texture of vomit- but Jubal drank. The first swallow was surprisingly cool on
his tongue but the second had the warmth and pulse of something alive. Jubal
took it down with the same detached resolve he had used to kill his first
helpless, crippled opponent and handed the ladle back to the wizard.
With a satisfied nod, the Lizerene tossed the utensil back into the kettle, then
extended his hands, palms down, until they were each a few inches above Jubal’s
knees. “Brace yourself, swordsman,” he ordered. “You’re about to begin learning
about pain.”
Something moved under the skin of the slaver’s right knee, sending a quick stab
of agony along his leg. Another piece moved, grating against the first. Then the
movement began in his left knee. Despite his resolve an animal howl of pain
escaped Jubal’s lips, a wordless note that rose and sank as the pieces of his
shattered kneecaps shifted and realigned themselves. The world had faded from
knowledge when Vertan’s voice came to him through the red mists.
“Now move your legs. Move them? You must flex your knees.”
With a giant effort Jubal bent his right knee, sliding his foot along the dirt
floor. The pain was beyond sound now, though his mouth strained with silent
screams.
“More. You must bend it completely. More, swordsman! Do you want to be a
cripple? More? The other knee-more! Move it!”
Spittle ran down from the corner of the slaver’s mouth; he soiled himself from
the agony but he kept moving, bending first one knee then the other. Right knee
straighten. Left knee- straighten. Right knee…