But the true punishment was for failing at his mission. Failure was never an option. Failure got you killed. But Von would gladly accept this instead. He was ready.
His back was thick and tough from the many scars that already layered it. He’d been nineteen summers old since his last lashing, but it was a pain he would never forget.
The snap of the whip cracked through the air.
The leather slashed Von’s back, carving through his flesh as it tore free. He bit his tongue to hold in his cry. The whip snapped again and Geon’s scream pierced the wind.
One—for Juvo, a lad from Argyle who loved to drink and sing.
The whip ripped through Von a second time.
Two—for Sygne, an old grouch who whistled like a hundred different birds.
The whip cracked so loudly against Von’s spine his ears rang, all sound briefly muffled.
Three—for Xeran, who had been saving every coin that fell in his hands for his mother’s freedom.
With each slit into his back, Von recalled the names and faces of each Raider who fell in Corron. Their loss weighed on him. He was their commander. They had trusted him, and he had taken them to the slaughter.
An icy breeze passed over them, but it did nothing to numb the agony of his skin slashed to shreds. Blood leaked down his back, soaking into his trousers. He clenched his teeth, his shaking fists grinding into pebbles on the ground. It took all he had not to scream in front of his men. Even during this disgrace, he would not show weakness.
Von focused on the droplets of blood in the dirt, trying to force the torment out of his mind. Geon had no such discipline. He screamed and wailed as the whip cut into him. Von grit his teeth. He should have never brought the lad into this life.
Tarn continued to whip them until Geon’s arms gave out, and he fell, unconscious. Von’s limbs trembled, his vision stinging from the sweat leaking into his eyes.
“You failed me, Von.” Tarn’s words were like shards of ice threatening to slit his throat. “Never have I been so disgusted with you.”
“Forgive me, Master,” he garbled.
Tarn tossed the bloody whip aside. Von counted his steps as he walked away. He waited until Tarn entered his tent before collapsing. The Raiders gathered around.
“Take them,” Elon ordered.
Dalton cast his orange Essence over Geon and lifted him into the air. Olsson, a dark robust man hoisted Von onto his broad shoulders. He drifted in and out of consciousness as he was carried away, trailed by a procession of Raiders.
He jerked back to consciousness at the call of Yavi’s name. They had brought him to his tent. There was a rush of running steps and she appeared at Olsson’s side. Her wet eyes widened in horror. Von faintly smiled at her. He had not seen Yavi when he first awoke. It mattered not what punishment he had to endure. He was with her again. He was alive.
“Bring them inside.” She held open the tent flaps. Olsson carried Von to one of the cots, laying him face down. Dalton lowered Geon onto the other cot and released his Essence. The Raiders squeezed into the tent and hovered around them. Elon remained at the entryway.
Yavi hissed at the sight of their wounds. Von imagined the skin had swollen in ridges along the bloody slits crisscrossing on their backs in gruesome trails.
“Gord,” she barked at the stout Raider across from her. “Tell Sorren I need a bottle of his strongest rum for the commander. And you—” she pointed at the reedy man next to him, “—bring me a pot of boiled water.”
They gaped at her, unused to a slave giving them orders.
“Go!” she snapped. They rushed out.
Yavi rummaged in the trunk then took out clean rags and a jar of salve. The two Raiders returned with their items and set them down beside her.
Yavi pulled the cork out of the brown bottle of rum and held it to Von’s lips. “Please drink, Master.”
Von almost laughed at the title. She had to refer to him as such in front of others, but it was odd to hear. He drank as much as he could. She washed her hands with some rum, then stuck a strip of thick leather between his teeth.
“Hold him,” Yavi said.
Four Raiders knelt by Von’s cot and grasped his legs and shoulders. He sucked in a breath, and she poured the rum over his wounds. Fire coursed across his back in a rising wave of torment. He stifled his screams through the leather, convulsing from the excruciating agony. A couple more Raiders joined in holding him down.
Yavi dipped a clean rag in the pot of steaming water and gently washed his wounds. Each stroke was as though she was flaying him alive. Bloody pools formed on the mat beneath the cot. Someone gave Von another drink of rum. He gripped the cot, and his jaw grew numb from how tight he clenched his teeth over the leather. Sweat beaded on his face. His senses dulled and his eyes drooped closed, but each stroke beat sleep away.
