Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Fifteen strokes, Sova thought. At least it wasn't to falling, the flogging that lasted as long as your strength, and one stroke longer. Fifteen strokes she'd be able to count. It was hardly as if she'd never been struck before. The army was in the usual bustle and confusion of making camp; the flogging-posts were always among the first things set up, eighty thousand warriors, now, producing a good deal in the way of discipline problems. She'd watched before, as they were off-loaded from a wagon, work-crews standing in the bed of the vehicle to pound them in with stone-headed mauls: old oak posts with frayed tops, dark and stained. She'd expected not to get any closer acquainted. Those to be punished waited, some bound and under guard, most standing with knots of their friends, faces contrite and nervous. Dust made her sneeze, and there were the usual smells of dung and leather and sweat and greased iron. She'd told Echera-e the first day he'd been up and around, two days after he'd been hurt; it was another two days now, and he'd been judged fit. "Fifteen stroke… we getting light cause she you' motser," he said. "Somekras outcahst, forrh tsaht. Most flahg to falling. Bet she say us it tsaht, next time." Now he stood beside her, his rough-callused hand in hers; his friends were there, more subdued than usual. They seemed to agree with him that the sentence was on the light side of justice, though, if anything. Sova had felt it was harsh, until she thought about it.If everyone ran around doing what they wanted , they'dcut through us like old cheese . The two hadn't been sure whether they'd get the choice, but each wanted to go first. They'd toyed with the idea of having the whip-wielder alternate strokes; but that, they realized, would make it last twice as long for both. The anticipation between, they both knew, was as bad as the pain. Sova swallowed; there was a fig orchard just north of the punishment field, and she could smell the over-sweet smell of the dropped fruit, hear the wasps buzzing about them. Shkai'ra rode up on Hotblood with most of the Slaughterers behind her, and Megan, perched on her pony, worry lines on her face. "Attention to orders!" the Kommanza barked. Echera-e and Sova looked at each other and straightened, stepped forward to stand before the commander; the Yeoli's eyes stopped for a moment on the man uncoiling the whip by the post, one of his own countryfolk. That was the rule, in this army, formed of nations that had in the past often been enemies, and were still sometimes touchy about perceived humiliations. Sova swallowed. As one they exchanged the salute with Shkai'ra. Her voice continued in a tone like iron. "Sova Far-Traveller, military apprentice, and Echera-e Lemana, common rank, did willfully disobey orders while in action and in the face of the enemy; specifically, did refuse to obey the signal to retreat although they heard and understood same, thereby endangering the mission and the good order and discipline of this army." "Therefore, they are sentenced to punishment corporeal, for their own improvement and as example general. In light of the fact that the offense was committed while attempting to rescue a wounded comrade with courage that would be commendable in other circumstances, and in view of their youth and previous clean records of both parties, sentence is commuted to fifteen strokes. I warn Military Apprentice Sova Far-Traveller, and am authorized by his own commander Makalina Shae-Sorel, rigaryekrachaseye , to so warn Echera-e Lemana, that the next such offense will be punished by flogging to falling. The sentenced may choose the order of punishment and whether they will be bound." "Told you," whispered Echera-e.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html "Stone, knife, and parchment?" They'd never come to a decision; there was no time to do it any other way now. They extended their fists. "One, two, three…" The first time both showed knife, and shared a nervous giggle; the second, Echera-e's knife beat Sova's parchment, and they gave each other a quick hug. He peeled off his shirt and stepped up to the post, taking a firm grip on it, waving on the binding-rope. They d both had an answer to that choice, without words. The whip-wielder had been warming his arm; the regulation Yeoli whip was too thick to crack, but could be made to whistle viciously through the air, as he was doing now. Echera-e spoke the ritual words, loud enough for everyone to hear and steadily, as tradition required. "So be it, I submit myself." I can't turn away or shield my eyes or flinch, Sova thought, as the whip whistled around and thumped across his back for the first stroke, a sound like a hand-blow.Not in front of all these people, when I'm next; it would look like cowardice. Shame him, too, who loves me . It came to her that this was the sort of thought people had in war songs, and she'd thought it naturally, for the first time.Because the songs… come out of truth . She kept her eyes on him, silently wishing, "Strength, livling." He didn't flinch himself, though she saw him tremble, and his head start to bow until he checked it. "Five!… Six!" The count-herald's voice was clear and weighty. Echera-e's tanned back had come up brilliant pink in a broad stripe on the first stroke; now the stripes were enough to blend together into one huge patch. "Ten!… Eleven!" Pink grew brighter, angrier.I should look at his head, not there. Strength, my love . "Fourteen!… Fifteen!" The flesh of his back looked almost bloodied now, though it was unbroken. Finished. And he'd managed not to cry out. He straightened, aching slow, kissed the whip-wielder's hand as Yeoli tradition required, and saluted Shkai'ra. His face was flushed red, but when his eyes turned to Sova he grinned. The cruel sourness of fear had come up in her mouth of itself on his fourteenth stroke; now it watered, hard.If I spit, everyone will know. My turn. I won't cry out. I mustn'tcry out. But I don't know if I can keep myself from crying out, or stay still like he did . She wanted to cry. His brave grin cut through the fear some, and she loved him for it, but it didn't cut through it all. Everyone was looking at her. They wouldn't change whip-wielders; there weren't enough other Thanes in the army to find one for her.Now. Only cowards hesitate . She took off her shirt, trying not to let the cloth show the trembling of her hands, smelling the stink of her own fear-sweat while she pulled it over her head. They were waiting. Echera-e was with his friends; vaguely she saw him leaning on another youth's shoulder, and his hand make the first symbol to her,strength . Her own steps toward the post seemed jerky and wooden, like a puppet's; the arm that waved away the binding rope didn't seem her own. It's just pain. I know what it's like to feel pain. She gripped the post, feeling the wood rough and splintery on her fingers.Send the pain out of yourself , the voice said inside her; Shkai'ra's.Stare at a spot, send the pain into it. Control breathing, deep to the base of the lungs, slow . Other people had given her the same hints for taking floggings.Set your teeth, concentrate on not biting your lip . She tried not to expect the first blow.Why isn't he starting? It must be just because time seems like an eternity right now . Then she remembered. She cleared her throat, and forced her voice to be strong, and steady. "So be it." It sounded distant as a
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people around for camouflage, and t
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Und now I vind dose two—Celestial
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