Part Four

Parade of shame

Image - Julie Bell

PART FOUR 1

THE CHAMPION’S RETURN 3

Hero’s welcome 3

Sentence 5

Scourging 6

First up 10

Laxon 11

Drax 13

Holding back 16

Penalties 19

The champion’s returnHero’s welcome

The narrow streets echoed dully to the sound of scraping metal. Heavy links of chain scuffed depressingly over the sun-baked earth. People stood in silence watching. Their hopes sinking at the sight that was dragged before their eyes. Hopes tortured as their ears were assailed by another empty echoing scrape. Their hearts hung heavy at this cruel sight.He’d been used to being eyed admiringly all his life. Since boyhood, Conan had known he was stronger, bigger than the rest. That knowledge had defined his life. He’d pass among others, knowing they eyed him with admiration. It had not been hard, he’d inherited his father’s build. Broad hard-muscled shoulders, a chest that swelled like the waves of the sea, a stomach that seemed to punch at the skin like marbled stones on the temple floor. Conan had always turned people’s heads. All his life.

But paraded like this, the responsibility weighted heavy. This people’s champion. The silence in the streets bore down on his shoulders. Only the crisp clip-clop of the mutapa’s horse to be heard - just the weighty drag of his chains over the hardened earth disturbed the oppressive air. The mutapa was walking Conan slowly through the town. People lined the streets, forced out of their beds to accompany their champion on his walk to a lingering death.

Watched. Watched in silence. A silence as heavy as the chains Conan pulled. Flanked by soldiers in case the crowds made any trouble. They didn’t, no one did, they stood frozen, hushed in their grief - and watched him pass. Watched as their chance of freedom struggled to put one step in front of the other. The chains on his feet impossibly heavy, symbol of his captivity, impossible to escape. The links of thick iron inhumanly weighty, his fate decided by their grip on his life. The people looked on stunned as their Conan hauled one powerfully etched thigh forwards, dragging the torturous anchor of weighted iron another footstep forwards towards his persecution. Every step a monstrous effort, his body twisting with the exertion as he took another step closer to death.

Conan felt the shame of this parading as painful as he felt the weight scraping raw at his ankle bone. Despite his resolve, his eyes saddened at the demoralised faces of the on-lookers, dispirited by the sight of their hero in chains, forced like this to parade to his moment of death. Everything he had promised himself, vowing to fool this mwene by holding out. His bloody-minded determination to find the strength to outwit his plan, - in the face of the onlookers’ dismay it seemed an impossible task to lift their spirits. He tried, he lightened his look, tried to give them courage. But his gaze was met with looks of dejection. Their gaze bottomless, their hope was crushed, their looks told him so. Their champion in whom they had placed their hopes was being taken dragging his weighty burden towards his certain death. And what was left? What was left for them now?

From citadel to the town gates was a horse ride of no time at all. Today, though, the mutapa took his horse slow, to make best use of this display. His steed bucked and reared, impatient with the slow gait. But the mutapa kept it controlled. A slow deathly procession towards the rebel’s shame and humiliation. A long deadly walk towards endless suffering. The scrape of those metal fetters echoing empty off the buildings of a silent town. An eerie sound to dismay the on-lookers with his proven defeat. The mutapa had been ready for more reaction, for rebelliousness, for some

hothead to cry out. But nothing. Dismay, stunned silence, greeted their hero displayed in his utter helplessness. And in the rebel’s rear, those other “champions of the people” accompanying him to his death.. Chained together by the neck, following in this Barbarian’s wake, shuffling behind in his trail of shame. One leg thrown with effort forward and dragging heavy iron grating over sun-baked earth, the walls of their houses eerily echoing to the disheartening sounds of torture chains. Every step one move closer to death and their champion’s execution.

Outside the town, his route to the sacred tree was the direct one. Not for this scum the gentle ceremonial path. The path that smoothly snaked up the slope out to the side, lined with sweet-smelling bushes, redolent of fragrant herbs, the route followed by the devoted who visited the shrine. In reverence approaching that noble tree where the gods had given birth to their race. A tree gnarled and broad, as old as life itself. That route was not for such scum. Instead, the mutapa took Conan straight up. Up a steep climb, over the rough stony ground. Towards two execution stakes that rose up ominously to greet him. Planted provocatively by the mwene to desecrate hallowed ground. The mutapa was taking the barbarian straight up, over ground littered with sharp flints, he walked the rebel scum in bare feet, steeply up the slope dragging that chain behind. Razor-sharp stones clawing at his feet, rocks eager to snag the links of his chain. Links catching in the rocks forcing the people’s hero to heave on tired thighs, fighting to drag the chain free. Shamefully made to struggle on in the mwene’s fetters, rough manacles chafing at bleeding ankles. Everything the people had admired in him made subject to the mwene’s will. Made to exert himself, his famed strength failing him, shown up, made to break free the chains at every struggling step. Fighting to free the chain of a rock so that he could face the mwene’s execution and his own death. Up over rough ground dragging uphill an impossible weight, his bare feet ripped by sharp flint-edges. The sweat of effort greasing his back, the exertion thudding even in his mighty chest. Every step the rebel scum took made impossible by the mwene’s implacable will.

Conan caught sight of the mwene waiting up there triumphant. High above, sitting by the sacred tree mounted on his horse. For months sworn enemies, never met face-to-face till Conan’s last night astride the mwene’s “horse”. And now at the end of Conan’s life the mwene had again deigned to appear. A willing witness to Conan’s shame, come eager to attend his execution.

He saw, two uprights stood waiting for Conan. Uprights to which they’d bind a crossbar. As if on signal at this awesome sight Conan felt anchored, unable to move, caught by a chain link on a heavy stone. With a heavy grunt, hauling a-muscled leg forward with his depleting strength, he fought to unsnag a heavy link of chain from the rock. He broke the stone’s hold but the iron leg iron tore at his ankle-flesh, scraped raw his leg. The effort to free himself threw him forward onto all fours. Searing pain sliced through his ankle, a sharp-edged flint cut at his bleeding hands. Floored in front of his people, down on his knees under the shadow of his cross. For all his vows in the ice-cold blackness of his night, for all his undertakings not to give into these swine, the prospect of standing up to them seemed to be dwindling with every step. These tyrants had thought this through, every step they were forcing him to take had been meticulously planned, And what did Conan have in response? Quickly Conan shoved himself to his feet. He had his pride, he had his strength of character. He had his bloody-minded determination to take these bastards on. They’d shackled him, they’d try and shame him. They’d make him hobble over razor-sharp flint. But break him? Break Conan? Bend his will? No man had managed that yet. This mwene would not either.

