OoOoO

Each step closer to Trosk brought Tarun no closer to a decision about the quandary he now found himself in. On one hand, Jerriod's offer; do what a 'good soldier' would and report any potential defectors...even if it meant betraying his own people for a chance at The Academy. On the other, Elowen's offer. The more Tarun thought about the beautiful, green-bound book safely hidden in his pack, the more he wanted to earn it. Still, as much as he didn't want to turn in any defectors from amongst the Men of Trosk, the threat of Jerriod's wrath against himself and others was a very real worry.

Thankfully, Tarun was saved from having to decide too quickly on a course of action. Even as they rounded the last turn in The Old Mountain Road before it opened out onto the eastern side of Goran, Tarun had heard nothing so loud as even a whisper about plans for escape. Either his own kin and neighbours (perhaps wisely) did not trust Tarun enough to pass such plans down the column of marching soldiers to him, or nobody had dared to give voice to desertion. Either way, Tarun knew they must all be feeling the draw toward home. If he, with a potential future to gain at The Academy, could still feel a pang of longing as the stones of The Teeth began to look familiar, undoubtedly men like Andris and Joar would be feeling the same ten-fold.

When the Fourth Company made camp for the night, it was on the eastern side of The Teeth. The sun setting behind the mountains cast a familiar glow across the rocky juts of the foothills around them, edging the vivid blue of oncoming night with a fringe of golden pink. Everyone in Trosk was seeing the same sunset, Tarun realized, and his gaze was pulled unwilling toward the north. The signpost for Trosk wasn't far along the Running Road from where they stood. A sure-footed mountain man could likely make the trek from here to home in less than a night, Tarun wagered. If he were to just strike out now, he could be walking through the door and seeing Lhara's look of shock and delight by sunup. Of course, in all likelihood that would also mean seeing Trosk burn before sundown tomorrow. No, Tarun decided, without realizing that he'd even been giving it real consideration. If anyone were going to make a break for home tonight, it would not be him.

The tension around camp was palpable that evening though. The lowland soldiers watched the Men of Trosk warily, seemingly aware of the unspoken fantasies of desertion that their newest comrades were entertaining. Even Princess Ellorae's ladies seemed to sense the tightness in the air. The women's' talk amongst themselves over dinner was quieter than usual, and the princess recalled them all to her pavilion long before the moon rose. As for the Men of Trosk themselves, they kept together and silent, chewing their rabbit stew and dried bread without really tasting it. Still nobody so much as dared to speak of Trosk, but the telltale flicker of eyes toward the mountainside spoke volumes. Even Garrit seemed subdued, as much as he had ever been since they first left Trosk. The memories of The Giant's Shoe on fire and bloodied earth burned high and bright behind unblinking eyes.

Tarun was not on the first nightwatch, and for that he was only too grateful. He could feel eyes on him though as he made for the little two-man tent which he shared with Garrit. When he looked up, Jerriod only nodded before turning to speak to the first watchman. Tarun laid down on his sleeping palet with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Garrit was already inside, lying wide awake on his back staring up at the tent stick overhead. The gathering dusk made it hard to read the expression on his cousin's face, but Tarun imagined it must have been troubled like his own. He was just about to close his eyes and try to get some rest before second watch when Garrit spoke just above a whisper.

"Are you going to try to escape, Tarun?"

"...No. Are you?"

There was a soft rustle in the dark as Garrit turned his face toward Tarun. "I want to," he admitted. "But I don't dare. So long as home is still there, safe and waiting, I can outlast this army."

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Tarun was beginning to think that Garrit might have nodded off to sleep when he coughed quietly.

"I imagine that Quella might also be waiting for me. Her and Issa both."

Tarun was aware that Garrit thought Quella a handsome woman, but he hadn't thought anything more of it until now.

"Quella? I didn't take you for a family man already, Garrit. You sure Quella doesn't consider you a little young for herself?"

Garrit shifted beneath his thin, army-issue blanket.

"...She doesn't."

