04 - Rise of the Lycans (14 page)

Lucian spotted Xristo among them. The surly laborer, whom Lucian had rescued
from Kosta’s lash only yesterday, risked a muttered aside to his companion, a
strapping lycan youth named Sabas. The men scowled unhappily at the dreadful
spectacle under way before them:

Lucian hung spread-eagled between two vertical wooden posts in the center of
the courtyard. Manacles of silver-iron alloy bit into his wrists and ankles. A
new moon shackle pricked his neck. Naught but a grimy loincloth protected his
modesty. Although the wounds from Kosta’s arrows had scabbed over, his abused
body remained in torment. His bare toes barely grazed the cobblestones, so that
he was hanging more than standing. Gravity tugged on his depleted frame. His
aching arms felt like they were being yanked from their sockets. His lips were
cracked and dry. He would have sold his soul for a sip of fresh water.

Or perhaps one last kiss from Sonja.

Viktor strode up to Lucian. The Elder wore a magisterial black robe. His
azure eyes dissected the chained lycan, whose life he had spared two centuries
before. His gaunt face held a rueful expression. Lucian braced himself for
another jarring blow, but instead Viktor cupped Lucian’s chin with surprising
gentleness. He lifted the lycan’s face so that he could look the prisoner
squarely in the eyes.

“You have stung me, Lucian, with your betrayal. You were like a son to me.”
He eyed the brand upon Lucian’s arm, then glanced at the forbidding walls of the
keep. The looming gray edifice rose like a gigantic tombstone above the hidden dungeons below. “I gave you life not ten feet
from this very spot.”

Under the circumstances, Lucian was feeling less than grateful. His voice
croaked hoarsely. “You gave me
chains.”

“I would have thought after all these years you would have known that you
cannot have one without the other.” Viktor turned to Kosta, who was standing
nearby eagerly awaiting his moment. The Elder’s face hardened. “Do it.”

The armored overseer required no further prompting. His gray eyes gleamed
with anticipation as he stalked forward brandishing a cat-o’-nine-tails. Shiny
silver barbs flashed at the end of the knotted cords. His scar stood out lividly
against his face. A smirk lifted the corners of his lips.

“I told you I would be there, when you fell.”

Lucian did not waste his breath pleading for mercy. He knew there would be
none forthcoming.

Kosta stepped behind Lucian, out of the prisoner’s line of sight. Lucian
tried to crane his head around but the silver spikes in his collar tore at his
skin. Unable to see Kosta, he could only wait tensely for the inevitable blow.

He did not have to wait long.

With a fury, Kosta brought down the lash. Nine silver-tipped cords struck
Lucian’s naked back, paring the flesh to the bone. Angry red welts crossed his
flesh. Steam rose from scalded skin. His spine arched in agony. An audience of
jaded immortals oohed and aahed in appreciation. Undead doxies giggled and licked their lips. Tanis kept a tally of the blows on a scrap of parchment.

The pain was unimaginable, yet Lucian endured the blows with stoic courage.
Clenching his teeth to keep from crying out, he’d be damned if he gave the
heartless vampires the satisfaction of seeing him whimper like a whipped dog.
His bloodshot eyes searched the mob of spectators but found one face
conspicuously absent. Desperate for something to focus on besides the brutal
beating, his gaze lifted to an open window on the top floor of the keep.

But the window was empty.

The terrible reports of the whip invaded Sonja’s private chambers. The
opulent furnishings failed to soften the brutal cracks. She shuddered at the
sound, almost as though the fearsome blows were falling upon her own immortal
flesh as well. She steeled herself for her lover’s screams, but heard nothing
but the snap of the whip and the bloodthirsty reaction of the crowd below.

Monsters!
The coven’s voyeuristic enjoyment of Lucian’s suffering filled
her with disgust for her own kind.
It is they who are the animals, not my
brave Lucian.