Crossbar! Suddenly he realised now. They’d not made him carry his crossbar out to their place of his death. That was always their custom. Force those sentenced into

bearing their own crossbar to their nailing. Curiously his friends behind neither. None bore that shameful weapon of horror. Did it mean anything? Probably up there it waited for him on the ground already. With cruel nails alongside. With the mallet. Made to lie on this sacred earth while they drove in the nails. The pain of being nailed to the crossbar was waiting for him - up there. For all his obstinate resolve, a tremor did shiver in Conan’s exhausted insides.

Sentence

For Conan it felt like he was performing before an audience. Standing on high land before the sacred tree. Centre-stage. Everyone driven out to watch his execution, everyone forced to see standing in chains above their heads the hero in whom they had placed their trust. To Conan’s right the mwene sat on his horse and haughtily viewed his triumph. To his left his friends and Drax, before him the silent and depressed people below. A contingent of a dozen of the mwene’s soldiers to keep them under guard. Conan paid the mwene little heed, he had nothing to say that Conan did not expect. Centre-stage he stood strong, playing the leader despite his chains, giving them strength. Giving them an image of hope to carry them on - yet worryingly seeing their anxiety written large on their faces.

Standing tall, Conan gave the people a man unbent, broad-shouldered and uncowed, his eyes passed over them. His bearing told them to ignore the weighty chains that had shamed him on this route, his demeanour ordered them to forget the fetters that rooted him to the spot. These were the people he had inspired, they were together again. He felt all eyes watching him intently while the mwene lorded it over their defeat. Conan saw into their faces. Nodding to those he recognised. Catching a mother’s eye, warmed her a brief smile to make her feel brave.

Conan knew the pronouncement. For such murderers there was only one sentence, the mwene declared. Conan realised he was how close he was with this mwene. The hated man he had struggled to drive out. If only they had been this close before .... If only he was free of this hideous leg chain, Conan would take his chance. But he had watched them pile up the chain in a hefty mound behind. No man alive could shift that in a split second. Not even a giant could break free of those chains and squeeze the last breathe out of this fiend. If only ..... What a chance. So near. It would be the last thing he would do on this earth. In only a few steps, he could unseat the mwene and kill him with his own weapon. So near yet so far ...

No crossbar. Puzzling Conan noticed there was no crossbar for these execution stakes. One upright to his left, another to the right. But no sign of the cross bar on which he had expected to be fixed. His mind roved over possibilities. He’d seen men tied suspended to stakes with their hands above their heads. But word was, such men died very fast. Choking because they could not breathe. But for Conan such a rapid death was not what they planned. His execution would be a deterrent. They make themselves a treat of it. And a means to strike terror into the heart of those watching. He’d not go fast.

Conan's ear pricked when the mwene continued his pronouncement.“But these criminals are not only murderers. They are also thieves. Ambushed gold transactions, ransacked food stores. Thieves are scourged. Thieves are publicly whipped.” That too? Conan saw the mwene throw him a look. Their eyes met. The commander waited until he had Conan’s full attention.“By law ....,” the mwene continued, “… sentences are conducted consecutively”.

So that too. Not just the cross. Scourged. They’d lay every bit of punishment they could upon his back. Conan had taken a whipping many times. But the word “scourge” could send a tremor down a man’s back, it carried a different sound. Scourge had a ring, scourge resounded with terror. The mutapa had already stepped forward and stood before Conan. At his nod, soldiers grabbed at Conan's hands and the manacles to his wrists fell to the ground. His arms free, his murderous hands

free. With a brief leap of his heart, Conan willed them to release his ankles too from those chains. Then he’d have that hoped-for chance at the mwene.

“The barbarian goes first.”The tyrant glanced at Conan. Conan saw the look of pleasure in his eyes.“Proceed.”

Scourging

Scourged. It was a harsh word to hear. A word to tear talons deep into the soul. A word that dripped with terror. The soldiers moved away. Disappointingly they left Conan’s legs still encumbered by that heavy chain. Hands free, yet his legs trapped by the monstrous weight. The mutapa had replaced his men, standing in front, Conan’s old foe, he stared at his prisoner. Imperious, looking like he had waited for this moment for months. Planned it in lone nights in his bed, his hand eagerly shaping the terrors he’d tear across the barbarian’s back. Conan gazed back intently, refusing to be stared down. In return his eyes not flinching either, the mutapa held out sideways his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw a soldier approach and hand the mutapa the whip. It was humanly not possible for Conan's eyes not to flick to the weapon that was to be laid into his flesh. Maybe it was the occasion. Maybe it was the prospect of death. Or with the people looking on. At the sight a shiver trembled, he felt in his throat a lump of fear.

A thick strand of leather the thickness of a man’s hand. The mutapa held it up from his shoulder dangling, displaying, the whip was the length of the man’s legs. A heavy-duty, a Conan-sized strap of thick cruel leather. A vicious weapon mounted on a handle at one end.

The mutapa’s eyes had not left Conan's face for one instant. Waiting for the look of realisation, looking for the tight-drawn creases of fear. Disappointed, he raised the whip and cracked it in the air. Voices behind him cried out in shock. Another vicious crack snapped at the air. Conan heard a woman’s voice gasped out for him in fear.

Conan still faced the mutapa down though his blood raced. He expected pain, he knew to anticipate the worst. But strangely the sight of that brutality to be laid across his back had his heart pumping. He’d faced a whipping - and more, many times. Yet somehow that sight had the blood racing in his ear. That was a bludgeon, that was a cosh.How many was he supposed to take? That had not been pronounced. But he had no doubt they meant him to scream. They were out to make the people’s hero shriek out in unbearable pain, to stroke terror into these gentle people below. Everyone of them looking up at him, sympathy and concern in their eyes, each one with a clear sight of his face. Each and every one of them would see the slash of that strap, hear the vicious slap of thick leather on human flesh. Catch the crease of pain cut across his face, shudder at the bludgeon of harsh leather tearing across his back. Feel for their champion under those evil thwacks.