Tarun lay digesting this bit of information for a while. Quella and her little daughter would actually suit Garrit very well, now that he thought about it. Issa always laughed whenever Garrit capered around making a loud fool of himself, and the widowed mother did seem to like Garrit's company. Tarun tried and failed to stop himself from imagining Garrit bringing Quella and Issa to dinner at The Giant's Shoe, where Issa would play beside the hearth with Marden and Yelaina's children...

Children that would never be. A future that would never be. Rather than encourage any further conversation, Tarun rolled over and put his back to Garrit. It was being so close to Trosk that was making him melancholy, undoubtedly. This kind of thinking would only hinder him tonight once he rose to take the second nightwatch. Trying to ignore Garrit's wakeful silence, Tarun shut his eyes and forced himself to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

OoOoO

It was pitch dark and chilly out when Tarun heard a rock hit the side of the tent next to him. The first watch was over, the watchman summoning Tarun to take his place. Moving quietly, Tarun extracted himself from the narrow tent and pulled on his cloak and boots.

The other soldier was one of the lowlanders, and greeted Tarun with a curt nod before bee-lining away across the camp. Blowing on his hands to warm them, Tarun climbed a short ways up the roadside to the north of camp before finding himself a rock to settle on. His armour creaked in the dark, sending a vole scurrying away underneath a nearby bush. The familiar juniper smell tickled Tarun's nostrils, and he resisted the urge to sneeze. A watchman's job was to be the silent, all-seeing eyes of the Company.

A distant pin-prick of light caught Tarun's eye, and he stood to peer at it through the gloom. The moon was little more than a silver fingernail overhead, making the little point of brightness stand out like a beacon on earth. Nestled halfway up the side of The Teeth away to the north, the light could only be one thing; Trosk. Less than a day's travel away from where Tarun now stood, someone in Trosk was keeping a hearthfire burning in the bitter hours of the night. Was it Magda, ever-watchful of the moments that everyday folk were content to sleep through? Or perhaps Rhena, keeping a candle lit at the window in hopes of Garrit one day following it home? Tarun even indulged himself in wondering if maybe Lhara might be stoking that lonely fire, sitting up by herself in their family cottage, too stubborn to move down into Trosk even now.

So absorbed in watching that distant light was Tarun that he did not even notice someone creeping across the sleeping campsite behind him. It wasn't until the lone figure was rustling through the shrubs nearby on their way up the hillside that Tarun whirled around. He was about to call out 'Who goes there?' as a watchman was meant to when for some reason the words stuck in his throat. Instead, Tarun found himself staring in silence at Hengar.

Hengar had shed his armour, and wore only the red tunic, breeches and cloak the army had given them in Geristan. He didn't even have his kit with him, having opted to leave behind the sleeping palet and blanket that every soldier carried. The butcher's eldest son looked ready for travel, fast and light. He stared right back at Tarun with eyes as black as coal beneath scowling brows.

"Well?" Hengar said quietly.

"Go," said Tarun.

For the first time that Tarun had even witnessed, Hengar looked taken aback and uncertain.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Go. Stars help me, I'm not going to stop you."

Rather than obey, Hengar shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He followed Tarun's previous gaze toward the light that was Trosk before looking back.

"I have to go. Ristan...I'm his da. He needs his da, now more than ever if the world is going to start falling apart on us."

"I know. Go, Hengar, before someone else sees you leave."

Hengar nodded, short and sharp, before setting out once again up into the foothills. He was just about out of sight before Tarun thought to call out after him.

'Can you tell Lhara that I'm alright?' Tarun meant to ask, but stopped himself. To call out loudly enough for Hengar to hear him at this distance already meant far too high a risk of waking others in the Fourth. As the dark figure that was Hengar disappeared behind a ridge, Tarun could only watch and hope that the mountain man would say as much for him anyway.

