by Frost Kay
Sage’s stomach cramped and let out a large growl. It seemed the water had awakened her appetite. When had she eaten last? What day was it?
Don’t focus on it, think of something else.
Instead she tried to recall everything she had told the commander during the drug-induced interrogation. She needed to keep her story straight, or they’d hang her with it. The memory of it was still a blur, but Sage was fairly certain she hadn’t revealed anything important.
A frigid breeze floated off the ocean and through her cell window, caressing her overheated skin. The room was freezing, but she felt as if she was sitting beneath the sun. Her linen shirt clung to her skin in a sticky mess. Was this an after-effect of the concoction they’d given her? Or was she actually ill? Sage examined her wrists. Already, they were swollen and tender to the touch. Angry red lines mapped her wrists. Sage winced. She didn’t doubt an infection was starting.
Her head pounded like someone had kicked it, so, rubbing her temples, she lay on her side, cradling her head in one arm. Hopefully, with a little rest, she would sleep off the pain. Vaguely, she was aware of metal clanging nearby but didn’t rouse enough to open her eyes. Damn noisy prisoners.
Out of nowhere, a strong hand covered her mouth while other hands clasped her ankles, sufficiently rousing her from her daze. Her eyes flew open, and she found herself surrounded by four strangers. She tried to jerk from their grasp but, in her current state, was too weak to accomplish anything. The man whose hand enveloped her face yanked her head back with her hair, bringing her to him. His rancid breath washed over her as he leaned closer. “You sure are a pretty little thing underneath all those bruises, aren’t ya?”
She glared at him and bit down as hard as she could. He yanked his hand back cursing her. “Vicious little wench!” he spat.
She bared her teeth in response.
“Get her up, and quickly. I have pressing matters to attend to,” remarked a tall man with a haughty voice.
Sage bucked her hips, trying to dislodge the bruising fingers pressed into her skin, until a massive fist hammered into the side of her face. Tears pricked her eyes as everything blurred and darkness swirled around her. Sage shook her head, trying to focus, but only succeeded in nauseating herself.
Tight metal cuffs encased her wrists, and her body swung through the air. Sage’s ribs screamed as someone wrenched her arms above her head. Her body dropped painfully, the restraints biting into her already sensitive wrists. Her toes brushed the floor as she scrambled for purchase.
Sage dropped her chin to her chest, heaving in a breath as she tried not to retch. She stared at the grate below her and thought grimly that it wasn’t for waste but to wash away the crimes of this room.
Shiny, brown leather boots interrupted her study of the floor. Sage lifted her head and met the eyes of the man who was no doubt her executioner. His primary characteristic was his unusual height—he had to be at least 5 inches over six feet. Apart from that, though, he seemed rather ordinary: brown hair, brown eyes. Utterly forgettable. Not what she’d pictured death to look like.
“What do you want from me?” she croaked. “I’ve already told Commander Samuel everything.” Sweat dripped from her temples into her eyes.
“The commander didn’t think you were entirely honest with him, so here I am.” He stepped up to her with cold eyes and fingered her sweat-soaked shirt. He watched her face as he languidly slid his hand from her ribs to the hollow of her waist and then to her hip. Her blood froze in her veins as a cruel smile crossed his face.
“Men’s clothing? Interesting choice. So improper. You have to know the ideas you inspire when you showcase your body in such a manner.” He squeezed her hip. “I am sure your mother wouldn’t approve.”
“I wouldn’t know, she’s dead,” she replied.
“Now, now. Let’s not lie to each other. Wouldn’t want to start our relationship with lies, would we?”
He dropped his hand, reaching for the blade sheath at his waist. Her eyes tracked his movements as he removed the knife from its sheath. She would stay calm. She would not allow them the satisfaction of breaking her. He brought the blade to her face and scraped the sharp edge to where her pulse hammered in her neck.
“Let’s start this again, shall we? My name is Serge. I will ask you a question. You will answer me—truthfully, I might add—or there will be consequences.”
Sage tried to remain as still as possible. One flick of his wrist and she would bleed out in seconds.
“What is your name?”
“M-my name is Ruby.” She held her breath, awaiting his next move.
He lifted his lips in a mocking smile and replied sarcastically, “I appreciate your honesty.”