The sheer injustice of it all offended her to her very core. In a better,
more honest world, Lucian would have been knighted for his heroism these past
two nights. But instead he was whipped and pilloried for the “crime” of doing
everything in his power to defend her from the werewolves. Knowing what Lucian
was going through at this very moment seared Sonja’s soul more painfully than
the brightest sunlight. That he should be tortured so was dreadful enough; that he was being punished for
saving her broke her heart.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stared forlornly into the bronze-framed
mirror above her vanity. Red-rimmed eyes gave away her distress. A funereal
black gown fit her mood. Despair beckoned as she heard the cruel whip snap once
more. In her minds eye, she saw the caustic silver barbs scourging Lucian’s
precious flesh.

Be strong, my love. Know that I am with you in spirit.

Perhaps the hardest part of this ordeal was that she could not even weep
openly, lest she fuel her father’s suspicions. The venomous look on his face
when he’d caught her tending to Lucian’s wounds had chilled even her cold
vampiric blood. For the first time in her two centuries of existence she had
found herself fearing what her father was truly capable of… and how much he
already knew. Did he even now have an inkling of what had transpired between her
and Lucian?
Surely not,
she reasoned. The harrowing tribulation Lucian
was enduring now was nothing to compared to what her father would do to him if
he truly knew that a lycan had claimed his only daughter’s virtue.
My father
must never guess our secret, no matter how much it pains me to stand by while
Lucian suffers for us both.

Determined to put on a brave front and offer no hint of her inner turmoil,
she wiped the salty tears from her cheeks. The face in the mirror froze into an
icy mask, little different from the burnished steel helmet that often shielded
her features from a dangerous world. Only the faint redness of her eyes bore
testament to her tears. She took a deep breath to compose herself, then turned away from the
mirror. She walked stiffly toward the window overlooking the courtyard. A whip
cracked loudly, but she didn’t even flinch. At least not on the outside.

The whip cracked like thunder. Pain lashed Lucian’s back and shoulders once
more, burning like molten steel. He felt like a lump of metal on his own anvil,
being tortured by the blows of a red-hot hammer. His skin sizzled every time the
silver touched him. But still he refused to utter a single sound, even as his
flayed body rocked beneath the impact of Kosta’s lash.

Each blow elicited amused grins and titters from most of the audience. The
fall of Viktor’s favorite lycan was a rare diversion indeed. Only a handful of
vampires frowned at the proceedings. They glanced nervously at the other lycans,
as though worried that Lucian’s public agonies might incite his fellow servants
to revolt.

Their concern was not without basis. Among the gathered slaves, Xristo and
Sabas could not bear to stand by idly while their fellow lycan was flayed before
their eyes. Their faces contorted with rage, they lunged forward to intervene.
But the watchful Death Dealers were ready for such an incident. Before the irate
lycans could get more than a few steps, the soldiers clubbed them in the head
with the butts of their crossbows. The men dropped to the ground, clutching the
back of their skulls. Steel-toed boots kicked their ribs for good measure.
Enjoying the sideshow, aristocratic vampires applauded.

The other lycans got the hint. They backed away from the guards, taking
shelter in the shadows beneath the scaffolding. The Death Dealers hauled Sabas
and Xristo up by their arms and hurled them bodily into the throng of servants.
The men’s limp bodies crashed to the pavement. No slave dared to come to their
assistance, for fear of incurring the guards’ wrath as well, so the battered
lycans were left to groan and whimper upon the ground.

Rash fools!
Lucian thought, observing the men’s short-lived rebellion.
While he appreciated their righteous anger on his behalf, he wanted no other
lycan to suffer because of him. He had freely chosen to defy Viktor’s edict for
Sonja’s sake, but the consequences of that fateful choice should be his alone.
This is my fight, not theirs.

He looked again to the lofty window—and was rewarded with a vision of
unearthly loveliness. Sonja gazed down at him from her bedchamber, which he had
never dared set foot in. Although she kept her exquisite face still and
impassive, so as not to betray their secret love, her moist eyes offered him a
moment of solace in his ordeal. Even if there was nothing she could do to spare
him, at least he could take comfort in the knowledge that he was not alone in
this time of trial. Their eyes met briefly across the distance.

And then she was gone.

He watched as she disappeared behind a pair of closed velvet drapes. Could it
be that she could not bear to watch anymore? Lucian scarcely blamed her. Were
their positions reversed, he was not sure how long he could endure the sight of Sonja being tortured right before his eyes.

