The Vixen Trials

Three Will Die

"Three will try, three will die,
four will fail, one will prevail"

Dakkoul

The fury of Lord Rustavan was not directed at him, nor even Keilah or Silsa but Jalen.

He was blamed for not preventing the girls from leaving the grounds. Of course Jalen had not known they were virtual prisoners, so he only looked bewildered him when Lord Rustavan pronounced his punishment.

"Half a cup."

"He's injured," Dakkoul protested. Jalen was now holding his head up with one hand and his eyes kept shutting. "He needs a physician."

"Best hurry and collect it then," Lord Rustavan said with a sneer.

Dakkoul forced calmness into his voice, "He was hurt protecting your daughter and your niece."

Lord Rustavan's eyebrows raised. "If he'd done his job properly, he wouldn't have had to. Take him away."

Dakkoul fumed as he led Jalen aided by Malek to the Bel-Aviim.

"He's not good Hattavah," said an ashen-faced Malek. "He needs help, not this."

"I know," Dakkoul agreed in a low voice with a glance at the open doorway. Everything within him revolted at what he'd been asked to do. The ladies had disobeyed the rules but Jalen would suffer for it. Jalen's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.

"There's only one thing to do." Dakkoul picked up the cutting stick and pulled up the sleeve of his tunic.

Malek took hold of the middle of the stick and hissed, "Stop. You heard Lord Rustavan. It has to be me."

Dakkoul shook the cutting stick free with a spike of anger. His flesh ached for the feel of the blade.

"Please Hattavah," Malek pleaded, softly.

The cutting stick trembled in his hands, dipping towards his skin but the strange desire to protect Malek triumphed and he reluctantly passed it over. "Press in here there, deep, then pull it out again. It's easy once you know how."

Malek slashed his skin, so that his blood flowed from the gash he made. At least there was only a half of the cup to fill.

They were silent, listening to the sound of the blood falling, his brother's blood Dakkoul thought in momentary wonder, a link forged between them, a sacrifice. Then it was finished. Dakkoul grasped Malek's wrist stemming the flow and tightly bound it.

Malek stood up then reached out his hand to the Apistola to steady himself.

"Dizzy?" You hardly scratched yourself."

"I'm not as practiced at it as you," Malek said, managing a shaky half-smirk.

"You'll feel awful for a while. Now we best get this blood to the house-priestess and Jalen to the physican."

"I'm fine now, Hattavah," said Malek and he took one step and sunk to his knees.

Dakkoul's lips twitched, "I can see that."

"Quit mocking me and give me a hand up."

"When you are finally on your knees before me? Never."

Jalen moaned and Dakkoul rushed to get the physican who refused interrupt his meal for a mere soldier. When Dakkoul insisted on something, he handed over a foul smelling potion. Dakkoul helped Jalen sit up and made him drink it. Jalen's face contorted.

"Swallow," Dakkoul barked.

Jalen glared at him and took a second sip, then a third. Then he giggled.