No doubt about it - their plan was clear. These monsters meant to see Conan crumple to his knees, to plead for mercy, to beg for them to stop. It was a weapon meant to batter him. An attack across his broad back that would pulverise muscle into mush. Not meant to slice open his flesh, risk him bleeding. The mutapa would lay that monstrosity into him to hammer him into submission. A battle-axe to smash the rebellious fight out of him. With his hero-worshippers watching. Could that strap make him bend? No, Conan told himself, making the rebellion in him stiffen. For the past day they had weakened him, exhausted him, tortured him. Make him plead in front of the people? Beg before those whose liberty he had defended? Punish their hopes for harbouring him? Torture their hopes? Crush him to deter any from future revolt? Maybe this punishment could make them fear. The sight of that strap had fear clutching them by the throat. Fear for him, fear of that inhuman pain. Fear that he’d not stand up to it flashed down Conan’s back. But he had planned it otherwise. He had resolved himself, by his endurance he’d give them something to hope for. He’d not let these bastards break his will, they not rob the people of their last vestige of hope. That way Conan could still strike back at

these bastards from the other side of the grave. Conan made his features stare back at the mutapa, impassive, hiding the tremor passing down his exhausted torso.

The mutapa gave the crowd another demonstration. This time, gripped two-handed, swung with a twist of his body, slicing the thick strap horizontally through the air. Aimed straight at Conan's chest. Conan instinctively recoiled back from the strike, felt the rush of hissing air flash close by his chest. Just missing him, adroitly swung to make him flinch. A human move, understandable. But that quick evasion to spoke a lot. Betrayed that he knew how it would hurt. Conan’s angry eyes were met by a grinning sneer.

Slowly the mutapa approached. “Arms up.”Conan took a second to hear the words through his racing thoughts.“Up, dog! Arms up, hands behind your head!”They were now so close the mutapa’s words sprayed foul breath over Conan’s face.

“Or do you want us to make you?”Conan was still frowning.“Are you stupid, pig? Arms up, hands clasped. Behind your head”, snarled the mutapa into his face.“Go to hell!” Conan snapped back. The mutapa fixed him with a look of grey iron. And then smirked. Welcoming the chance.

That look on his face settled things, quickly Conan remembered his resolve. He was going to take their punishment on his own terms, he could not afford to be forced. If he refused, they’d find means to force him. How to show it was him acquiescing in their cruel punishment? To prove to those watching that Conan was not being made to do this against his will? Conan looked first to his friends, their concerned looks bonded in solidarity. Then he manfully cast an eye over the tension-silent crowd below. Strengthened by their love, accepting their concern for him He’d not let them see these brutes force him.

His gaze gripped the mutapa. Raising one hand, an obscene gesture put the bastard in his place. They’d not force him, they’d not be seen making him place his hands behind his neck, he’d do it himself. On his own terms, returning the mutapa’s look with an steely glower, slowly Conan raised his arms, placing his hands together and clasping them behind his head. Conscious of the force his torso displayed. The enormous barrel of a chest, the arms peaked into boulders of strength, the tight muscled belly exposed by the stretch. The image of the insolent revel who was deigning to comply with his enemy’s wish. And spat on their desires.

They could easily have snapped a collar around his neck and fixed his hands. They could easily have forced him, they would have preferred to. Yet, to beat them, Conan had decided, these people forced to watch would see him taking this on his own terms. Not beaten into it. Conan was acquiescing, because ... well, because he had no choice. But that was his decision, not these tyrants’. He was not being made to do this against his will. They’d not force him into a collar and bind his hands behind his neck, he’d do it himself. And , return the sneer of the mutapa with an authoritative glower. He jutted out his chin in defiance, Conan stood arms raised, hands clasped behind his head. A noble warrior had deigned to put up with a snivelling enemy’s request.

“Elbows back!”

Conan fixed the mutapa with a sneer. How stupid, he thought. As he pressed his elbows back, in his heart he thanked this tormentor for this gift. He was presenting again to his people the glory of their champion. The classic man’s physique, their image of the fearless warrior. What better image of defiance? Perfect body, wide shoulders, that tapered tight waist. He lifted his chest, gave them a full sight of that impregnable strength. Chest muscle stood out proud and hard. He felt his stomach pull in, standing proud and hard. The enviable power there protruding like the rocks littering the earth beneath their feet. Sharp-edged, strong. The core of a man’s strength. And his arms, bent behind his head thick with his might, peaked to images of fighter perfection. The warrior that had defended these people so long against these tyrants. Their image of male fighter perfection. Conan felt the bond between himself and the watching crowd burst with life. They’d carry that sight away with them, no matter what else happened that day.

The mutapa was right in front of Conan. Conan could feel his eyes scrutinising his thick muscled chest, annoyed. sensed him riled by Conan’s strength of purpose, taunted by the willpower flaunting itself, standing up to him. Frustrated, the handle of the whip was suddenly jabbed up under Conan's chin. He had briefly caught sight of the handle, thick braided leather, short enough to be used one-handed, long enough to take that two-handed swipe at his trembling chest. Conan lifted his head to escape the indignity of the handle thrust into his neck.“Don’t move. Not a flicker.”The mutapa hissed, he jabbed the handle sharper into Conan's throat.

Conan stood still, head forced back by the handle, but glaring back down over his cheeks. His fists behind his head were clenched, forcing himself to control his temper, angered at this assault on his self-respect. He felt the mutapa’s eyes coat his huge chest, arrogantly thrust upwards by his raised arms. The gaze bore into the fulsome strong armpits, groped into the strong black hair pearled with Conan’s manly sweat. The gloating eyes searched over the solid peak of an arm bent up, the prodigious acme of male strength. In the hope of seeking out some weakness, yet Conan’s whole being spoke defiance, a manliness that told his foe to bring it on.

Eventually the mutapa broke the silence. “Don’t dare move. When the whip falls. Don’t - move. Keep it just like that”.His words came out slow, mean. “Just … like … that”.Conan heard him angry that his prisoner would not display fear. A thought that made Conan’s spirit jump with pleasure. He smirked back in response.“Drop your hands, - you get another five”.A cruel smile played across the mutapa’s lips.“DON’T MOVE. Throw forward your elbows, another five”.

