Page 45 of The Eyes of Tamburah
Scorching hells, she was going to strangle that little sand rat. He must have followed her. Although she’d no idea how. She shouldn’t have dismissed him so easily.
“You’re coming with us,” one of the deacons said. His short and stocky build under his robe could be deceptive—it was either fat or muscle.
Four against one—not great odds. Best to settle this peacefully.
Shyla tugged her sleeve down as she held up her hands, revealing the sigil. “I’m working for the Water Prince.”
“Hey! Look at that!” Mojag said. “I bet it’s worth—”
“Quiet,” the deacon ordered. Then he gave her a humorless smile. “That means nothing to us. Now, come along or—”
Not waiting for the threat, she moved. Targeting him, she kicked him in the stomach. All his air rushed out in a whoosh as he doubled over. She shoved him into the deacon standing beside him, squeezed through the gap and spun to face them. Now all four were on one side of her.
Two pushed past their bent colleague as if to give chase, but hesitated when she remained in place. No way she’d be able to navigate the tunnels fast enough. She knelt on one knee and punched them both in the stomach. When they leaned forward, she stood, driving her fists in an uppercut to their chins. Grunts and curses as arms grappled for her. She backpedaled as the others descended.
Then it was a dance of blocking punches, kicks, and holds. She fought hard and dirty, her hair coming loose. But she’d lost track of Mojag. Big mistake; the little rat squeezed through legs and under arms. She almost ignored him until he pulled a knife. Son of a sand demon! She knocked his first thrust wide, but his second bit into her thigh. Pain seared through her leg and she went down. One deacon pounced, pinning her to the ground while another trapped her hands.
Before she had a chance to counter, they flipped her over onto her stomach, yanked her arms behind her, and secured them. One sat on her legs while the others caught their breaths. With her cheek pressed to the ground, she sucked in the cool gritty air. Her thigh sizzled with pain as if the knife remained. Panic simmered in her chest. The sigil didn’t work and Rendor didn’t know her location.
Only Mojag appeared unaffected. “I get her pack and the bounty of twenty osees,” he said in a chirpy tone.
Strangulation was too good for Mojag. Coins jangled and his dirty feet stepped past her. She lifted her head. The rat clutched her pack. He flashed her a bright grin, did a little bow, and was soon out of sight.
Thinking of creative ways to make him suffer kept Shyla distracted as she was hauled to her feet and marched between the deacons. Every limping step reminded her of the wound. Blood soaked her pants and she hoped the cut wasn’t deep. She’d worry about infection, but doubted that would be her biggest problem in the near future.
Their route avoided the populated areas. Not that anyone would help a sun-kissed. Plus no one challenged the deacons. Neither had she. She’d always assumed the person in trouble was a heretic.
They arrived at one of the dozens of chapels dedicated to the worship of the Sun Goddess. Rows of kneelers lined the floor and faced the altar. A few people prayed, their heads bent over clasped hands. Trol lanterns burned on chandeliers that hung from the ceiling that was lost in the darkness. Decorative tile mosaics depicted various historical scenes. Many of them showed the Sun Goddess performing miracles. A miracle right about now would be most welcome. Shyla glanced at the statue of the Goddess behind the altar before the deacons led her through a doorway on the left side of the chapel and into a long corridor.
This part lacked the same beauty and soon cries of pain bounced off the stone walls.
The stout deacon noticed her panicked expression. “This is where we rehabilitate our lost brothers and sisters, helping them to confess their sins and regain their faith.”
They passed room after room after room. Inside each, a deacon “rehabilitated” one poor soul. Some stood with hands chained over their heads. Others were secured to kneelers, backs exposed to a whip’s lash.
Dread and fear churned in her stomach. Shyla averted her gaze, keeping it on the deacon’s broad shoulders. They reached an empty room and she was shoved inside. With the ease of many sun jumps’ worth of practice, they freed her hands, forced her to kneel on the hard marble pew about a meter wide, and clamped her arms to the ledge with her palms face up. Normally, the bar was used to rest your elbows on while you prayed. Then they tied her ankles to the kneeler’s supports. This arrangement effectively kept her in a locked position. Sharp pain throbbed from the cut on her thigh. Blood continued to soak into the fabric of her pants, spreading into a large oval. The deacons ignored it. It appeared they didn’t care if she bled to death.
Two deacons left, leaving Stocky and another behind. The taller man strode over to a wall filled with weapons and perused it as if shopping at the market. An uncontrollable tremor raced through her legs. Stocky yanked on the prince’s sigil. It wouldn’t budge. He dug his fingernails into her skin and tugged harder. Pain shot up her arm.
“How do you get this off?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He backhanded her across the face. She rocked to the side as pain invaded her senses. Blood filled her nose and mouth. Tears dripped from her eyes. Her entire face throbbed as she gasped for breath.
Stocky knew just how long to wait for her to recover to ask, “Where’s the latch?”
The same answer would result in the same response, so Shyla quickly said, “Captain Rendor knows. He put it on, told me only he can unlock it.” She braced for another blow.
Instead, Stocky ran his fingers over the edges. He grunted. “A sharp pair of metal cutters should work.” He tapped it. “If not, we’ll cut off her hand.”
Every muscle in her body turned to liquid. “No,” she whispered.
But they ignored her. The tall deacon handed Stocky a long-handled tool with two short curved blades on the one end. “If it doesn’t work, wait until after we’ve punished her,” he said in a soft purr. “We don’t want her bleeding too much and passing out. She must be fully aware of the consequences of her sins before we inform the priestess of her capture.”
Shyla closed her eyes, passing out sounded like an excellent idea. The cold bite of metal dug into her wrist. Opening her eyes, she watched as the curved blades cut through the sigil with a loud snap.
Stocky put down the tool and yanked the bracelet off her wrist. The action left behind a long gash, which matched the two other bleeding gashes and the weeping half-moon scratches caused by his nails. She stared at the newly exposed skin. The Water Prince was going to be angry. And Rendor…best not to think about him.
