Bastard Steel

Screaming. Darkness. The cacophony of a battlefield, then a sudden, jarring silence. Lucan stood in black, murky water, the liquid lapping at his chest.

Corpses, unidentifiable shapes, bobbed around him, illuminated by a faint, unnatural glow that pulsed from the depths. Above, banners, shredded and forgotten, fluttered on a breeze that carried no sound.

There was no sky, only an endless void reflecting the silent dead. It was a place of triumph and desolation, a victory utterly devoid of joy. A chilling whisper seemed to coil around him, a voice calling his name from the fathomless black.

Lucan's eyes snapped open. He lay on the hard bed, drenched in sweat, the phantom chill of the murky water still clinging to his skin. 'Another dream.'

It had been a full day since he and Kaelen had been imprisoned. He turned to his companion, finding Kaelen already awake, meticulously carving a small piece of wood with a shard of sharpened metal.

"Mornin'," Kaelen grunted, whittling a little more. "You were sweatin' all night there. Thought you might be comin' down with something." He set his piece down, a rough, intricate bird taking shape in his calloused hand.

Lucan sat up, his gambeson long since stripped, leaving him bare chested. "Another weird dream," he muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and sitting on the edge of his bed.

Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "You sure you haven't been taking Starwake? That stuff'll give you nightmares for a week."

Lucan let out a humorless chuckle. "I don't take that stuff. Never have, never will. You know that." He pushed off the bed, stretching his tall frame, wiry muscles rippling under his scarred skin.

As they continued their quiet conversation, a familiar swish of fabric and the clanging footsteps of heavy plate armor echoed from around the dungeon corner. Dame Holland appeared, her red hair a stark splash of color in the dim light.

Her black eyes, usually cold and predatory, swept over the two men, lingering for a fraction of a second on Lucan's wiry, scarred torso. A flicker of something akin to pity, or perhaps just grim recognition of a fellow survivor, crossed her face, only to be instantly replaced by her customary steely gaze.

"You two are coming with me," she stated, her tone less overtly hostile than yesterday's. "Put your shirt on," she added, her gaze pointedly on Lucan. He grimaced, walking to his small pile of clothes. His gambeson was too tattered to wear, so he grabbed his worn undershirt, a once white linen now stained with old bloodstains and trail dirt.

He pulled it over his head.

"Up against the walls and turn around," she ordered. They complied without question. Two fully plated guards, their visored bascinet helmets gleaming in the torchlight, stepped into the cell, their movements practiced as they bound the prisoners' hands. Lucan and Kaelen were led from their cell, up the worn stone steps of the dungeon, and into the cool, inner courtyard of the castle.

They were directed along a paved path, then up a grand, sweeping set of steps to the main doors of the keep. The castle guards, dressed in similar purple and gold emblazoned plate as Holland's retinue, swung open the massive, oak bound doors with a heavy groan. Inside, the air was cooler, filled with the scent of old stone and fresh lime.

Servants moved with purpose, cleaning and restoring the venerable castle. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through arched windows. Paintings depicting stern faced lords and ladies, ancient tapestries depicting forgotten battles, and polished suits of armor standing sentry filled the alcoves, each detail speaking of a long lost grandeur that was slowly being rekindled.

They took a right down a wide, echoing corridor, then another right into an even grander hall. At its far end stood another massive door, this one carved from solid stone. Ancient, almost indecipherable carvings, intertwining knotwork, mythical beasts, and arcane symbols covered its surface.

Two Royal Guards, clad in ceremonial plate with flowing purple cloaks and halberds held at perfect attention, stood sentinel, their motionless forms emphasizing the importance of what lay beyond.

With a deep, grinding creak, the stone doors swung inward, revealing a cavernous hall. Long, unadorned tables stretched across the polished stone floor, hinting at feasts or war councils past.

At the very back, on an elevated dais, sat Prince Rowan on a simple, yet regal, throne, surrounded by five of his elite Royal Guards, their armor catching the light. To his right, Daemon Bellgrave stood, his ruby eyes fixed on the parchment in Rowan's hands, which the prince read, nodding occasionally in agreement. The atmosphere crackled with a mix of anticipation and the unspoken power of command.

As Lucan and Kaelen were led closer, Rowan's voice rang out, clear and resonant. "I agree, Daemon. Had the same thoughts as you. Your plan is excellent, and I approve of your expedition. However-" He cut himself off, his gaze landing on the newly arrived prisoners. Dame Holland, walking a step ahead of Lucan and Kaelen, bowed smoothly to the prince before moving to his left.

Both Kaelen and Lucan, their hands still bound, dropped to one knee. The prince observed them for a moment, his young features unreadable. "Names?" he eventually prompted.

"Kaelen," Kaelen responded, his voice a low rumble. "Kaelen Thorne."

"Lucan. Lucan Thalor," Lucan added, his voice clearer, though tinged with weariness.

"I assume you both were treated... adequately?" Rowan asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Kaelen scoffed lightly. "Adequately, my prince. Apart from the occasional shove from your esteemed Dame Holland, we had a decent stay."

A ghost of a smirk touched Rowan's lips. "I see. That is good. I have made my decision regarding your fate. As penance for your raids and killings, you both justly deserve to hang."

The words hung heavy in the air, a chilling reminder of their true predicament. "However," he continued, his gaze sharp, "I have observed your combat skills, your experience as warriors. Instead of death, and as a punishment for your deeds, you will be given twenty lashes each. Furthermore, you will be forced to serve under my House until I deem your penance fulfilled. Do you understand the terms of this ruling?"