Conan was getting the sense of the brutality this was going to be.“Fall to your knees. Ten”.The man was trying to play with Conan's mind, he meant to fill his guts with fear. Conan knew that. Justifiably, - that strap would do much harm, it would take everything not to be crushed by the mutapa’s blows. Snorting, though, Conan denied his enemy sign of any such fear. He stood upright, chest loaded with courage, evading the mutapa’s eyes, his gaze bonding with what mattered, the people below, the ones he was setting out to impress. Powerfully muscled arms bulging with certain death for that mutapa if Conan was given a single chance. Undaunted, he deigned to throw back a look at his tormentor, a glare that was equally strong. Inviting the bastard to do his best.

The mutapa stared him down. Feeling the heat off the other’s chest. Stared long and hard. As if there were only two beings left in the world. A duel of wills. A fight for supremacy.“No blood, scum,” the mutapa said enigmatically, dangling the whip in front of his face.“See?”Conan saw, he’d put this threat together.“No blood loss. That’s what the mwene has ordered”. The smirk on the mutapa’s gloating face said it all.“No blood loss. No weakening. A strap, not the whip. The stinking rebel gets nailed to the cross just like the man he is. Strong in body. Stubborn in will, obstinate, perfect to welcome the nails.”The mutapa snorted. “ .... able to take it.”The cruel sneer lengthened. As if the mutapa knew better.“So that death takes him slowly. When the mwene wills it ....”.Conan stared him back. Unmoved. Refusing to show himself daunted.

“An honourable death for the people’s hero. A suitable death for the invincible warrior. Just right for the indomitable fighter the Barbarian thinks he is.” Gloating the mutapa was shaking his head. “Prick!”“No blood loss to weaken, you see. The invincible warrior! No loss of blood to accelerate death. Broken by the nails. Suffering never-ending horrors. Awaiting the mwene’s permission. Till the moment to die is granted. Hour after hour. Day after day.”He jabbed the handle hard into Conan’s upraised throat.“Believe me, scum. You will take days to die. I’ve promised myself that.”Conan sneered back. He snorted out his disdain.“Do your worst.”

The mutapa’s eyes did not leave Conan. He smirked.“Worst? You don’t know what worst is. OUR worst”, the mutapa snorted back. “No, you do not know. Not yet”.Conan stared defiant back. Conscious that every eye was upon him.With a bark the mutapa snapped out an order.“Release the first prisoner”.

First up

He stood there, demoralised, shaking his head, refusing.“I can’t do this .....,” he told Conan.Laxon was a mountain of a man. The sound of his voice trembling resonated alien in a warrior so fierce. He had ridden into every battle right alongside Conan. In hand-to-hand fighting, he had been glued to Conan's side. Covering his back, prepared hundreds of times to lay down his life for his leader. Suddenly pleading.

“You will. You must,” Conan replied. .Conan was tall, his physique since childhood had been the envy of boys and men. Yet when Laxon hugged him, Conan was a tiny child. Laxon had the chest of a bull. Hugely wide, slabs on his chest made of solid muscle like plates of iron. Shoulders that seemed impossible on a man, it looked impossible for him to pass through a door. Legs that seemed to go on forever till they disappeared under his kilt. Muscular temple columns dedicated to the worship of strength.

Now that same Laxon pleaded with Conan, like a child. He couldn’t do this. Conan's heart bled for this fearsome fighter, trapped in this situation, Laxon pleading for mercy from his friend.“We have no choice,” Conan replied. Encouraging him with a slight smile. Giving him permission.“It’s alright,” Conan assured him. Nodded. Smiled.Laxon shook his head, not wanting this to be.“Very noble,” the mutapa scoffed.

The mutapa had already laid down the rules.“Each of you will lay on the prisoner. 10 lashes each. Laid on hard. To the utmost of your strength. No holding back.”The five friends looked at him open-eyed. It was they who were to carry out the sentence on Conan. Lay that brutal strap into Conan's flesh. It was they being made to make Conan cry out. They who were to break Conan down before his own countrymen. To break the people’s champion.

“MY judgement if any one of you holds back ....,” the mutapa threatened. His eyes passed down the line of them still with their hands tied behind, a chain holding them back by their neck collars.“I decide you are letting this scum off, - you get twenty lashes yourself.”His eyes passed up and down the chain of prisoners. Letting the sentence fall, letting them sense the threat. On them, on Conan.“ ... And this rat here ....,” he gestured over his shoulder at Conan.“ ... Then this piece of shit gets twenty more too.”

That was the decider. If they whipped him hard, Conan took fifty lashes. If they spared their friend the pain, he got a hundred more.“Lay on hard - or else,” they had been told. “Or he gets twenty more. Each”.

“Conan, don’t make me do this!” Conan had never once seen a tear in Laxon’ face. Not when wounded homself, not when friends were killed. But now a single tear trickled down the giant’s cheek.Bravely, knowing this was like he was signing his own death warrant, Conan nodded.“My friend, there is no choice”, he replied. “ .... do it.”Forced into persuading this mountain of brute force into bludgeoning the crap out of him.

Laxon

Like being cut through by a blunted two-handed sword. Like the thud of a dull battle axe hammering into the middle of his back. Like being run down and slammed in the back by a bull. Laxon was big. Conan knew he would hurt. But that first thud across his back took his breath away. The sheer force behind the blow nearly unbalanced him. It was all he could do not to collapse under Laxon’ first strike.

The mutapa held up his hand and made Laxon wait. “On my command!”Meaning to let his Barbarian feel every shudder of shock that first blow had ripped across his back. He waited watching the seething pain rip through the dog’s flesh, sear unnerving down his legs, explode in his chest. Time for the scum to assess the impact, time for his senses to dread the next thunderous strike. Then with a malicious delight, the mutapa ordered,“Two!”

An explosion detonated across Conan’s shoulders. The shock stopped him breathing, the force of the blow nearly forcing him off his feet. The ferocity of Laxon’s strokes burst like thunder almost devastating his backbone. The violence of pain shivered down weakening thighs. Like lightning bursting on the earth. On and on, Laxon was order to crush devastating blows into his back. Not daring to hold back. Knocking the life-force out of his leader’s chest. It took all Conan could do to stay standing.

