The buckle ripped at his forehead. Blood gushed down into his eyes.
"Answer me—!"
Jarl lurched forward, clutching for her. But she darted back, out of his reach. The stylon gown rustled. The buckle tore a path along his scalp. The room blurred and swam before his eyes. Desperately, he tried to cover his face with his shackled hands. But the tangled chains were too short. He could only double forward, face to the floor.
The buckle struck behind his right ear with stunning force, a fiery knife stabbing through a red haze of pain.
"Wait, Ylana—!" It was Atak the Malya's voice, drifting dimly to Jarl as from afar. "Those blows to the head—he cannot last—"
"Then drag him up! Tear off his tunic! Bear his back, so that I can see the red blood run!"
Hands clawed at Jarl's clothes. He felt his tunic rip away. The aide dragged him up; twisted him about.
"Hold him there, Atak! Hold him tight!" came Ylana's cry.
The buckle seared Jarl's back—once, twice, a dozen times.