Change of Darkness Page 5

  It was a fleshy mess, with raw gashes crisscrossing his spine and dark blood covering all.

  Siray fought the urge first to faint and then to throw up when she realised that it was another being like her—another Kaslonian—who had done this. This … butchery, which was against everything their people stood for.

  The frequent cracking sound of the whips managed to break through her horror at what had been done to these males, and she looked up and across the sand at Herrin, just now truly beginning to understand what it was she and the Resistance were fighting against. What they were fighting to save.

  Their world. Their way of life.

  On and on the whipping went, but now Siray and the other captives who had only received one lashing took turns retrieving each new pair. Back and forth they went, the clothing of the helpers becoming more covered in blood as the number of lashings increased with each pair they carried back across the sands to the little comfort, if any, that the main group could offer.

  When it came to the last captive to take the punishment—the female who had been number sixty-one—Genlie and Kovi stood ready to collect her, waiting as the kneeling female shuddered and curled even farther forwards as the bloodied whip came down one final time.

  Then the pair was walking across the sands and kneeling by the collapsed female as the pair of soldiers rolled up their bloody whips, strapped the weapons onto their backs, and turned, walking away without another backwards glance.

  But the female captive hadn’t yet moved.

  And then Genlie was standing, her fair skin paling as her hands, now stained red with the blood of countless other captives, rose to cover her mouth.

  Kovi looked up from where he knelt to stare across at Siray and the others. ‘She’s dead,’ he said flatly, in that direct way of his.

  The world went silent around Siray for a moment. Then her hearing returned, but it seemed to pulse in time with her escalating heartbeat. She could barely breathe.

  ‘Line up!’ Herrin commanded.

  For a moment, Siray forgot herself and where she was, disbelief and then rage running rampant across her face. She spun to glare at the training master, showing her teeth as she decided that only Changing into her sevonix form and shredding his back would be a suitable way for him to die.

  But then a hand clamped down on her arm, and Siray looked up, fully expecting Baindan or Zale to be about to hold her back. They could try.

  But the eyes she met were not golden or grey. They were hazel.

  Tamot’s eyes were hard, but also understanding. And they pleaded with her. ‘Don’t do it, Siray. Yes, you’ll get revenge for those who have suffered, but what about the suffering of those you’ll leave behind after the Faction executes you for killing Herrin?’ A lock of Tamot’s dark-red hair slid over his forehead as he dipped his head.

  Siray followed his look and saw Baindan and Zale standing there, paces away, desperately watching her. Both willing to help her. Both willing to die for her. And both of whom would suffer as she had suffered upon Deson’s death.

  Like Tamot had suffered upon Jorgi’s.

  So, nodding stiffly once to Tamot, Siray wiped away all expression from her face and silently went to her place.

  Only the twenty-one of them who had received one lash were able to line up, and it was still a torture to do so, especially as it gave all of them who were standing a clear view of the rest of the injured.

  Siray couldn’t understand it. What did the Faction have to gain by doing this to them?

  ‘Well, it’s still morning, but by my count, there remain some laps left to complete.’

  The silence this time was deep with shock.

  But Herrin was serious. Siray could see it in his eyes. Yet she could also see something else—see the hope there, that at least one of them would refuse his order. Siray flicked her gaze down to the trainer’s body. Saw the way he was positioned, his weight resting mostly on the balls of his feet, his legs spaced, hands and shoulders relaxed.

  Siray breathed out carefully as she realised what the trainer was doing. And thanked the Mother that Tamot had stopped her when he had.

  Herrin wanted to get a rise out of them. Wanted someone to attack him. Or fall apart. Siray wasn’t exactly sure which, but she knew the final outcome would be the same—punishment, or death. Or maybe a combination.

  And as the captives all stayed silent and motionless, Siray realised just how effective the Faction’s training system was.

  Herrin must have realised, too, that they were finally beginning to get it. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘Twenty more laps, and then you can help the others. Get them to Change, if you can. And remind them about what will happen the next time they disobey an order.’ He shrugged. ‘If they survive, that is.’

  Siray’s stomach clenched tightly, but Herrin was already pointing.

  ‘Run.’

  They all turned and ran.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE CAPTIVES COMPLETED their laps quickly, knowing that the lives of their fellows could hang in the balance. Then they moved about amongst the forty-two others, urging those who had regained consciousness to Change into another form if it was larger than their normal one.

  And then, the last thing Siray would have expected—that any of them would have thought likely at this point—happened.

  Multiple figures, perhaps ten or so, also clad in black but wearing gold sashes around their waists, came filing in through the doorway that led back into the tunnel, their leader angling straight for the group of captives.

  Siray stood immediately, concerned about the intentions of these new additions—maybe they intended to harm those who looked to be in the worst condition?

  It turned out to be the opposite.

  The leading figure, a thin and hard-faced female, reached Siray and promptly knelt down beside the prone male Siray had been urging to Change.

  Siray widened her stance, preparing to defend the unfamiliar male if this female intended him harm. He had taken his punishment—could be dying because of it. She would not let them do anything more.