The muscled strength of his back buckled under the force. His shoulders felt like crushed by a fall of rocks. Caught under a landslide of boulders that thudded into his back, pulverised his strength. There was nowhere to escape, no retreat from this pounding. But they had planned it like that, hadn’t they? Conan had under-estimated the brutality of their thoughts. The sheer force, the ferocity of Laxon’s every thumping blow. Like a man stoned for murder, taking hundreds of body-crippling rocks breaking his bones. Laxon ordered to hold back, the mutapa letting pain churn through cycles of explosive pain with each deadening thwack. Consumed by a tumult of pain. Every thought knocked from Conan’s mind. Devoured every sense from his body. Each blow connected with a sickening thud. A blow so powerful, agony rushed screaming from his back in blind panic over the rest of his body. Conan saw nothing. He heard nothing. He knew nothing but an all-consuming pain. A red curtain of pain that dropped before his eyes and nearly blinded him. A firestorm that engulfed his body, Laxon’s blows were pounding his prized strength to shreds. Not even the gods could take much more like this. With all his willpower Conan fought down the urge to scream.

“Eight!”Conan didn’t not hear the next snarl of the strap through the air. Frantically his torso yanked at air to prepare himself. Even in such pain his instinct still remembering his resolve, they’d not beat him, they’d NOT. Every bit of him tense like rock, quivering in every fibre. Pain blasted across the middle of his back. Nearly unbalancing him, a lightning blow, the force of a battle-axe burst on inflamed and raging welts.

“Nine!”The order came back fast, almost instantly. Before Laxon was ready. His instincts honed to reacting fast to orders, unthinking he twisted his body and released his strike with all his might. He realised his mistake when Conan’s arms fell under the force of that blow. Tears streamed down Laxon’ own face, Laxon had just earned Conan another five blows. For dropping his arms. Anguish seized at his throat, guilt burned him up. But on the order “Ten!” still he lashed at his friend’s pain-crimsoned back with all the force he could muster. Conan’s cry of pain ripped at his heart. The shout wrenched out of Conan’s powerful chest sliced through the gasping crowd like a

sharp blade. His pain spewed over them like burning lava. Women tried averting their eyes but his sharp cry still blazed in their ears like acid.

Conan did not know how he withstood those last blows. The force was unreal. Like a warrior defeated in battle being finished off, hammered under a barrage from a battle-axe. Body-crippling force that threatened to over-balance him. Needing all his own strength just to stop from toppling forward. Then a split-second after the hammering thud, blinding searing mind-crushing pain ripped across his back. Agony crushed a tormented throat that was paralysed under the pain. Every muscle screeched. Every nerve burst into flames. Every fibre of his being shrieked in its tortured agonies. The inner screams bawled for release. Agonies racing through his shuddering body coalesced and found voice. Eyes bulging, torso convulsing, Conan’s bellow burst through his lips.

Laxon laid on with all his might. To save his friend from further penalties, to rescue Conan from another twenty blows if Laxon held back. Laying on his crimson-inflamed back dense solid crushing pain. Bone-breaking. Head back, spine lifted, chest thrust forward bursting with the explosion of pain. Swaying perilously on chain-trapped legs.

Pain shuddered on wounded flesh. It burst afresh in flaming agony across Conan’s back. Anguish that made it hard to breathe. He felt it, Conan feared it, he clenched down on it. The urge to give in to the pain that had all-but crippled his body. Tears of shock burst in his eyes, his face covered with clammy sweat. His head shook in the violence of his pain fighting back that urge to scream. To scream and scream and scream again. Battling with the terrors that clawed at his throat, like a frantic animal desperate to escape.

DraxIt had been deliberate to make Laxon go first. After the devastation of his blows, each successive attack was going to be as nothing. Laxon had done enough damage. Even the lightest strike afterwards would scream with a pain redolent of him. Even a blow as weak as that from Drax.

“He has not refused”, Conan retorted bitterly through clenched teeth.“He gets twenty lashes for refusing,” the mutapa snarled back.His hands up behind his head, squared muscled chest lifted, ridged stomach on display, Conan returned a picture of commanding authority.“He will do it,” Conan asserted. “He has not refused.”“Twenty for both of them,” the mwene greedily shouted over from his mount.Conan fixed Drax with a meaningful look.“He will do his duty.” Ordering him.

Drax trembled at the thought. His hand had not stretched out to take that fearsome weapon he was ordered to use.“He understands the meaning of duty,” Conan commanded. As much to Drax as answering back the mwene.Drax stared, a stone at the pit of his stomach, his knees turned to water. He stared back at Conan. Long and hard. Then he saw a softening in Conan’s eyes, the merest trace of a smile played at his mouth. Do it, Conan’s smile urged. Don’t make them force you.

Drax gulped on a lump that filled his throat. He fought back a tear that threatened to water his eye. He nodded and held out his hand to take the strap.But when Drax stood behind Conan and saw his back, his heart sank. Ten blows Conan had taken, only ten strokes from Laxon’s hand. Yet the scene that assaulted his eyes made Drax bite at his lip. Fiery red thick stripes painted the broad muscled back. Savage blotches of crimson flesh. Ugly splodges where bludgeoning strokes crossed, powerful muscle devastated by the vicious smack of this evil tool. And Drax was to add to that.

“Two-handed!”The mutapa’s order made Drax frown. “Like this,” snarled the soldier.He watched the mwene play at holding the handle of the strap in both hands, turned his body away and then twisting with all his body weight lashed out at Conan’s crippled back.“That’s the only way from such a puny brat,” the mutapa mocked.

Drax felt the tremble in his hands, except for the extra lashes Conan would earn, Drax wanted to let the strap drop. He shook his head. Part in disbelief of his role in this, part in denial this was happening at all.“One!” the mutapa snapped out.Drax could not move.“One!” the soldier ordered. “Scum! Hesitate - and he pays.”“Do it!”It was Conan calling out to Drax. Ordering him. Reminding him of his duty. His father’s son. Ironically ordering his little brother to add to his pain. To collaborate in this tyrant’s dirty work. But Drax had no other choice. Neither did Conan.

