Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [60]
Though the reason for that hatred had long since perished within the minds of these creatures who had no memory of their history, the centaurs knew one thing—torturing and murdering humans gave them a deep, inner satisfaction.
Stumbling to a halt, Joram turned with some idea of fighting. Immediately a hand crashed into his face, knocking him over. Lying on the ground, wracked by pain, the cold part of Joram’s mind told him, “Die now. End it quickly. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
He heard the hooves hitting the dirt around him. One thudded into his body. He didn’t feel it, though he heard bones crack. Slowly, determinedly, he staggered to his feet. The centaurs knocked him down again. More blows from the sharp hooves broke his bones, cut into his flesh.
He tasted blood …
The coldness of a voice stung Joram back to consciousness as the coldness of water stung his lips.
“Can we do anything for him?”
“I don’t know. He’s pretty far gone.”
“He’s conscious, at least. That’s something,” continued the cold voice. “Any signs of a head wound?”
Joram felt hands upon his head. Rough and uncaring fingers ran over his skull, twitched open his eyes.
“No. I guess they wanted to enjoy him as long as possible.” There was a pause, then the same voice continued, “Well, do we take him back to Blachloch or not?”
Another pause.
“Take him,” said the cold voice finally. “He’s young and strong. It’ll be worth our trouble to haul him back to camp. Set his bones with the splints, the way the old man showed you.”
“Do you ’spose he’s the one killed the overseer?” a voice very close to Joram’s ear boomed as rough hands gripped his limbs, making him gag with the sudden jolt of pain.
“Of course,” said the cold voice dispassionately. “Why else would he have been out here? That makes him more valuable. If he proves troublesome, Blachloch can always turn him in. He still has his old contacts in the Duuk-tsarith.”
A bone crunched. Blackness tinged with fiery red swirled around Joram. He caught hold of the cold voice, hanging on so that the darkness would not sweep him under.
“Be quick about it,” the cold voice said irritably. “Get him on the packhorse. And stop him from screaming like that. There may be other centaur hunting parties on the border.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about his yellin’. Look at him. He’s finished.”
Indistinguishable words, vanishing in a vast distance.
A sensation of being raised …
A sensation of falling …
Days and nights tumbled into one another with a noise of rushing water. Days and nights of the vague dreamlike awareness of traveling upon the water. Days and nights of struggling for consciousness, only to be assailed by pain and the bitter knowledge of being alone and forgotten. Days and nights of lapsing into unconsciousness and hoping bleakly never to waken.
Then there was the vague knowledge that the journey had ended and he was on land once more. He was in a strange dwelling, and Anja came to him, kneeling beside him and combing out his tangled black hair and whispering stories of Merilon, Merilon the Beautiful, Merilon the Wondrous. And he could picture Merilon in his mind. He could see the crystal spires and the boats with silken sails drawn by fabulous animals that drifted upon the currents of air. He was happy while these dreams lasted, and his pain eased. But when the pain returned, the dreams grew distorted and terrible. Anja became a creature of fangs and claws, trying to rip open his chest and tear out his heart.
Always, over and above the dreams and through the pain, came strange sounds, as of a giant breathing, and a banging, like an untuned bell, and a hissing, like a horde of snakes. Fire sprang up, burning before his eyes, burning away the beautiful, distorted images of Merilon.
But finally there was darkness and silence. Finally