On Azrael's Wings Read Free Page A

Midia had returned and lit several lamps before making herself scarce. Azrael could see the dirty armor was no longer piled on the floor. It was no doubt currently being cleaned. The tub had been removed, as well, and a full complement of drinking cups was at the table.
    “All is in order?” Azrael asked, moving around the table to settle into her chair.
    “Aye, Lord,” they answered, nearly in unison.
    Azrael waved at one of them to fill the cups from a large ewer. “Report.”
    Indonatra, a tall, muscular man and captain of the First Cohort began. His hair was a wild mass of kinky brown, tied back with thick bands at regular intervals. “Not much to report, Lord. During the attack, we engaged the dissidents at the inn where four of my men were wounded and one died. Nomi was rushed in the hall on the upper floor and thrown out the window. It was just bad luck he landed as he did.” He pulled at his full beard, faintly shrugging. “The fighting was fierce. I have no doubt we had the best of their swordsmen against us.”
    “I noticed,” the general said, taking one of the cups of wine being passed. “Which is why your cohort was allowed to return early.”
    “They appreciated it, Lord. I made certain they knew it was reward for their courage.”
    “Good.” Azrael’s eyes fell on the Second Cohort’s captain. “Razzu?”
    Thinner and shorter, Razzu was a whip of a man. His face broke into an easy grin, transforming the narrow features from brooding to pleasant. “We had no injuries during the battle. Our sweep went well - the men went out a full league. We came across an old priest herding four children and brought them in. No other stragglers were found.”
    “Where’s the priest now?”
    “Left him with the prisoners. He’s genuine; has the tattoos all up and down his arms and back. Didn’t see a reason to execute him.” The Priesthood of Ishkay was notorious for their pacifistic and anti political views. That the captured man was not involved in the rebellion was a given - they abhorred violence in all its guises.
    “No one else escaped the village?”
    “No, Lord. No indication of anyone getting through our cordon.”
    “Atol?”
    The tension in the tent shot up as the third captain swallowed. He was the shortest of them all, barely reaching Indonatra’s sternum. Though his face was younger than the others, his black hair was fast receding. “The... uh... bodies have been burned, Lord,” he said, clearing his throat. “The Punished still stand. We stumbled across much weaponry at the smithy while searching for the dead; they had enough arms for a cohort from the looks of it.”
    “And what of your three casualties?”
    Atol drew deep breath, blue eyes unhappy. “They were burned with the others. I saw no reason to bring them here for a hero’s funeral.”
    “No reason at all,” Azrael agreed. “Perhaps you can explain why they disobeyed orders?”
    Sweat beaded on Atol’s forehead and he looked everywhere but at his general and peers. “No, Lord, I cannot.”
    Azrael raised an eyebrow. “I believe I can,” she said, her voice dropping to a growl. She saw two of the captains wince at the tone, having been recipients of her anger before.
    “Lord?” Atol asked, peering at the dark woman.
    “They disobeyed my orders because you didn’t train them properly.”
    The captain swallowed again and dropped his eyes. “Aye, Lord,” he whispered.
    Not one to mince words, Azrael rose. “Five lashes for each man,” she ordered. “Will you submit?”
    Atol’s shoulders drooped in resignation. “Aye, Lord. I will.” Standing, he removed his light cloak, draping it across the back of his chair, his tunic following. Despite his small stature, his body was thick with muscle. He went to the central pole of the tent and firmly grasped the wood, spreading his legs.
    Azrael collected a whip from one of her chests and unfurled it, making it snake across the canvas floor as she took up position.