Secret Of The Kiah

Planet Zanthus
Annual-cycle 2216
Tie him between those two trees, Damek said. He will pay for his refusal.
Rydor held his head high and prepared himself for his father's wrath. If he died on his sixteenth birthday, so be it, but he would never kill an old man to secure his right of passage into adulthood. It may be custom to kill the helpless to make room for the virile, but he would not be a part of the senseless, Voltran ritual.
Two warriors grabbed him, one on each side, tying one end of the rough rope around his wrist, securing the other ends around the trees. The ropes were pulled so tight his arms felt as if they would separate from his body. He bit his lower lip to stifle a scream. Tighter, inch by inch, the men pulled until blood seeped from beneath the bindings and slowly trickled down his arms.
You are no longer my son! Damek Celon raised the whip in his hand and unleashed it across Rydor's chest. You disgrace me, your ruler, and your people. You're not fit to be a Voltran warrior.
Rydor lost count of how many times the whip made contact with his chest, but he held his head high, facing his accusers with honor. He felt the sticky warmth of blood ooze from his wounds, the satisfied look on his father's face permanently seared into his memory. His chest burned as welt after welt swelled then bled, but it was his soul that cried betrayal.
A hand grasped his hair and jerked his head back. The razor sharp blade of a cutter rested against his forehead, and he knew it was his younger brother's turn to inflict punishment. He felt the painful pull as the irritating hacking sound of Turic's cutter ripped through his hair. Out the corner of his eye he watched long, dark strands fall to the dirt.
While the tribe witnessed his humiliation, he fell into an abyss of emptiness. Rydor had always known he wasn't his father's favored son. Now he had no father, no brother, no home. Rydor held his breath as every warrior in the tribe inflicted whatever punishment they deemed appropriate. Some whipped his back, others used their cutters to slice his arms, legs, and feet. He refused to buckle under their cruelty, cry out in pain, or wretch at the metallic taste of his own blood.
Fingers of darkness clutched his heart. His mind and body knew only death would release him. Rydor Celon, first born son of ruler Damek Celon, a disgrace to his people, would pass into the depths of the damned, and not one tear would be shed-, not for a coward.
Enough! He's not to die in the presence of warriors. Cut him down. Take him to Spirit Mountain and leave him for the Semitas to feast upon, and may the souls of the damned claim him. Damek turned and walked toward Turic. Come Turic, you're the only son I have now. We will celebrate according to custom when we rid ourselves of a coward.
Rydor's eyes were badly swollen and clouded with blood, but he managed a glimpse through narrow slits and saw his father and brother look over their shoulders and heard their sardonic laugh before they turned their backs to the sight of his pathetic, battered, dying body.