Janny Wurts - To Ride Hell’s Chasm

Ice-cool, Taskin queried, ‘At what cost to yourself, soldier?’

Mykkael flung up his head. The spark of trapped light in his eyes was chipped fire, under the crowding torches. ‘I don’t know!’ Anger doused, he had less success with his exhausted, recalcitrant body. The seizing cramp from his overstressed knee rocked his frame through a running spasm. ‘Trust me, if that mark had been a live cipher, you don’t want the nightmare of guessing.’

A torch wavered, behind, as a man shifted grip to make a sign against evil.

The commander cracked, ‘Hold that light steady! The man who just faltered, fetch this one a chair!’

Someone else muttered, ‘That malformed get of a desert-whelped bitch?’

Taskin stiffened. ‘No chair, then,’ he agreed, his tone like taut silk run over a sharpened sword blade. ‘My inept torchman will now fetch a camp cot from storage. The man who was insolent will run to the west wing and roust out Jussoud. In minutes, I want him down here with his oil jars, if he has to be hauled from bed, naked!’

The pair jumped as though whipped.

‘You can open the door without penalty,’ said Mykkael, hoping the diversion might snatch him the interval to quiet his chattering teeth.

‘I’ll carry on,’ Taskin stated, not moving.

The camp cot pulled from stores arrived seconds later. The men set up the frame by the corridor wall with no talk, only brisk and relentless efficiency.

‘You’ll strip, soldier,’ the commander rapped out, his nailing regard still fixed on the garrison captain.

A sudden movement, snatched still , preceded the rage that rekindled in Mykkael’s dark eyes.

Taskin stayed glacially immobile, throughout. ‘You will remove your harness and peel your clothes to the skin. Then lie flat and stay there! My orders, soldier. On that cot, voluntarily. Or else my men will do that work for you, followed up by a lashing for insubordination.’

Mykkael forced a smile through hackled fury. ‘You’d lose some. Not nicely. Let’s duck the unpleasantness.’ He reached up, slipped the fastening on the borrowed cloak, then the tang of the buckle that fastened his sword harness. ‘After all, I did promise I would be diligent, and you have a princess to search for.’ He undid the iron fitting, and removed his weapon with a crack of withering emphasis. ‘The door is safe. Open it.’

The captain jostled a path through the closed ranks of the guards, and tried not to let sore embarrassment show as heads turned in riveted curiosity. Faced toward the wall, unflinchingly straight, he compelled wooden fingers to loosen the belt of his surcoat.

‘You men!’ snapped Taskin. ‘Eyes forward! Whatever duty you have to this realm lies ahead of me in this closet.’

Exhibiting sangfroid enough to uphold his own order, the commander turned his back on the victim confined to the corridor. He positioned himself in front of the doorway and reached for the string latch, decisive.

‘Don’t trust that desert-bred,’ blurted the red-haired sergeant who held the torch lighting his way. ‘How do you know he’s not lying?’

‘You’ll volunteer, then?’ Taskin stepped sideways, inviting the man to approach the marked panel himself. The pattern’s chalked lines glared a sinister white under the flare of the flames.

Bared to the waist, still unlacing his trousers, Mykkael observed the exchange. Unsmiling, he watched the burly sergeant shrink into the packed mass of his fellows. Just as uncertain, the others edged back, none among them prepared to shield him.

Taskin folded his arms, and regarded his finest with a glare to blister them pink.

Until Mykkael spun about. Half stripped and insolent, he shoved his way forward, and tripped the latch in their place.

‘Thank you,’ Taskin said, almost smoothly enough to mask his wound thread of unease.

Justifiable anxiety, which Mykkael forgave freely. The mountain terrain of the Great Divide kept Sessalie’s subjects far removed from the horrors engendered by warring sorcerers. Folk here had likely lived their whole lives, and their parents and grandparents before them, never having experienced a live craftmark. They would not have witnessed the twisted devastation such workings brought down on the lives of the people they ruined. Hideous experience would make a man flinch. Given a backdrop of frightening tales and the gross distortions of rumour, such sheltered ignorance would be all too likely to invent conjecture much worse.

Brown eyes met blue, and locked through a moment of unexpected, spontaneous understanding.

Then Taskin said, crisp, ‘That’s one stripe coming for rank disobedience.’

Mykkael laughed, his other fist clutching at untied laces to stay the cloth that slipped down his hard flanks. ‘No mercenary troop captain worth his pay would have slapped me with less than five.’ He dodged back, beat a lively retreat towards the cot. But the move went awry as his bad leg gave way without warning under his weight. His clumsy next stride was reduced to a stagger that exposed him, full-length, to the torchlight. Since no man could miss the stripes on his back, laid down for some prior offence, he salvaged the gaffe with ripe sarcasm. ‘Since I already know how the punishment feels, there’s no thrill of anticipation. Let’s spare the boring detail for later, why not? Quarter that broom closet, first.’

The shame-faced sergeant recovered his poise. He called a man forward to carry his torch, then drew his sword and shoved through the open plank door.

Brooms met him, their straw bristles struck upright in a barrel. The surrounding floor held canted stacks of hooped wooden buckets with rope handles. The torch light speared in, leaped across a second barrel stuffed to the rim with frayed rags.

‘Search everything,’ snapped Taskin. ‘Slowly and carefully, one bucket and one rag at a time.’

To the rest, who continued to view Mykkael’s disrobing with stifled whispers and outright suspicion, the commander stated flat facts. ‘Our garrison captain is not your enemy. You will all stop regarding him as a tribal barbarian, or some sort of singing shaman. My sh kael’s parentage is not known. His adoptive father was northern-born, a civilized merchant who picked him up by the wayside as an infant foundling. You can see the hard proof; he bears no tattoos. That’s a rigid custom in the south desert.’

Left utterly stripped, made the merciless butt of eight strangers who pinned him with blue-eyed, superior scrutiny, Mykkael banished his last shred of pride. He sat, then lay back on the cot, and compelled himself to keep discipline. This hazing was not worth the grace of reaction. He had suffered far worse as a recruit. Iron-skinned under pressure, he did his practised best to support Taskin’s tactical effort. Distrust, after all, could do nothing but impede the search to find Princess Anja. Better to disarm that fracturing influence before petty dissent could spoil troop unity, or someone got needlessly hurt.

‘Your commander did his background check thoroughly’ Dry, sounding far more weary than he wished, Mykkael offered his wrists. The flesh on his arms and over his bared heart was clear brown, marred only by battle scars. ‘As you see, my mother failed to mark me at birth with the blessing of her tribe. Tradition is strict. That sign proclaimed me unfit.’

Mykkael stopped speaking, shut his eyes, and braced in distaste to endure through the subsequent, scouring inspection.

Yet Taskin cut that embarrassment short. ‘Unfit, likely due to an unsanctioned union. Not for a blemish or unsoundness.’

As the captain bore up, each over-strung muscle defined in the pitiless torchlight, no one could mistake that his crippling limp had been caused by a ruinous joint wound.