had not seen the bodies of the Naidacan innocents dancing in the breeze during their punishment. As a colony of Felthiss, all the people of Naidac were supposed to be under its protection, and yet here the army was killing, maiming and raping indiscriminately, committing horrors against the people they were supposed to protect. There was nothing right in any aspect of the situation.
Jorrell was also loath to indulge in conversation, as he did not feel the infirmary tent was a secure location for talk. Despite the pain he was still enduring, he had no intentions of kowtowing to the commanders. He would not partake of the depravity because of this brief inconvenience.
Although the commanders were divided in their opinions of the course of action they had adopted, Jorrell had not expected any of them to intervene to save him. They had to show a united front as far as this punishment was concerned, to keep the ranks whole and united. He was therefore surprised when Commander Roosk stooped under the curtained door of the infirmary tent one afternoon. Roosk had not agreed with the attacks on the Naidacan innocents. Roosk was a dark-skinned native of Veltharesh. Given that the one of the primary pillars of the economy of that country was the trade in people, Roosk’s sympathy with the Naidacans had surprised Jorrell.
It had been long enough since the punishment had been inflicted that many of the men were almost ready to return to light duties, if not their normal duties. Jorrell and Cael were both chaffing to return to their routine, but they suspected their discharge was being delayed.
The commander bypassed all of the injured men and went to speak directly with the physician in attendance. After a few words, the remaining mutineers were dismissed, all except for Jorrell and Cael.
When the physician also left the tent, Jorrell didn’t know what he should anticipate, but his balls clenched as he prepared for more bad news. He’d been pla
ying a game of cards with Cael on a box between their pallets. They shared a look now, put the cards away and stood up. The healing cuts on Jorrell's back pinched and pulled, but he would not flinch.
“Easy, men. There’s no need for formality.”
Jorrell and Cael shared another look, but did not sit until the Commander squatted down onto one of the recently vacated pallets.
“Let’s get the pleasantries out of the way. Are you two healing well?”
“Yes, sir,” Cael answered. “We expect to go back to our duties very soon.” His tone was more pointed than was respectful.
“Good.” The commander nodded. He seemed friendly enough, he was smiling. Jorrell did not trust him at all. He had developed a healthy distrust for anyone in authority, finding that most of them saw the ordinary soldiers as little more than animals to be used and discarded at will. The commander’s grin widened. “I have a mission for the two of you, if you’re up to it?”
“And what mission would that be?” Jorrell asked quietly.
“I’m making the two of you peace envoys to the Naidacan people.”
“Sir?” Jorrell enquired.
“I have always believed that attacking non-combatants was a short-sighted solution to our problems, and so it has proved to be. If anything it’s made the natives more united against us. But it seems they wish for the madness to end as much as we do. They sent an envoy to us, with an offer to discuss solutions to this conflict. Felthiss has agreed that we will enter negotiations. It appears that this war is about as popular back home as it is here. They at least need us to stop sending death lists back for a while.”
“And where do we come into this? We’re soldiers. We don’t have the authority to negotiate with the Naidacans,” Cael said.
The commander appeared to find that notion hilarious, and it took him some moments to get his laughter under control. Jorrell remained silent, waiting for the bad news that he was sure was coming.
“It seems your little demonstration really struck a chord with the natives. Apparently they were watching the other day. It may be what prompted the offer of a truce. They saw that we were divided and recognised an opportunity to avoid more blood-shed.” The commander’s grin faded completely. “I don’t need you two to sit down with the Naidacan dignitaries. I need you two to ride around the villages spreading the news that a truce is in place and that a peace is being sought.”
“With all due respect, Commander,” Jorrell said. “They know we’re their enemy. They might kill us as soon as they see us.”
“And if they do there are some people in this army who will not mourn you. The Naidacans seem to have decided that you two are some sort of martyrs for their cause. There’s a very good chance that they won’t kill you. It’s going to be very difficult for us to carry on negotiations if their freedom fighters persist in attacking us. It’ll be up to you two to persuade the general populace of that.”
“There has to be more to it than that,” Jorrell stated.
The commander looked discomforted for a moment. He looked about the tent, and then sighed heavily, as if unwilling to speak. “Yes. It’s not just the politicians at home who are turning against this war. The army is a mob, a barely controlled mob. When you ask men to commit savage deeds, it's hard to bring them back to a completely civilised way of being. You know this.” Jorrell and Cael both nodded in agreement. “There has been a constant current of discontent for some time. There always is during any campaign, but there’s a lack of wine and willing women to provide distraction. Then there’s the never-ending fucking rain.” The commander all but growled about the weather. “We haven’t had any recent victories to celebrate, and even the lowest grunt can see that we’re at the mercy of people who know this land better than we do, who want it much more than we do. Your little exhibition was the icing on the cake.”