Lucan looked up at the prince, then at Kaelen, who bit his lip, his expression grim. Rowan's gaze was familiar, chillingly so. It reminded Lucan of Lord Fray, the cold, calculating look of a man appraising a tool.

"I agree to these terms, my prince," Kaelen stated, his voice flat with resignation.

Rowan's eyes shifted to Lucan.

"I as well, my prince," Lucan finally conceded, his head bowed. It was always the same, no matter the lord, no matter the coin. He was always just a means to an end.

"Good." Rowan nodded. "In one week, you will be sent on an expedition into the crypt under Lord Bellgrave here. For this, I will arm you with new weapons and armor. You are now under my house, so you will wear my colors. Understood?" His declaration earned surprised glances from both Dame Holland and Daemon, who clearly had not anticipated such a complete integration.

"Aye," both Lucan and Kaelen responded, rising to their feet.

"Good." Rowan stood from his throne, his gaze hardening. "Bring them to the courtyard. I will administer their punishment myself."

Dame Holland stepped forward, her hand rising. "My Prince, that is not necessary. We have master at arms who can-"

Rowan cut her off, his voice firm. "If they are to be under my house, I will be the one to give them their punishment." He leaned in, speaking quietly for his advisors' ears alone. "And it will give me a better look into their eyes." He then strode from the hall, the Royal Guards falling into a disciplined column behind him.

Lucan and Kaelen were escorted out of the castle, back through the inner courtyards, and towards the first set of outer walls. They were led to the gallows stage, where two sturdy wooden posts stood.

A large crowd of villagers had already gathered, drawn by the news of a royal punishment to be administered by the Prince himself. The murmuring talk of the villagers and the rustling of their clothes hushed as Prince Rowan raised a hand.

"People of Dunmire!" Rowan's voice, amplified by the courtyard's acoustics, rang out. "Here before you today is a royal punishment, given to two mercenaries who were forced to wreak havoc upon the Lake Duchies by Lord Manfree. This treacherous act is not solely the fault of these two, as they were coerced under harsh conditions. Treachery will not be tolerated, and Lord Manfree shall pay for what he has done to the village of Hearthstone. These two are charged with murder under duress and will receive twenty lashes each, as well as forced service to the royal house." He finished his speech, his words carrying the weight of both justice and political declaration.

Royal Guards stepped forward, ripping the shirts from both Kaelen and Lucan, exposing their backs to the hushed crowd. Rowan held out his hand, and Dame Holland, her expression unreadable, placed a heavy, braided whip into his grasp. He strode to Lucan first. A piece of wood was offered to Lucan, and he opened his mouth, allowing it to be placed between his jaws, to bite down on to prevent biting off his tongue or crying out.

The prince positioned himself behind Lucan, his arm rising into the air, the whip arcing with silent menace.

"ONE!"

CRACK! The whip struck Lucan's back, a crimson weal erupting across his skin, the flesh parting instantly.

"TWO!"

CRACK! A second wound appeared parallel to the first, a spray of blood misting the air.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

"FIFTEEN!"

CRACK! The whip struck again, Lucan's back already a mangled, bleeding mess. Blood streamed down his legs, splashing onto the stage. Despite the searing pain, Lucan remained conscious, his eyes hardened, fixed on the gritty floor, the whites of his violet eyes now tinged with red.

The people watched, many with mouths agape, flinching with every brutal crack. They understood the punishment, and a quiet sense of unease rippled through them. Could they truly blame these two, if they were forced? The elf boy, though... some looked at him with surprise. Most men passed out by ten lashes, yet he hadn't even screamed.

Kaelen watched from his own post, biting his lip so hard he tasted copper. Each grunt, each involuntary shudder from Lucan, felt like a blow to his own soul. He was supposed to look after him... 'Damn it!'

"NINETEEN!"

CRACK! The whip struck the mangled back again. Lucan's vision blurred, his eyes barely open, but his expression was pure grit. He held on, refusing to pass out. 

His blurred gaze flickered to Dame Holland. Her red hair, her face, were indistinct shapes. He blinked, hard, and for a fleeting instant, he saw a glowing, ethereal purple orb hovering just beside her head.

It pulsed softly, a low hum resonating with the vibrating in his own chest. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished when he blinked again, replaced by Dame Holland's face, now clearly visible, her expression etched with a rare shock as she watched Lucan take the final blow.

"TWENTY!"

CRACK!

The last lash fell, blood dripping steadily onto the ground. Lucan grunted, not loudly, but enough for those close to the stage to hear. He spat out the wooden block, his mouth tasting of splinters and iron.

"Fuck," he rasped, weakly.

Prince Rowan, momentarily astonished by Lucan's incredible tolerance for pain, snapped out of his surprise. "Surgeon! Grade three potion! Now!" he yelled. The surgeon, a harried man with a leather bag, scurried over to Lucan. He uncorked a red bottle and poured the cool, viscous liquid down Lucan's throat. 'A potion, huh? Rich people,' Lucan thought weakly, the thought barely forming.

The bleeding began to slow almost immediately, and a faint tingling spread through his back as the wounds slowly, miraculously, began to knit themselves together. The surgeon quickly moved in, deftly stitching the deeper gashes. Once done, Lucan was untied and half carried, half supported to the steps, where he slumped onto the cold stone.

The next couple of minutes were filled with the familiar, sickening crack of the whip, as Kaelen endured his own punishment. Kaelen, true to his word, stood as resolute as Lucan, making no sound, enduring the pain with the same iron will. The prince ended with the last lashing, and Kaelen remained standing, battered but unbroken.

Rowan wiped his brow, a new respect dawning in his eyes. These two are monsters! he thought. To be able to take that much pain and not pass out...

Just who in the hells were these two?