  Yet the female ignored Siray and reached beneath the sash that was wrapped several times around her waist.

  Siray tensed, gearing up to dive-tackle the female if she pulled a weapon.

  Instead, the female removed a small bag and began to sort through the contents.

  Siray froze, almost dumb with the shock as she realised what this female was.

  A healer.

  Kneeling quickly to warn the barely conscious male that he was about to be treated, Siray nevertheless kept a careful watch on the female while she gripped the male’s hand to offer some small measure of comfort.

  Having prepared her kit, the healer withdrew a bottle and began spraying its smelly contents over the male’s wounds.

  He gave an agonised cry that drifted off into rapid panting, his hand squeezing Siray’s painfully.

  Siray, in turn, looked sharply at the healer.

  ‘Antiseptic,’ the healer informed her in a curt voice before she pulled out another small bottle, the liquid inside tinged blue.

  That’s what the smell is, Siray realised. Jamroot tar—it was a natural disinfectant, although it had an acrid odour. She knew from experience. And she also thought she knew what was in the other bottle, going by its colour.

  As the healer sprayed the contents of the second bottle onto the male’s back, his low moan of relief confirmed Siray’s guess. The bottle contained the liquid form of a herb simply known as ‘numbing plant’.

  When the healer promptly leaned forwards to poke one of the few spots on the male’s back that hadn’t been torn to ribbons, Siray almost grabbed at the female’s hand, sure that the male would roar with pain.

  But when he remained silent, she froze, her hand half outreached for the healer’s, as she remembered another fact—that numbing plant worked miraculously fast.

  The healer shot Siray a contemptuous look as she put the bottle down and reac
hed into her pack once more, bringing out a stack of healing strips that she began layering over the gashes in the male’s back. Then, when she was done, she pulled out a third bottle—this one filled with a clear liquid—and sprayed it over the entirety of the male’s back, the moisture rapidly drying into a shiny layer over the healing strips.

  Curious, Siray reached out a finger and tentatively touched the tip of one nail to the newly added coating. It was firm and gave just a little beneath her touch.

  The healer began packing her supplies back into her bag and then pulled out a tiny vial of something, which she thrust across as Siray. ‘Give him this—it’ll get him back on his feet.’ Her tone clearly indicated that she thought the male should already have been so. ‘The flexban will protect him from any infection and allow the strips to do their work over the course of the day.’ With that, the healer was up and moving on to the next patient, her face still hard and unsympathetic as she continued to work.

  The whole treatment had taken only moments, and as Siray looked around, she saw the rest of the other healers rapidly carrying out the same procedure with the other captives who had received multiple lashings.

  It seemed like the Faction did care for the condition of the captives, after all—to a point. But Siray doubted the concern stemmed from any consideration for their actual welfare, as the healer had made obvious.

  Squeezing her free hand into a fist, Siray realised she still held the small vial of liquid the healer had given her, and she turned to the semiconscious male, releasing her other hand from his grip. Although she was hesitant to give him something that the Faction had provided, even if it had come from a healer who was supposed to adhere to a strict professional code, she unscrewed the top with both hands and lifted the male’s chin up to drink.

  It took a careful moment of supporting the male’s head and urging him to drink as she all but poured the contents of the vial down his throat. Then she dropped the vial and let him lie back against the ground, watching carefully for any reaction.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  Within moments, the male was blinking and raising his head from the sand. Then, with a deep breath, he pressed his hands against the ground near his sides, and pushed himself upright and onto his feet—his movements easy, although slightly stiff.

  But no pain registered on his face.

  Siray stared up at him dumbly from where she was still kneeling on the sand, the empty vial on the ground beside her.

  A hand reached down from her blind spot to pick it up and Siray twisted, squinting to see who stood beside her, sniffing at the empty vial. ‘Morning’s friend,’ came Baindan’s even voice. Another sniff. ‘Yuck—a highly concentrated variant. Would have tasted disgusting.’

  Siray turned back to consider the upright male who had just moments before been lying cut open before her on the sand. ‘Doesn’t seem to be bothering him.’ She stood, dusting sand off her hands, but dried blood still covered them. She went to try to wipe off her hands on her pants but saw that her clothes were also coated in blood.

  ‘He’ll be bouncing around here like a pondif in mating season,’ Baindan quipped, watching the other male walk away, although his voice was flat and humourless.

  Siray nodded. All the seriously injured would be. Not that they would feel any of their injuries the rest of the day, especially as the healing strips would be knitting them back together.

  When all the captives, now numbering sixty in total, were standing, Herrin ordered them into formation, a couple of rows now with gaps, and had them begin fitness drills.

  ‘When you fail to carry out an order correctly,’ roared the trainer at the spread-out captives, ‘you impact everyone in your unit and in your company.’

  Siray focused on her breathing as she dropped onto all fours, lowered herself to the sandy ground, then exploded back up to her feet. Over and over. The movement pulled on her torn back muscles, making her movements jerky. The healers hadn’t bothered to offer Siray and the other runners any healing strips, and she hadn’t been foolish enough to ask. They were able to function and carry out the exercises that Herrin was ordering them to do—that was apparently enough.