The fates forbid that such a nightmare should ever come to pass!

More blows rained down on Lucian’s quivering form, each more vicious than the
one before. He quickly lost count of the lashings, which blurred into an
excruciating haze. He slumped in his bonds, held up only by the chains upon his
wrists. Despite his earlier resolve, plaintive groans escaped his lips. Deep
gashes crisscrossed his back, which was now a map recording previously uncharted
realms of pain. Hot blood streamed from crimson traceries.

“Lord Viktor, hold!”

A grave-faced vampire, whom Lucian recognized as Coloman, spoke out boldly.
Flanked by other members of the High Council, all with disapproving expressions,
he broke away from the audience to address Viktor directly.

“What?” the Elder asked brusquely. He reluctantly tore his gaze away from the
flogging.

Coloman gestured at Lucian. “Stop this. He is one of our protectors.”

“They are beasts themselves,” Viktor snarled. He cast a baleful glance at the
other lycans, who backed away fearfully.

Coloman contemplated the huddled slaves as well. “This could stir up the
others,” he warned darkly. The other council members nodded in agreement. A few
of them seemed to regard the restive slaves with distinct apprehension. A
matronly vampiress, whose bloodline boasted several dukes and earls, clutched her jewelry as she contemplated the unwashed rabble.

“Let them stir.” Viktor dismissed the Council’s concerns with a wave of his
hand. “Do you fear them? Believe me, it will be worse if we do
not
punish
them.” He turned to confront the insolent boyar. “Do you see now, Coloman? You
would trust the lycans outside our walls?” He snorted derisively. “We cannot
even trust them inside.”

Turning his back on Coloman and the others, Viktor turned back toward Lucian
and his avid tormentor. “By my count that is twenty-one!” he barked at Kosta.
“Continue!”

The cruel lash tore at Lucian’s flesh once more. He gritted his teeth to keep
from screaming. Part of him wished he had fallen in battle against the
werewolves instead.

Being torn apart by savage fangs and claws would have been bliss compared to
this.

At last the ordeal was over. The crowd dispersed and uncaring Death
Dealers roughly unfastened Lucian from the pillories. Barely conscious, he was
only dimly aware of being dragged down into the lower reaches of the dungeons.
Instead of his usual lair, he was tossed into the cavernous vault that housed
the rest of the lycans. Arched recesses, stacked one atop another, were carved
into the towering walls of the vault. The foul aroma of the cesspits wafted up
from metal grates in the floor. Spiders, roaches, and other vermin infested the
dirty straw carpeting the floor. Greenish mold streaked the rough granite walls.
Brackish water trickled from the ceiling.

Reluctant to be associated with Lucian, the other lycans kept their
distance. They huddled in their respective dens, watching Lucian uneasily. Only Sabas and Xristo showed any signs
of concern, but, battered and bloody as they were, they were in no shape to come
to Lucian’s aid. He sprawled limply upon the filthy straw. Dried blood caked his
back, which looked as though it had been dragged for leagues over broken rocks
and glass. Red and raw, his anguished flesh could not bear even the touch of
empty air. He moaned pitifully, no longer caring who might hear. Immortal though
he was, Lucian wondered if he would ever be whole again. Surely no one could
endure such pain and live?

Impervious iron bars divided the lycans from the human prisoners rescued from
the caravan. No longer hooded, the mortals cowered in the corners of their cell,
uncertain of what had befallen them. Having survived the werewolves’ attack,
they now found themselves in the hands of strange new masters, facing anything
from servitude to execution. Vague rumors of vampirism and other deviltry had
gained new life after their firsthand encounter with the werewolves in the
woods. Nightmares troubled the sleep of those who had finally succumbed to
fatigue. The sight of Lucian’s ravaged body, streaked as it was with bloody
welts, did little to assuage the prisoners’ fears.

Heavy footsteps approached Lucian from the other side of the bars. He lifted
his eyes to see the dark-skinned Goliath from earlier. The man crouched beside
the bars dividing them. Sympathetic brown eyes surveyed the vicious scars
traversing Lucian’s bloody flesh. A knowing frown suggested that the stranger was
all too familiar with the marks of the slavemaster’s lash.