Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [89]
She was afraid and she was angry, and her anger began swallowing up her fear. She was angry at the soldiers for the ugly things they were saying. She was angry at her stepfather for feeling he needed to protect her.
The soldiers ordered all the Torgun to sit down with their backs against the cart. Aylaen was glad to rest, though she knew she would regret the inactivity when she tried to stand up. She could already feel her muscles stiffening.
Sweat rolled off her, dripping from her wet red curls. The man’s shirt she wore clung to her body. She was ravenous and desperately thirsty, and when the soldier handed her a mug filled with water, she took the cup and brought it to her lips, tilting her head to drink.
The soldier grabbed hold of her breasts.
Shamed and outraged, Aylaen slammed the pottery mug into the man’s face. The mug broke, the shards cut into his flesh. He swore and, touching his face, drew back fingers covered in blood.
“Whore! You should be grateful for my attention!” He struck her with the back of his hand.
She was furious, suddenly, at men—all men—for making her feel weak and vulnerable and afraid.
The Madness of Torval, the holy fire sent by the god that burns away fear and pain, swept over her. Aylaen grabbed a stone from the cart and flung it at the soldier who had hit her.
She grabbed another stone and threw it at Sigurd, who yelped in pain and stared at her in astonishment. Blinded by the madness, Aylaen threw stone after stone, hitting friend and foe alike. There was no need to aim, for the men were bunched together, and she could not fail to hit someone. Aylaen shrieked curses at them and hurled stones.
A man grabbed her from behind. Strong arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side. She could not see who had hold of her. She had no idea if he was friend or foe. All she knew was that he was stopping her from hurting those who had hurt her, and she kicked him in the shins and tried to bite him and fought to free herself. The man refused to let go.
“Stop, Aylaen! They’ll kill you if don’t!”
“Good!” she said viciously, and stamped on his foot.
He kept hold of her.
“We will have our revenge one day, Aylaen,” he said into her ear. “But not today. Today we must stay alive.”
The madness receded. The bloody mist that had obscured her vision receded. Men held their heads, groaning, their faces bruised and bloodied. Aylaen was fiercely glad to see the soldier who had accosted her holding his hand over his cracked head.
“I’m all right,” Aylaen mumbled. “You can let go now.”
Skylan let go of her. Aylaen was startled. She had no idea Skylan was the one who had been holding her. Everyone was staring at her. She felt tears sting her eyes. She realized in dismay she was going to cry in front of all these men and that would make her look even weaker.
Skylan stepped in front of her and began to talk, telling the Torgun about the Para Dix, about how they were going to be fighting in this game. The men turned their attention to him, giving Aylaen a chance to avert her head and hastily wipe her eyes.
Zahakis had no need to ask what had happened to cause the fight. He could guess. He ordered the soldier with the broken nose to get himself patched up. Zahakis ordered the Torgun to go back to work, then walked over to Aylaen.
“I have orders to take you to the Temple,” he said.
“You sent Wulfe to the Temple and he never made it,” said Skylan dourly.
“Don’t start trouble,” Zahakis said grimly. “You won’t win.”
“What about the Para Dix?” asked Skylan. “Keeper says she is to be one of the team.”
“She is only going to the Temple for a visit,” said Zahakis. “She will be back for training.”
“It’s all right, Skylan,” Aylaen said. “I want to see to Treia.”
“See what you can find out about Wulfe,” Skylan said to her in a low voice.
Aylaen nodded. Her eyes were swimming. She couldn’t see him very well.
“You routed