Conan stiffened his back at the growl of leather. He stiffened his resolve not to cry out. It cut him to the quick that Drax was being forced into this. It was hard for all his friends to be used like this. But he knew the desperation that would be tearing at Drax’s heart. He held his breath, his upraised arms turned to iron in anticipation. The strap cut through him like slashing him open. It had not the force of Laxon. Drax did

not have that strength. But on top of Laxon’s turn still the blow cut viciously across Conan’s shoulders.

“Two!”The pain was still stinging in his back when Drax was ordered to lay that leather again across that broad acre of already brutalised flesh. Conan went rigid, his eyes popped wide open with the bite.“Three!”The mutapa was taking it faster. Little time to recover, no time to react. They wanted to make Conan cry out. By making Drax’s lighter blows re-ignite Laxon’s fires and make Conan scream.

The strap bit, pain watered Conan’s eye. As much at Drax’s dread as from the sting. Another bite at injured muscle like rodents’ teeth ripping out bare flesh. Before a chance to gather breath. To a count so fast Conan could barely draw breath. The count so fast Drax could not hold back his tears.

A swarm of hornets stung. Hot, smarting pains like a thousand bites. Daggers slashed. Razor-sharp cuts gashed agonies out of skin. His head jerking with each blow, head dizzy with the sting slashed across Laxon’s inflamed welts. Like vinegar ran over raw skin, seeping into open wounds, gnawing agony out of red-raw skin. Conan shook at searing razor-sharp pains that cut into his soul. His skin hurt. Muscled flesh screeched. Glass-edged slivers cut away at his strength.

“Hold it!”The mutapa’s voice was stern. Ordering Drax back who now so desperately wanted this over. Only another three lashes to go. Drax had been forced to lay into Drax’s back at such speed that Conan could not breathe between each savage sting. Barely able to breathe himself, Drax saw his Conan grabbing now the unexpected chance. Hearing him noisily reaching for air. Ordered to wait, made to stand down for the order for his eight blow. With horror, Drax saw Conan’s back pulsating, trembling, shaken with the smarting pains he had inflicted. Conan’s nerves shuddered with overload, stinging sweat trickling down over the sizzling stripes and soaking dark into the waist of his kilt.

The mutapa held up the ordeal. Letting the scum feel the sting, tremble like he’d been rolled in nettles, the seething rash of fire in his back burning him alive. Chin pressed down on his chin, the head struggling to contain the unstoppable tremors. The pain-solid arms up behind his head trembled like rock in an earthquake. The mutapa waited, his hand held up to halt the lash. Listening to the air hissing in through the dog’s clenched teeth. Watching the powerful narrow waist involuntarily spasm with the ferocity of his pain. Patiently the mutapa allowed every moment of agony to find its home in the ravages of this rebellious body. This man because of whom his own family had died. Waited till the head lifted, till the prisoner could take in his world through this red haze of pain. Till his brain took on board that this was not yet over.

Only seven lashes this round. Conan had somehow managed to keep count. Wanting like nothing else in the world for Drax’s torment to be over. For this to be over for Drax. To see Drax through this torture he had managed to keep count. Conan had not released a cry, he had not given them what they wanted. Their desire to hear the rebel cry out under Drax’s lash. But it was agony. Lighter blows but stinging with the inferno of Laxon’s rage. Seven. Seven blows so far. The faces in front had disappeared in a blur, Conan’s eyes streaked by tears and salty sweat. Tears for the

agony of Drax. But he feared what the people saw was their champion being broken, trembling at the sight of his tormented face.

Determined, Conan dug deep. He squared his shoulders, biting down on the wince that movement caused. He was the people’s hero. But more, he was this mwene’s implacable foe. After all they had made him suffer, after their tricks and deceit, after what they had made him endure - that was what they had reinforced, Conan remained the mwene’s implacable foe. Damned if they would break him. Damned if these tyrants would see Conan crumple. He’d take that title to his death, the mwene’s implacable foe.He took deep breaths, his hands out of sight behind his head clenched together at the stabs of pain that caused. Alive from the fresh fires coursing through his blood, gritting his teeth at the flames fierce in his back. Lifting his chest, pulling in his waist, Conan set his jaw and invited the rest. Undaunted he determined to invite all of their torture.

The mutapa waited, though. He waited, eyes darting from the scum to the youngster, wiping on his sweaty forearm tears of torment from his eyes. Darting back again to the arrogant rebel, standing mighty and haughty, viscous sweat coating his near-naked body. He waited till the boy’s sobs broke forth. Watching, observing, thinking. Sensing there was something here, something between the two of them. Something to make use of. A closeness that had not been there when the giant had thudded the crap out of that scumbag’s back. The mutapa thought he saw the stinking rebel shudder at the sound of this friend sob. Was there something here to work on?

There were more torments than those that came from bludgeoning a muscled back. In time mental anguish would also take its toll. The arrogant dog stood there arrogant, pretending to himself he was unassailable. Haughtily telling his enemies he could take their whip, convincing himself he was still invincible, unbroken, not conquered, unconquerable. But there were stabs to the heart that could fell a giant just as well. There were invisible diseases that could kill the mighty oak.The final three, the mutapa would take them slow. Very slow. Drag out the moment. Agonisingly long pauses in-between. Till the boy broke down between each lashing. Till his sobs turned and twisted in the rebel’s gut like a gouging knife.

Holding back

“You lie!” Conan snarled back at the mutapa.“I repeat, the boy held back. He had been warned,” sneered the mutapa.Conan had felt it, he had felt Drax’s every blow. Cripplingly sharp. Shudderingly painful. “Get on with it.” The mwene laughed at their predicament from his horse. “The brat disobeyed.”He hadn’t, Drax had caught the meaning in Conan's look. Told to lay on hard, give it your all. Drax had. Conan's back knew he had.But the mutapa said no. And the mutapa’s word was law.

“To your utmost strength,” repeated the mutapa. “Those were the orders”.“You lie,” Conan snarled back, furious. Feeling desperation. “He did.” Drax was about to face twenty lashes.“Silence, dog”.The mutapa’s tone took on a menacing tone.“Or I’ll double it for him”.Conan glared back. In anger. But helpless.“And for you too!”