It was done. Come morning light Hengar would be discovered missing, and it would be all too obvious what had happened. Elowen had promised that Princess Ellorae would protect Trosk from Jerriod's wrath, but now Tarun felt less sure about that than ever. He had also all but ruined his one chance at being recommended to The Academy, and for what, really? The beautiful book that Elowen had given him would be of little comfort if Jerriod really did decide to make good on his previous warnings. There was no calling Hengar back now though. With nothing else to do but wait, Tarun stood staring at the distant light that was Trosk until it winked out with the first rays of the rising sun.

OoOoO

"As of this moment, soldier, your life is officially worthless."

Tarun stood alone in the centre of the lightening campsite, surrounded on all sides by the men of the Fourth Company. Some, like the lowlanders, eyed him with such unmasked disdain that one might have thought something had crawled into his shorn hair and died. The Men of Trosk meanwhile were in a state of barely concealed panic. They were all disheveled, having been in various states of preparation for the day's march when Hengar's absence was discovered. Everyone watched Jerriod as he loomed over Tarun, waiting in the chill early dawn to see what the captain's wrath would unleash.

"Did I not give you all mercy at Trosk? Did I not give you a second chance to prove yourselves and redeem your treason?" Jerriod was saying. "And this, Thrymmson, is how you repay that mercy? By letting a man walk away unchallenged?"

Tarun knew enough to keep his mouth shut, despite previous accusations of having a bold tongue. He stood stone-faced and silent, not meeting anyone's eye. Jerriod's breath came as angry puffs of steam in Tarun's face.

"I warned you that there would be consequences for desertion...warned all of you! The crown may forgive once, but it does not suffer to be betrayed twice."

It occurred to Tarun that he might actually die this day. The possibility hadn't seemed quite so real last night with Trosk within eyesight but now, with Jerriod's jaw set in cold resolution and the lowlander soldiers all around, Tarun felt a chill crawl down his back.

"You've left me little choice," said Jerriod. "Both you and your village will be-"

"Captain!"

Every head assembled spun toward Princess Ellorae. She sat, surrounded by her handmaidens, on a little wicker stool with her lavender purple skirts spread out around her. A look of delicate alarm crumpled her pretty face into a truly pitiable sight as she gaped at Jerriod. To Tarun, Mahir's sister appeared just about ready to faint. Elowen, standing at the princess's shoulder, was even holding a scented handkerchief at the ready in case of emergency.

"Your Grace?" asked Jerriod, the harshness of his voice softening ever-so-slightly.

"Captain, surely it must have been an honest lapse, nothing more. This poor soldier has been on the nightwatch just about every night since my party arrived in Geristan. Any man might fall prey to inattention and carelessness after keeping such hours."

"Your Ladyship, forgive me, but the soldiers from Trosk have a history of...disloyalty to the crown. That a deserter should be allowed to escape so easily can hardly be the result of mere carelessness on this man's part."

Tarun did not miss the vehemence with which Jerriod emphasized him as being particularly worthy of suspicion. He also did not miss how the older man's tone and diction instantly affected a more refined tenor when addressing the princess. If Tarun didn't know better, he would think Jerriod was putting on airs. The matronly lady in Ellorae's entourage spoke up, her prim capital accent practically dripping with offence.

"Sir, are you contradicting Princess Ellorae? Her Highness has a particular gift for seeing the true character of men, a gift well-known among people of standing in Amenthere."

The layered criticisms of that reprimand just about pulled a full-bodied cringe out of Tarun on behalf of Jerriod's pride...or would have if his fate wasn't so precarious at the moment. The captain flushed, scarlet crawling up around the edge of his gorget.

"And so she does. I do beg your pardon...Your Grace."

Jerriod deeper into a deep bow before Princess Ellorae. When he turned back to Tarun though, there was no less ferocity in his black-browed glare.

"The presence of the princess has saved you in more ways than one, soldier. As much as I despise being made to renege on my word, the Fourth Company has no time to waste hunting down one deserter and revisiting Trosk. We will break camp and carry on toward Derbesh, as ordered. However..."

The Men of Trosk froze, some having been dangerously close to openly showing their relief. Even the lowlander soldiers watched Jerriod with bated breath.

