Wellspring of Chaos

XII

At some point, Kharl recalled being dragged into a cart, facedown. But each time the cart rolled over something, his back turned from a mass of pain into lightning strikes of agony, followed by blackness. About the time when he struggled into wakefulness again, despite the searing pain across his back, several people carried him somewhere, saying things he should have recalled, but didn’t.

When he woke, thin knives of pain slashed down his back.

“Ohh…”

“I know. It has to hurt. But they flogged your tunic and undertunic into your skin, and if I don’t clean it out, it will fester, and you will die.”

Kharl knew he should recognize the woman’s voice, but the pain washed over him so frequently that he could not concentrate. “Go ahead,” he mumbled, his fingers digging into something.

Another strip of pain lanced down his back.

“I’m sorry, but the cloth, some of it, is matted into your flesh, and there’s even salt they poured in some places.” The voice trembled for a moment.

In a moment of clarity, Kharl recognized the speaker. “Sanyle?”

“Yes. Father asked if I’d help. I’ve been cooking for the boys and watching over you.”

“Thank…you…”

“Just try to lie still. I’m mostly finished. Then I can clean out the rest of the wounds. Father gave me something that will help numb your back when I’m done.”

“Go…on…”

Agony alternated with blackness until he finally succumbed totally to the darkness. Even then, the darkness was filled with unseen flame.

When Kharl woke again, he was lying facedown on his own bed-the bed he and Charee had shared for so many years. He swallowed, thinking, for there had been good times, if few in recent years. The thoughts of what had happened so suddenly and for so little reason swirled through his mind. At the same time, his back was still a mass of pain, and even the slightest movement intensified the agony.

Between the two kinds of pain, it was a while before he realized someone else was in the small bedchamber. Even so, he had to squint to make out the figure sitting on the stool opposite the side of the bed his head faced.

“Warrl?” Kharl croaked the single name.

“It’s me, Da.” Warrl stood and went to the door. “He’s awake.” Then he returned and sat back down.

Kharl said nothing. What could he say?”

“Da…Sanyle said…she said…they hung Ma…Why did they do it? Ma didn’t do anything.”

Kharl tried to speak, but all he could do was cough, and for a moment, or longer, blackness washed over him.

Warrl was still sitting there when Kharl could see once more.

“Da?”

“They…discovered…no way…I could have…killed the blackstaffer…wanted someone to hang…tell the black demons…”

“Why didn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you…?”

“Warrl,” came a voice from behind Kharl, Sanyle’s soft voice, “your father tried. My father saw it all. Your da struggled against the armsmen, but there were scores of them. That’s why they whipped him so badly. He tried to stop them, and they whipped him more.”

“…why? He didn’t kill anyone. Ma didn’t, neither…”

“Let him rest, Warrl. He did the best he could. He did more than most men in Brysta would ever try.”

Before the blackness reclaimed him, Kharl could hear Warrl sniffling, and he wanted to reach out, to say more.