The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 1)

Somebody who shouldn’t be in the prison had found a way in.

The taste in Rhage’s mouth was a scourge upon the tongue, spoiled meat and crushed, molded strawberries in concert. But that was the lesser of the ills that plagued him. As he lay upon the grass, his eyes were sightless, everything dark around him such that he could not orientate himself unto the hour by the constellations. He had no concept of time’s passing, no clue how close he was to dawn—and with the pain in his arms and legs, his torso and head, he couldn’t tell whether his skin was sending him messages of warning as to the approach of sunlight or whether the agony was his beast’s parting salvo.

Rolling onto his side, Rhage retched as his stomach roiled and revolted. He had consumed many slayers. He knew by the nausea in his gut and that taste in his mouth. But how messy was the scene? Human attention would be especially bad the now, and dead bodies—or rather pieces of them—were something that garnered notice.

His ears were the only thing he could rely upon, and they provided him with nothing good. A dripping sound was close by. Something was leaking. His own blood? Or was it a slayer’s? Or had he punctured a container of mead? His nose was too clogged with the stench of the undead to provide him with any clues. For that matter, was he as yet in the clearing down by the river or had he roamed—

“My brother.”

At the familiar voice, Rhage exhaled in relief. Darius was the last male he would have sought out, but the very perfect aide in this situation. Further, it meant there was still darkness, still time to get unto cover.

“You must move me.” His voice was but a weak rasp. “I must be moved.”

This, though again, he knew not where he was. The beast could take him far from where it first commandeered him.

“Yes.” In the pause that followed, Rhage imagined the brother looking around. “Indeed.”

“Where am I?” Rhage asked.

“I have a horse. Allow me to lift you upon it.”

“I am feeling rather ill.”

On that note, he became sick, and it was a while before the expulsions passed sufficiently for him to speak again.

“Help me, please.”

“I have you, my brother.”

As arms came around him, Rhage groaned in response, and then things got so much worse. The movement was awful, his sore limbs and aching, bloated torso screaming as Darius picked him up under the knees and at the waist, and shifted him onto a horse that stamped and whinnied in protest. Because of the smell? The weight?

“Dearest Virgin Scribe,” Rhage grunted as he was draped facedown like a sack over the saddle.

The pressure on his swollen stomach was untenable, and he fumbled to push his palms against something, anything, to relieve the constriction.

“No, no, no—” And then he was sick anew.

After that round was over, Darius cursed and lifted him off. Back upon the ground. More retching.

“I’m going to hide you,” the brother said. “And then I shall return—”

Rhage lost consciousness behind his unseeing eyes, his awareness disappearing not on a gradual fade, but in the sharp manner of a gaslight being extinguished.

There was no way to ascertain the further amount of time that passed, but the next thing he was aware of was a levitation that roused him. Throwing out his arms, he fought against air in the event this was not one of his own.

“No, no, be of ease, my brother.” The sound of Darius’s voice instantly calmed him. “Tohrment and I are removing you upon a pallet.”

“Thank you. Both of you.” At least that was what he was trying to say. He wasn’t sure what was coming from his mouth. “Return me unto my abode—”

“You need tending to.”

“This is merely my recovery—”

“You have been shot at least four times.”

“’Tis not the first—”

Tohrment, son of Hharm, spoke up from the compass point of Rhage’s feet. “Be of silence and save your strength. We have some travel ahead unto Havers.”

Rhage wanted to fight the tide that was carrying him forth, but he lacked the energy—and mayhap that was the point. It was hard for him to discern which pain was from what source, and therefore, how much of his weakness was due to blood loss from bullets.

Mayhap it was best to take the word of those who could see the damage done.

Similar to when the beast came out, he now had no choice but to release dominion over himself and his body, and he tracked the trip he was taken upon by its sounds and sensations: A breeze over bare skin as he was carried over onto something hard. Movement up, and then a swaying as he was transferred by pallet. Creaking as he was settled into a coach of some kind. Stomping hooves and a whinny, as if he made the horses uneasy. Jostling with a sway as they set on their course at a steady clip.