“So we’re to be sent out as sheep among wolves, and it’s no bad thing if the wolves eat us for dinner?” Cael surmised.
“In a nutshell, yes.”
A mission that was almost a death sentence. Jorrell had known the news would not be good. Their only chance of survival lay in the success of the peace talks. If those fell through, he and Cael would definitely be killed by the Naidacans. Jorrell felt the need to impress that point on the commander.
“We can’t keep fighting the Naidacans like this. They are fighting for their home. They will not give up, no matter what we do to them. They’d rather die. They will fight until they are all dead. And then Felthiss will have lost a profitable colony. Better to find a peace with them and ensure commerce resumes as soon as possible. They have to be feeling the effects of that loss as Felthiss must be. And merchants have notoriously loud voices.”
Both the commander and Cael looked at Jorrell as if he had sprouted a second head.
“I grew up in the palace. I was taught politics and economics as well as military history. I’ve been around enough politicians and merchants to know that there will be a lot of people unhappy with their empty pockets, and they’ll all be complaining very loudly to the consuls and the First Father.”
“Well, you better put that articulate tongue of yours to good use and persuade the Naidacans to stop attacking our army, if you want to have any hope of a peace happening.”
“We’ll do our best, sir,” Jorrell assured him. he made an attempt to keep the sarcasm from his tone, but wasn’t entirely successful.
Not that the commander appeared to be offended, far from it. He was smiling as he rose and made to exit the tent. Before he pulled the canvas flap back, he turned back to the two men who were watching him leave.
“Oh, and boys, it would be no bad thing if an accident befell Lord Wertun. He’s been proving something of an obstacle, since the Naidacans can’t stand him. A lot of the responsibility for this whole fucking war lies at his feet. Just bear that in mind if you happen to chance across him on your travels.”
With that, the commander lifted the flap, briefly revealing the sunshine shrouded in mist beyond, and disappeared into the grey day.
Jorrell and Cael sat in stunned silence for a long moment after the commander had left the tent, just staring that the canvas curtain that was swaying slightly in the weak breeze.
“We’re not peace envoys, we’re covert assassins. They’ve sent us on a suicide mission,” Cael murmured.
“Apparently so,” Jorrell agreed.
“By Thyar, I wish I’d stayed on the fucking farm,” Cael muttered.
Chapter Thirteen
Serwren watched the funeral pyre blaze, and wondered when, or even if, Jorrell would ever receive word that his father had died.
She kept a secure hold on Ulli’s hand. Her son was generally well-behaved, but he was inquisitive by nature. At the moment he was standing peacefully by her side, but she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to run towards the fire to investigate the fascinating flames. The crowd had been intimidating to the four year old. He was naturally friendly and outgoing, but such a great number of strangers had silenced his usual chatter. His sky blue eyes had widened from the moment they had arrived for the ceremony, and had remained so throughout, but his shyness wouldn’t prevent him from following his curiosity.
The crowd was gathered on the easternmost point of the bay that was dominated by the city of Thrissia. The rocky outcrop that rose high out of the sea, high enough that the fall could kill a man, was banded in every shade of brown and grey. The blue and green waters of the sea of Thleen, stirred by the wind, were tipped with creamy foam. Ulli's black hair ruffled in the salty breeze that blew over from the ocean. Serwren's own locks were tightly braided so that they would not smother her face. It was the beginning of the season of Aweer. Serwren looked out across the choppy waters, at the smudge on the horizon that was the Isle of Gryphons. It was five years since the life that she had though she would have had begun to disintegrate.
Serwren had been surprised by how much she adored being a mother. She hadn’t thought that she was m
ature enough to take on the responsibility. She had thought herself too young to know how to teach and guide a brand new person. But Ulli had given her life a focus, a purpose, and motherhood had come naturally to her.
The life that she had once wanted was still a distant pipe dream, further from her grasp on this day than ever before. Her husband was standing with the other consuls. He was as corpulent as ever, but his stringy hair was sickly white now and thinning on the crown of his head. His face had once only been flushed with his excesses, now it had a permanently purple hue. Time had not dimmed Serwren's hatred and disgust.
In the years since their wedding, he had attempted to share her bed more than once, but Serwren had never let her guard down. She still slept with a knife under her pillow as a matter of habit and she kept a small blade hidden in the folds of her skirts. Bornsig bore more than one scar on his over-sized frame as a reminder of how adamant she was about preserving her sanctity.
Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1) Page 14