  Yet every movement required two efforts—one to make it and one to stop herself from grunting out loud at the pain. Around Siray, quiet moans sounded occasionally from her friends and other captives as particular movements caused more pain than others, especially for those who had taken more than one lashing.

  Throughout the fitness exercises, Herrin remained standing casually nearby, watching them all carefully.

  And just after Siray had given up hope of any end to the current form of torture, Herrin called out a halt in his deep voice.

  Her breathing ragged, Siray tried to ease it. Tried to pull in air, push it out, and ignore the fire in her back. Over and over again.

  It seemed as if she had plenty of time to do this, as Herrin’s steely gaze roamed across the heavily breathing captives, his stare settling on some, skipping others.

  At some point during their exercises, Siray realised, the body of the male captive who Herrin had killed, and the body of the female captive who had died during her whipping, must have been removed from the arena.

  The sand where they had all been whipped was still a muddy red.

  Herrin’s scarred chin shifted away from the captives, and he made a motion with his hand before turning his eyes back on the group. ‘Food will be brought to you. You have one span to recover what strength you can before the afternoon session begins.’ Then he turned and walked off, heading for the entrance of the arena, his casual movements all Siray could think of as she stood there unmoving.

  Recover our strength? Siray turned her head slowly to the side, glancing as far behind her as she could without moving.

  Baindan stared back at her, his look contemplative. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I guess we’ve got some rest time.’

  Multiple pairs of eyes were now focused on Baindan as he took a step away from his position in their ranks. Then another. Then he walked clear of the lines completely.

  Siray took a step to follow and saw Genlie also step out, Kovi’s lean form close behind.

  Soon after, the rest of the captives dissolved into small groups, groans sounding from a few as they each found a place to rest.

  Siray was sitting next to Baindan somewhere in the middle of the arena when she smelled it—the spicy scent of warm meat. She twisted around, her back barking in pain even as her stomach demanded she go in search of the source of the smell.

  An intense silence was swiftly settling over the seated captives as they each caught the new aroma.

  Motivated by the purely physical need for sustenance, and still not quite able to let go of the instincts developed over the last few days, Siray stood up, moving as smoothly as she could. Across the sands of the arena, she saw three barrels standing, one of them wet on one side, the guards who had brought them out already leaving. Then, just loud enough for Baindan and Genlie to hear, she said, ‘Better move and grab something.’

  She started off at a leisurely pace across the sand, forcing herself with each step to refrain from breaking into the sprint that the adrenaline now coursing through her urged her to do.

  Even so, she was halfway there when she heard the commotion break out.

  Snapping her head around to glance over one shoulder, Siray saw captives running towards her, some with more difficulty than others, owing to their respective injuries.

  They were all surging towards the barrels. Towards the food and water.

  Gritting her teeth, Siray turned away from the rush and leapt into a sprint, her back and legs immediately crying out in protest due to their earlier abuse. Yet Siray only pushed herself harder, pumping her arms as sweat began dripping down her face and body, the fierce sting of liquid salt making her spine stiff.

  As she drew close to the containers, she risked another peek over her shoulder. She had some distance on the others. Not a huge amo
unt, but enough to give her a precious moment alone at the barrels. Just steps away from the food, Siray whipped off her over shirt, biting her lip against the sharp pain in her back as the motion pulled at her wound where the cloth had dried against it like a scab.

  Upon reaching the barrels, she placed the torn garment in the one emitting the spicy scent, and piled as much food as she could onto the sweat- and blood-soaked shirt.

  As the sound of boots slapping against the sand warned of her the eminent arrival of other captives, she gathered up the edges of her shirt in one hand, hoisted it and its contents out of the barrel, then used her hand other to snatch up a final portion.

  As she hastily spun away from the containers of food, she didn’t waste time on elegance but stepped up to the third barrel and dunked her face into the water, taking a large gulp before she was drawing her face up out of the water and stepping away, her face, hair, and neck dripping.

  The rest of the captives arrived as Siray swallowed the mouthful of cool water, and a fight broke out instantly between two males over who would get to grab their meal first.

  Siray, meanwhile, kept backing rapidly away, scanning the area as she did so. Water dripped down onto her sleeveless top, making the material feel cool against her skin.

  It was Genlie, hanging back like with other females—though probably for different reasons—who saw her first.

  When Siray noticed her looking, she held up her full shirt and jerked her head to indicate that Genlie should join her.

  Then she spotted Baindan in the middle of the pack attempting to break through the surging captives to the barrels, and she called his name.

  When his head turned, Zale, who was next to him, also looked, and Siray was able to wave them both over with the hand holding still more food.

  When Wexner also peered curiously from where he stood at the edge of the large brawl, Siray worried that he might also join the group, so she gave him a quick shake of her head and jerked her chin at the barrels.

  Wexner immediately understood her gesture—as only someone with his hard-earned experience could.