"...There will be punishment for this intolerable 'lapse', such as it is. Rest assured, on our return from seeing Princess Ellorae safely to Derbesh, we will be returning to Trosk. Hengar will either be found and summarily punished, or Trosk will be in for another harsh lesson in loyalty. Since Hengar has abandoned the Fourth like a coward though, you, Thrymmson, will take thirteen lashes in his place before camp is broken. Officer Pedrum."

A deadly hush fell over the Fourth Company as Pedrum oversaw Tarun being stripped to the waist and made to kneel on the cool ground. The gravel of the road pinched at his knees through his breeches, but it was all of the eyes upon him that made Tarun's lips draw back in a silent snarl. Pedrum tied Tarun's hands together, but not before threading the rope through the iron loop of a tent peg and driving it hard into the ground. A strong man could probably have pulled free of such fastening, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Tarun was chilled, half-naked, and about to be humiliated, but had no choice but to passively endure it. The Men of Trosk stood grim yet silent to one side, impotent with the lowlander ranks of the Fourth outnumbering them three to one.

Princess Ellorae wasn't even about to stay to watch. "I take my leave. Lieutenant Neel." With the head of her Knights of Amenthis and her handmaidens in tow, Ellorae gathered up her skirts and made a direct retreat into her tent. Tarun had his back to the women, and was loathe to look over his shoulder and see pity. And so, he did not know if Elowen looked his way before following her mistress. If Tarun had looked though, he would have known that the blonde handmaiden remained, standing quietly outside the entrance of the tent with the hood of her cloak up so no one could read her expression.

Boots crunched on gravel. Somewhere far up in The Teeth an eagle cried. Tarun was acutely aware of every hair rising along his forearms and the nape of his neck. Somewhere behind him, Pedrum was pacing inside the circle of soldiers. Tarun wished the man would just hurry up and get this over with.

Craaack!

Completely without warning, a lash tore a trail of first ice and then searing fire across Tarun's back. Every muscle in his shoulders and stomach clenched involuntarily, and an unbidden yelp escaped Tarun before he could even think to strangle it. For some reason, the thought hadn't even occurred to Tarun before now that this would, in fact, hurt. He had considered and worried over every possible consequence of letting Hengar go last night, even just recently the threat that he might end up getting killed. When another lash fell and Tarun quite literally felt his skin tear, he realized how wrong he had been not to worry about pain.

Every young, naughty child growing up in Trosk had felt the brief nip of a wooden switch. Tarun had also felt the sting of falling chips of ice in the middle of a mountain hailstorm and the throb of a broken finger. These little things, all normal pains of life, had in no way prepared him for what it felt like to be deliberately, methodically harmed by another person. By the time the sixth lash fell - not even halfway finished - Tarun was shaking uncontrollably and bleeding down his chin from trying to bite back his cries. His entire back felt like it had been flayed bare, and trickles of warm blood did nothing to soothe the all-consuming burn.

Craaaack!

The seventh strike had Tarun curling inward, hunched over the peg to which he was tied as if trying to seek refuge in the cool earth. His nails dug into his flesh along with his teeth, and even that did nothing to prevent wordless groans of pain from falling half formed past his lips. The whip fell again...again...once more and Tarun lost the count. He could only huddle forward over his knees and try not to scream as his back became one seething mass of raw, fiery agony.

There was a lull, and Tarun held his breath, waiting in quailing anticipation of the next blow like a struck dog. No lash came though. Vaguely Tarun became aware of Jerriod speaking. The man sounded faraway, and a dull ringing in Tarun's ears was making his hands shake. Red crescents bloomed on his palms where nails had bit into the skin.

"...want this camp broken down in fifteen minutes. We move on down the Running Road to Joska. Now, soldiers! The spectacle is over."

Someone appeared past Tarun's shoulder seemingly out of nowhere. Tarun started hard enough to pull at the tent peg binding him to the ground. Borse's coal-black eyes appeared before him as the former tanner of Trosk knelt down to untie Tarun's hands.