Forty for Drax. The thought silenced Conan. When did justice ever matter here? Conan buckled under that threat.“Approach the whipping post,” Drax was ordered.Drax turned to the mutapa, uncertain where to go.“That scum. Over to that dog. Where else?”Drax’s eyes flashed to Conan. Confused. Scared.“Hug the prick, you shit,” sneered the mutapa. Having the time of his life.

Drax looked to Conan for guidance. Confusion all over his face. But Conan was ahead of him. He knew how their warped minds worked.“Come here,” he encouraged. “Give me a brotherly hug.”His hands up behind his neck still, Conan gestured Drax to approach. Breathing deeply. Knowing already what this meant. This was not a punishment for Drax. This was a torture for Conan. Pressed close to his chest, hugging his brother. Pains of torment were to be lashed across Drax’s back. Blows meant for Conan to feel every pain magnified a thousand times. Like a branding iron at his chest. These tyrants were animals! But fiendish.

He felt Drax’s arms slick in the sweat on his red-hot back. His cheek scraped against Conan’s rough-bristled face in a hard brotherly hug. “Proud of you!” Conan whispered in his ear.Not bothering to choke back the tremor of admiration in his voice. He felt Drax’s grip on his back tighten.“On my count!” shouted the voice full of glee.“Grip my shoulders,” Conan advised. “Hold on tight. Give me the hug of my life”.Conan winced as Drax’s fingers from behind clung onto his whiplashed shoulders.“You are your father’s son,” he whispered into Drax’s ear.

“One!”Conan felt the shiver Drax’s anticipation against his chest.Drax whispered in Conan’s ear. “Love you.”The hiss of the strap cut sharp through the air.

The crowd watched as Drax’s sun-bronzed body was striped with thick strap-marks. Stunned with shock, they saw the sweat glisten on his dark skin like gold. Saw his young muscled back go rigid under the lash. He jerked under the force of the first

vicious blow, his brave back trembled, the hurt courageously cramped inside his pain-rigid chest.

Force kept slamming Drax into Conan’s front. Drax felt the solid chest hold up comforting. He jammed his chin down into Conan’s shoulder, fighting the grunt bursting in his throat Hearing against Conan’s cheek his breath escaping with a sharp snort from his nose. A tear of pain flushed to his eye. Then he waited, bracing himself, marshalling his strength, taut for the next count. For the shout of “Five!”

At seven the first cry escaped from Drax’s throat. And once out Drax failed to contain the rest. He had cried once. Twenty lashes from that ominous strap against Conan’s massive bulk. Pushed to the pinnacle of pain. Humiliated into this act, ashamed he could not match his mentor’s strength. No room left in his body for further pain. Then another strap bludgeoned at damaged flesh and it proved him wrong. Every muscle sang out of tune. Every key of agony was struck.

They took him slow. Letting the barbarian’s young friend writhe afterwards under every bit of fiery pain coursing through his blood. Letting the fear of the next hissing blow build and grow. Nerves on edge, fear trembling through his veins. Intent also on torturing Drax’s older friend. Conan’s nerves were reaching overload. Each of Drax’s torments only increased Conan’s own mental suffering. Wishing this over and done with. Counting off every one, wishing they’d get on with it, willing this torture finished. A furnace burned between their two fronts, hell raged inside their minds. A nervous tension crackled around them like the air before a storm. Conan stood taut, legs braced to give his young brother solid support. Conan’s damaged back contracted into hard knots of wood, paining him. Sweat broke out on the buttresses of his chest, the neck corded stiff and solid, face pearled for Drax with large drops of nervous sweat. He used every bit of strength in his own beaten body to keep himself firm, he used every reserve to find the power to give Drax strength. Sweat collected into streams down his front, ran freely down the valleys of tight knotted muscles. Conan trembled with Drax. Anger mixed with anxiety. His fury fuelled by his helplessness.

At the shout of “Ten!”, the attackers changed, fresh new strength was to be injected into every new blow. Over Drax’s head Conan watched the soldier hand over the whip. The first whipper wiped the palms of both hands flat over his drenched face and spread the sweat back over his hair. On his burly chest the hair lay sodden. Flattened by the efforts that had ripped searing pain through Drax’s back.

Drax’s body snapped into an arc under the strap, his hips slammed into Drax’s groin, shoulders smacked back. That vicious blow from an over-zealous whip master announcing his arrival. Drax’s head, thrown back, split the air as his cry burst out at the pitiless sun. His cry fuelled the power of the attacker’s spirit who had enthusiastically laid on before ordered. “Doesn’t count!” roared the mutapa. “Await my count,” gruffly he ordered the soldier. And then he grinned.

He let the words trickle into Conan’s awareness, he countered his prisoner’s glower with a smirk born of power. An extra stoke for Drax’s welt-crimsoned back. And he waited. And waited. Letting the dread gnaw away at the scum, let the anticipation of pain drizzle poison into their hearts.

“Now”, he answered. “One!”Conan felt Drax dig his fingers over his shoulders. He wanted to wince at the crush of Drax’s nails, shivered as he felt Drax gouging his anxiety into Conan’s own damaged flesh. But he held still. He held still and lent Drax support.

The unforgiving strap tore snarling through the air and laid devastating stripes into Drax’s ravaged body. His vision of the world burst into a red haze. Drax was drowning in a sea of pain. Shock engulfed his nerves, anguish overwhelmed his brain. Twenty strokes of the strap to take. Each laid on with ferocity, laid on to cripple and break. His senses smouldered, he sank into the flood. Eyes open, yet he could not see. Mouth open yet Drax forgot how to breathe. His body shook under the blows, sweat poured down his back, sweat glued him to his big friend. Soon, Drax’s world faded as the fiery flood of agony closed in over him. His senses smothered as he sank beneath the waves.

“Get over there with the rest of the scum!”The mutapa’s hand tore at Drax’s shoulder making him cry out. Drax’s fingers trembled as he released Conan’s shoulders. Their chests came apart with a thick cloying slurp. Suddenly in the heat of the day Conan's chest felt cool at losing the heat of their bond. Bereft of his younger brother. The sweat that had been pouring down his bare front began to shiver on the wafting breeze and made him tremble slightly. Tremble as much for Drax. Nothing held back, they had hit him hard. As if knowing they were slashing brutal leather into Conan’s own flesh. His heart sank at the face of Drax streaming with the tears of his pain. But Conan's voice came strong.“Proud of you”, Conan said. The few words said it all.Drax could not manage even a faint smile through his pain. He barely nodded, unaware of the trickle of sadness on his big brother’s rugged cheek.

