The Sorcerer's Oath - Books 3-4

Chapter 5

As they rode towards the forest’s edge, Jarand kept himself tightly under control. But those who knew him could see from his glittering eyes and his thinned lips that he was furious.

“Captain Harkell,” he said tightly, “I want you to pick out your two toughest, strongest men. I don’t want anybody who is the slightest bit squeamish. Do you understand? And they must be unquestionably loyal to me.”

“All the men are loyal to you, sire. We all are.”

“Excellent. Because I am about to test that loyalty.”

At this point they broke out of the cover of the forest into farmland. The prince pointed to a lone tree standing two hundred yards from the forest edge.

“When we reach that tree, bring those two men to see me and then ask your troops to dismount and gather around so I can address them.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The captain glanced at him uneasily, aware that the prince’s rage was bubbling just beneath the surface.

Ten minutes later, the soldiers stood in a semicircle around the prince, shuffling a little in anticipation of a dressing down. They were all embarrassed to have been caught out so easily and knew that, although he was disguising it, the prince would be smarting at being shown to disadvantage by his younger brother.

His voice, when he addressed them, was calm and matter of fact. They found this even more unnerving than if he had ranted at them. As it turned out, they had every reason to be unnerved. “Soldiers of Montraya, as you are aware, the penalty for attacking a member of the Royal Family of Eskuzor is death.” Jarand paused until most of his audience had nodded or given some form of acknowledgement. “Of course none of you has attacked me.” Up to this point his voice was still pleasant. But now it hardened. “But the second most heinous crime is a failure to protect me.” Prince Jarand swept his gaze around the soldiers standing around him. “And in varying degrees, all of you are guilty of that.” He let his words hang in the air for a few moments.

Then Jarand turned and placed his hand on Captain Harkell’s shoulder, “But above all, your captain is responsible for the deployment and performance of his men.”

The captain kept his eyes forward and his face expressionless but his heart was thumping unpleasantly in his ears.

“Now, Captain Harkell has kindly identified these two men,” here Jarand waved at two powerfully built, tough looking soldiers who were standing by his side, “who are renowned for their strength and loyalty. So to them, I give the honour of providing a just punishment to your negligent captain.” Jarand thrust the captain into the arms of the two men and barked, “Tie his hands. Secure them above his head against the tree.”

The watching men stilled with shock but no one moved to intervene. Captain Harkell’s hands were bound in front of him and then he was thrown face first against the tree and his arms yanked above his head. A rope was tied between his wrists and the other end thrown over a high bough. Then he was dragged upward so that his feet barely touched the ground. The little wizard looked on in horror, remembering the kindness the captain had shown him.

“Strip off his shirt,” ordered Jarand. “Now, I want him flogged within an inch of his life.”

Both men took off their long leather belts and held them by the buckles ready to begin.

“Oh no,” said Jarand softly, “I think we’ll have the buckle on the business end. Smooth leather is too easy. Forty strokes to begin with. Alternate strokes, so that you don’t tire. I want a gap between each stroke so that there is plenty of time for anticipation and I want each stroke to be given full measure.” He looked around at all the soldiers, “And if I see one of you avert your eyes, you will share his fate.” He waved a hand, “Now, begin.”

In deadly quiet of the countryside, all that could be heard was the thwack of the leather hitting flesh and the grunts of effort from each of the guardsmen as they put their full weight behind each lash. The captain set his teeth and not a murmur broke from his lips. After ten lashes his back was lined with red streaks and pockmarked with gouges where the buckles dug in with each stroke. After twenty strokes, the red weals were weeping as the leather bit repeatedly into the same places. At thirty strokes, his back was raw and running with blood where the buckles had gouged deep lines along the whip marks. The captain had long since lost all sense of time and space and his world had contracted to an all-encompassing sensation of rhythmic, brutal pain. At thirty six strokes, he lost consciousness and so was unaware that, after the fortieth stroke fell, his troop was ordered to remount, leaving him hanging by his hands from a tree in the middle of nowhere as they headed back to Montraya without daring a single backward glance.