"You did a brave thing, strákurinn mínn," Borse murmured, his face downturned but close enough for Tarun to hear. He used the old mountain tongue to call Tarun 'my boy', an endearment Tarun had only ever heard Borse say to Berin and Cassel. "Brave and stupid. Your ma would have been proud of you."

"Is it over?" asked Tarun stupidly, the words falling together in a jumble past his bitten lips.

"Yes, it's over. But now you have to stand and walk. Keep your jaw firm, don't let these sneering vultures see that it hurts. Here, take your shirt and stand up...all at once and get it over with."

Letting Borse take his elbow and pull him to his feet, Tarun had to groan behind clenched teeth as the lashes on his back stretched and burned anew. Putting on his tunic and armour was possibly even more agonizing. By the time the Fourth was on the move east along the Running Road again, little bursts of light were dancing behind Tarun's eyes. How he was going to march the whole day through without fainting along the side of the road, he had no idea. Borse's words about his mother being proud of him were little reassurance. The feelings of the dead couldn't help any of them now, not with leagues upon leagues of sun-scorched land waiting between Trosk and the Weeping Keep.

OoOoO

The other men of Trosk helped Tarun survive that long, miserable day. Garrit had quickly packed their tent by himself while Borse saw to Tarun in the aftermath. He carried the awkward bundle alone without complaint, refusing to even let Tarun carry the poles. As the Fourth drew further from the shade of the mountains and the autumn sky turned dry and bright, Andris stealthily offered Tarun a spare sip from his canteen and Thyge's shoulder steadied Tarun when he stumbled. Only their efforts and the steady pressure of Second against his searing back kept Tarun upright and doggedly following the steps of the soldier ahead of him.

One small blessing was to be found in the midst of Tarun's disgrace. As they made camp that evening, Jerriod tersely ordered a lowlander to take Tarun's place on the nightwatch. It seemed that the men of Trosk were not to be trusted with guard duty anymore. The captain refused to look at Tarun even when they came within feet of each other around the stew pot, and Tarun knew beyond shade of doubt that his road to The Academy was lost. Still, he would be able to sleep uninterrupted tonight, and at this point he was too tired and painful to wish for much else. Even the chance to steal a peek at Second seemed unimportant next to resting right now.

Tarun was making his way to his and Garrit's tent, ready to escape from this awful day at last, when a small figure blocked his path in the dark.

"You did well today," said Elowen quietly, keeping her voice below the hearing of the soldiers still eating around the campfire. "Both in letting your man go and in braving the lash. The princess is pleased."

"To be perfectly honest, Lady Elowen, I..." Tarun, remembering who he was talking to, snapped his mouth shut like a steel trap. His exhaustion was making his tongue dangerous.

Elowen let out a low breath. Her honey-brown eyes reflected the glow of the firelight behind Tarun. "Nonetheless, she is pleased. There are higher powers in this land than the officers of the Royal Army, Tarun Thrymmson. Remember that."

This perplexed Tarun, and he stood there in the dark even after the handmaiden slipped back into Princess Ellorae's tent. A clatter of tin plates from the fireside roused him from his stupor. Moving stiffly, Tarun ducked into his own empty tent - Garrit was still eating dinner with the others - and peeled down to his shirt and breeches. The fabric pulled at the crusted blood on his back, instantly sending a bloom of hot pain across Tarun's shoulders. Hissing and wincing through every inch, Tarun carefully maneuvered himself down onto his stomach on his sleeping pallet. The ground was hard and rocky through the thin leather, and between that and his back Tarun immediately gave up on being comfortable.

The soft shine of silver lettering caught the corner of Tarun's eye. The book Elowen had given him was peeking out from inside his pack. For a moment Tarun simply laid there and stared at it. He was tired, sore, disappointed and angry, but but Second was too beautiful to refuse. Slowly, stiffly, Tarun reached out and pulled the book toward him. Garrit found him like that, facedown in the pages and sound asleep. If he wondered where his cousin had come by such a treasure, Garrit said nothing of it. Instead he carefully reached over and pulled the book out from under Tarun, tucking it back into Tarun's bag and away from Gorian eyes.

OoOoO