“Touching!” mocked the mutapa.To Conan, he pointed with his finger,“You, rat shit. You get your extra twenty later.”Drax started to form the words on his lips, Sorry I let you down. But in his hurt he failed.But anyway Conan silenced him with a shake of his head.“It’s part of their game. They’ll do it anyway,” he explained.

“Move it, scum!”A hand pushed Drax over to one side. Drax was nearly toppled by the shove, wobbling, swayed on his feet, sweat heaving down his face. Struggling to draw in breath, struggling back to the other friend’s lined up to assault their leader. Then, near-by the others, as if gaining strength from the closeness, Drax suddenly whipped round and faced the crowd. Hand pointing back at Conan, Drax shouted out to them,“This. This is a man. A real man.”A hand shoved him again. Nearly up-ending Drax. Jostling him roughly back in line. Laxon reached out and caught Drax before he fell. A few isolated shouts bravely burst from the crowd. Until silenced by the threat of spears.

Relieved Conan watched Laxon take Drax and fold him in his giant arms. Doing what Conan would have done. For his leader Laxon engulfed Drax in his massive embrace. He turned his back to the crowd so they could not see the shudders on the boy’s back as Drax shook in his pains. Hand laid protective on the back of Drax’s head, he pressed the boy’s face tight into his huge chest so no one would hear his sobs.

“Next!”Conan's eyes did not flinch from Drax when that order rang out. Gratified that Laxon was playing proxy and comforting his brother in his pain. The mutapa’s order had sounded for the next friend to torture Conan’s back. The next reluctant victim in this bond of brotherhood.

Penalties

Conan could barely stand. His whole body trembled . Arms were out of their shackles, still he was commanded to keep his hands up behind his head. On pain of receiving further devastating blows, thuds his bludgeoned back might fail to contain. Fail the onlookers. And give these bastards a sense of satisfaction.His back was red-hot, it had got hard to breathe - as if choking in smoke from flames that were consuming his back. But it was not finished. He had taken the fifty lashes from his friends. Only fifty lashes, he’d have thought he could take more. But each round had been delivered by his strongest warriors. Not daring to be accused of letting him off. They’d seen the mutapa’s tricks. That threat forced them into giving Conan their all - to save him from worse.

Incredibly Conan had managed to stay standing. At times, a blow would come so intense, the reverberations shocking his flesh so crippling, his leg would give way. His knee would buckle. Risking falling. Risking penalties and more blows too. Amazingly Conan’s pig-headedness and hatred for these tyrants had carried him through. Damned if he was going to let them fell him to his knees.Pain had dragged every moment into an eternity of suffering. Conan was looking out over the crowd but he saw nothing, only a swirl of red-yellow blurs. Now these bastards came with their so-called penalties. For dropping his arms. A joke, just some excuse, pretence at playing by the rules, a mock nod in the direction of justice. How many blows were due he did not know. There were the twenty from Drax. Five from Laxon. But after that, he did not remember. There’d be more, there were sure to be more, they’d keep giving him more - until he showed himself up. Lost face before the people. Until they made him break down and plead. He tried to focus, pride dictated he keep his composure. Keep himself looking strong. Refusing to cower. But after all he had endured, today and in their citadel, strength was dissipating, depleted with the sweat that lay like a thick paint on his sleek chest.

This was a fraud. It didn’t matter if his legs had moved, they’d pretend he had. They were not interested in the truth, he’d get their punishment anyway. It was a sham. Any excuse to beat him more. If he had not infringed their “rules” enough they’d whip him till he had. As much as beating their hero before this crowd, this was about the mutapa getting it in the crutch. Weaker men getting hard over dominating a true hero. Pain him till pain had him screaming out. Till agony threw him to the ground. Till he was begging them to stop. All the better if he resisted and fought them back. An even bigger raging hard-on filling their breeches.

For the last twenty blows, his mind had been in a sickening whirl. He’d started counting down. But then pain had clouded his mind. Fifty blows. Only fifty blows? Surely he could take fifty strokes, he had in the past. He’d seen corpses flayed down to the bone by these monsters. But the thickness of that strap .... It was inhuman. A weapon as wide as a big man’s hand. And as thick too. It took only a few blows to cover the whole of his back. And then it burst with nerve-wrenching pain.

Putting Laxon in first had deliberately subjected Conan to the most crushing of punishment. Such force – each single blow had nearly toppled him. Ten blows from a battle-axe wielded by a mountain of strength. Overwhelming force that could have battered him flat. And another forty after that. His back now screeching to the disharmony sung in Laxon’s round. Ravages of agony flooded his body. A raging inferno burning up his brain. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t think. His brain was overwhelmed. His powers to control his legs gone. Had he tottered forward? He didn’t know. Had his arms dropped? There was no way he could tell. His body knew only pain.

Had he cried out? Had he begged? He prayed not. But the people would understand. They could see for themselves the bestiality of this punishment, they knew the injustice of this act. And if he cried out, so what? Conan was flesh-and-

blood, not a god, these people watching in terror understood that. They had watched gasping, they had seen his body taking an inhuman intensity of pain. He could not see them clearly any more, they swirled in the red-yellow pain-haze that blurred his eyes. But they could see, their sight full of what he endured. Bravely endured. Like their champion, their hero. But he was also still flesh and blood.

Vaguely Conan became aware of two men filling the bleary pain before his eyes. Blinking the tears out of his eyes, he recognised them again. The two that had lashed out at Drax. The one Conan had disdainfully named as they tore into Drax. Calling him Raw-force. And next to him, Brute-strength. Obviously chosen specially. The mutapa’s finest brutes.“For infringing the rules, scum. Your penalties,” the mutapa leered close in Conan's face.

Conan felt close to collapse. The pain in his back was indescribable. Burning up, fifty lashes laid on with maximum strength. They’d say he had merited penalty strikes. They would not bothered to justify the count. How much more did he have to take? How far into his reserves did he have to dig? No knowing, no way of telling.He swayed on his feet, his head swam, anguish burned deep into his flesh, torment gnawed threatening at his soul.

“On my count ....!” bawled out the mutapa.