J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [259]
“You mean no offense, warrior?” The robes moved as if she were shaking her head. “On the contrary, you never hesitate to offend to get what you wish, and that has always been your problem. It is also why we have been brought here together this night.” She turned away. “You have the weapon?”
Phury put down the duffel, unzipped it, and took out the tri-whip. The two-foot-long handle was made of wood and covered with brown leather that had been darkened by the sweat of many hands. Out of the rod’s tip, three lengths of blackened steel chain swung in the air. At the end of each of them there was a spiked dangler, like a pinecone with barbs.
The tri-whip was an ancient, vicious weapon, but Tohr had chosen wisely. In order for the ritual to be considered successful, the brothers could spare Rhage nothing either in the type of weapon they used or the way they put it to his skin. To give leniency would be to demean the integrity of the tradition, the regret he was offering, and the chance for a true cleansing.
“So be it,” she said. “Proceed to the wall, Rhage, son of Tohrture.”
He went forward, climbing the stairs two at a time. As he passed the altar, he gazed at the sacred skull, watching firelight lick over the eye sockets and the long fangs. Positioning himself against the black marble, he gripped the stone pegs and felt cold smoothness on his back.
The Scribe Virgin drifted up to him and lifted her arm. Her sleeve fell back, and a glow bright as a welder’s arc was revealed, the stinging light vaguely shaped like a hand. A low-level electrical hum went through him, and he felt something shift inside his torso, as if his internal organs had been rearranged.
“You may begin the ritual.”
The brothers lined up, their naked bodies gleaming with strength, their faces drawn into deep grooves. Wrath took the tri-whip from Phury and came forward first. As he moved, the weapon’s links chimed with the sweetness of a bird’s call.
“Brother,” the king said softly.
“My lord.”
Rhage stared into those sunglasses as Wrath started swinging the whip in a wide circle to build momentum. A droning sound started low and crescendoed until the weapon came forward, slicing through the air. The chains hit Rhage’s chest and then the barbs clawed into him, grabbing the air out of his lungs. As he bore down on the pegs, he kept his head up while his vision dimmed and then returned.
Tohr was next, his blow knocking the wind out of Rhage so that his knees sagged before they accepted his weight again. Vishous and Phury followed.
Each time, he met the pained eyes of his brothers in hopes of easing their anguish, but as Phury turned away, Rhage could no longer support his head. He let it fall on his shoulder and so caught sight of the blood running down his chest, over his thighs, and onto his feet. A pool was forming on the floor, reflecting the light of the candles, and staring at the red mess made him woozy. Determined to remain standing, he cocked his elbows so it was his joints and bones, not his muscles, that kept him in place.
When there was a lull, he became dimly aware of some kind of argument. He blinked several times before his eyes were clear enough to see.
Phury was holding out the whip and Zsadist was backing away from the thing in what seemed a lot like terror. Z’s fisted hands were held up high and his nipple rings flashed in the firelight as he breathed far too heavily. The brother was the color of fog, his skin gray and unnaturally shiny.
Phury spoke gently and tried to take Zsadist’s arm. Z pivoted wildly, but Phury stayed with him. As they moved in a grim dance, the whip marks covering Z’s back shifted with his muscles.
This approach was going nowhere, Rhage thought. Zsadist was closing in on full panic, like a cornered animal. There had to be some other way to reach him.
Rhage took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again.
“Zsadist…” His reedy voice