Part three. I didn't get very much encouragement – hint, hint – but I still kept writing anyway! A note: this fic will have no A/J in it whatsoever, sorry to disappoint you all J . I fact, I don't think I'll add any romance at all – maybe a bit of flirting, though. Enjoy the chapter and see you all in a bit!

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

Chapter three

Crack!

The whip came down hard. Once again, Ralon felt the pain rush through his whole body. The guard was merciless – and so was the supervisor, standing nearby with a blank expression.

Crack!

He cried out, even though he was trained to take pain silently. He was doing it more to annoy whomever was watching.

Crack!

By then he was registering the pain, every last drop of it. Also, there was hatred coursing through him for these people. He cried out, anyway, and he knew his body was suffering.

Crack!

Ralon's head began to swim. Then pain was taking a huge toll on his body. He had never been whipped before – in the elite Tortallan society, only the lowest of servants got whipped. As a noble, the worst punishment he could have gotten was a bread and water food supply and two weeks work in the armoury.

Crack!

Dimly, he heard laughter from the spectators. His breath came out ragged, and the full build-up of the pain was blinding him. the energy to cry out anymore had left him.

Crack!

He would have gotten up and made a run for it. He would have given up all dignity, all pride, all honour, just to get away from the pain. But he couldn't. He was subject to this tyranny, and for only the second time in his life he had not the power to do anything about it.

Crack!

He felt a liquid dribble down his back. Blood, he thought faintly, my blood. He had been lazy as a page, he knew, only ever training when he had to. One of his father's favourite phrases came back to him then: a lazy man can prepare to take the toll of whatever catches up to him.

And then – all went black.

Count Viljo sat at his desk, the windows slowly filtering in the light of dawn. He slowly sipped at the mug of Carthaki red tea in his hands. Soon he would be leaving for Court. The Midwinter Festival was near, and King Roald wanted every noble of Tortall to be there. Doubtless, he was also interested Page Ralon's sudden disappearance and his whereabouts.

Ralon.Viljo was mildly surprised that he had not come back to Malven already. He was sure his son would have come crawling back 'home' by now. Apparently, the boy had more guts than the Count had originally thought. The Count wondered if he was thinking about life before he escaped from the palace. Or was he thinking about what would have happened if he left that boy Alan alone?

But no. Ralon was never a 'what-if' person. He just did things – sometimes without even thinking, and his attitude was that he was always right.

There was a knock on the door. "My Lord." It was the servant, Aimery.

"My Lord," he said through the closed door, "Your horse is ready to ride now. So is the escort you wanted."

Count Viljo sent back the order that he'd be there. Then he stood, pushing his chair back. He took his riding cloak and walked out of the room. It was time to leave for the capital.

"Zen!"

At first, Ralon didn't answer. He had stayed in bed for almost a week now – four of those days he had been asleep. He was only up because he realised that he was not to be brought food. His alias was a little raw to him.

"Oi, Zen!" it came again.

He spun around to face a young man walking towards him. Ralon couldn't put a name to his face – wasn't significant enough.

"What do you want?" asked Ralon quite rudely. He was hungry, his back hurt, and he wasn't in the mood for conversations.

"Well, I was wonderin'," the man walked up closer to Ralon. He was taller, and stocky. He looked down his long nose at Ralon as if he was just some unimportant rodent.

"Yes?" Ralon didn't like the look of this youth. He remembered faintly that this was one of the men that had laughed during his whipping. He had eyes that always seemed to smirk and a horrible, foul mouth odour.

The youth narrowed his eyes even more. "You've ever bin thinkin' 'bout the importance of…" he seemed to cast around for a subject, and finally he landed on one. "Camels."

"Camels." Ralon repeated. "The importance of camels." He had no idea what this man was actually talking about. Was this some sort of code? Or was he so bored that he had nothing else to talk about?

"Camels, lad, camels. They've got thickish skulls." Ralon caught the barely noticeable glance that the youth cast over Ralon's head. He would've turned around to see what he was looking at, but he was already in enough pain from merely standing.

Ralon was starting to get annoyed. "Look, if you don't have anything useful to say –"

"Of course I've somethin' useful to say," The youth defended himself. He cast another glance over Ralon's shoulder. "I'll say that you've the thickish skull, like them camels."

Then, he patted Ralon on the back and walked away. The pat was gentle, but nonetheless it sent waves of pain through Ralon's body. His legs almost buckled and quickly, he set off to the main building where the kitchens were, in hope to get some food.

Later, Ralon returned to his cottage. He was tired out already, and he hadn't even been up for four hours. It was dark, in the cottage, so on the way in he lit the candle that was in its holder by the door.

And it shocked him, what he saw.

His tiny cottage had been ransacked. Clothes strewn everywhere, his armour and weaponry, all over the floor. He knelt down, and inspected the sheath of his favourite dagger (the dagger itself was halfway across the room). The sheath was broken, the seams of stitching torn, or rather cut, by another blade.

Ralon walked slowly around the cottage, inspecting his belongings. His bags had been opened, and everything was out there, on the floor. Some of his clothes had been wrecked, namely the better quality ones. The mattress was off the bed. It didn't really look like the people were looking for anything in particular, but it was possible.

Hang on – the mattress.

Ralon remembered that he had stashed a bag of money under the mattress when he first arrived. A large bag of money. He quickly looked around the place, kicking articles around and searching with his feet because he couldn't bend down. He knew that the money wouldn't be there, of course. Who would resist a bag of gold and silver nobles?

And who did this? It had to be someone in the village, probably one of the younger inhabitants since –

Ralon suddenly remembered the strange conversation he had had with that youth. How he didn't seem to be talking about anything in particular. How he had kept casting glances behind Ralon – at Ralon's cottage. His friends must have done it, Ralon realised. He stalled Ralon and his friends went in and raided the 'house'.

Slowly, painfully, Ralon pushed the mattress back onto his bed with his knees. Then he lay down, on his stomach, and started to plot revenge.

Ok, I'm sorry there was nothing about Ralon mining, but it was on his schedule, it was just that I didn't know he would make such a slow recovery. Sorry for the misleading statement. I hope you liked the chapter, and I hope you'll review. If the camel thing put you off a bit, because this is supposed to be serious, then please give me a suggestion to use instead of it. I didn't really like it either, but I was in a humourous mood.

Thanks to the reviewers: Anastazia Silverwind and Rima

Next Chapter: there will be a brawl so I will say no more. The King will have a say, and Ralon's going to make them pay.