He moved his dagger from her neck to the opening of her linen shirt, catching it with the blade. He flicked his wrist, and her shirt fluttered open. Embarrassment and rage battled inside her, but she stamped both emotions down. If she gave them one inkling of her feelings, she knew they’d run with it. She could show no fear.
Sage raised her chin and gave Serge her haughtiest and most disdainful look.
“Oh! I can be so clumsy sometimes,” he whispered. Leering, he leaned forward and placed the knife tip between her leather trousers and hip. With another tug, it cut through them like butter and they fell flimsily to the floor. Even the pain radiating through her body wasn’t enough to distract her from the embarrassment of being stripped in front of four men. Their eyes crawled over her skin like insects, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Sage focused on a stone behind him and steeled herself. She would not show fear.
The tall man pushed away the shirt from her stomach with the tip of his dagger and seemed to survey each mark or bruise marring her torso.
“The crown prince knows how to punch. A pity that your beauty had to be marred by his hands.” He grinned, which only made him look more deranged, and clapped his hands once. “Next question, what do you do for the resistance?”
“I’ve already said I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even know about the resistance until the commander spoke with me. What would the resistance want with an orphan? I don’t have any skills to offer.”
“Not quite what I was looking for.”
He ran his eyes down her legs and back up her thighs. He caressed the front of her legs with his rough fingers, and she couldn’t contain a shudder of revulsion.
Serge raised his eyebrows. “This appears to be the only spot untouched. Probably the best place to leave my mark.” Lazily, he slashed along the front of her left thigh. Pain exploded in her leg, and she hissed out a breath but maintained a blank face.
He cocked his head with a smirk. “I do enjoy symmetry.”
After a moment, the pain in her leg worsened, burning like hell. Her whole body trembled, and she bit back a whimper as blood dripped down her leg.
Time passed, and Serge continued his line of questioning. He also proved to be a sadistic bastard. Sage drifted in and out of consciousness until a sharp crack across her face whipped her head to the side, her face throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Serge grabbed her hair and yanked back her head, and his other hand wrapped around her neck with a squeeze.
“No falling asleep on me, dear.”
“I am no one’s ‘dear’,” she choked out, her swollen lips making speech difficult.
“Your fire is incredible,” Serge mused, “and I rather enjoy the idea of breaking you. Perhaps I’ll keep you around as a mistress.”
“Not on your life,” she spat vehemently, throwing every last bit of energy she had into the words. “I would die first.” His smile dropped as hers appeared.
“That can be arranged, dear,” he sneered, tightening his grip on her neck.
Sage tried to suck in a breath but none came. She would die after all. She hoped her family would be okay without her.
Her thoughts were interrupted when someone shouted, and, suddenly, the pressure on her neck disappeared. She sucked in a breath�
��only to cough so hard she was sure her lungs were coming out.
Someone wrapped their arms around her waist and lifted her off her wrists. Like a fire, pain consumed her entire body. She opened her mouth to cry out but only choked on it, instead emitting a shaky wheeze. The fetters were peeled from her wrists and her arms flopped limply to her side.
What was happening? Sage peered up and saw amid the swirling room two spots of violet. “Gav?” she coughed out. Did she already die?
The purple eyes stared down at her, concerned, and a deep voice pleaded with her to stay awake. “Ruby? Keep your eyes open for me, darling.”
He gently pushed her bloody hair from her face and gave her a gentle smile. The purple eyes left her and the voice snapped at someone else. Another voice answered just as sharply, and that voice too seemed familiar, only at the moment she couldn’t place it.
A ghoulish figure appeared above her. A specter with silvery hair, gray eyes, and a myriad of wrinkles.
She must have died. Nobody looking like that would exist in this world.
The voices seemed to urge her to do something, but she couldn’t understand what. Their words faded as her pulse pounded and lights dotted her vision, followed by darkness. Smiling, she gave into the blessed void of nothingness.
Fifteen
TEHL
Tehl sat, watching as the sun peaked over the horizon. As its rays shed a dusky light on the ashen silo before him, his thoughts returned to the events that had transpired the night before…
Initially, all had gone smoothly. They’d been well prepared. Between Jethro, Garreth, Sethen, and himself, they’d managed to subdue the Scythian guards. It happened with such unusual ease it both surprised and troubled him.
He was not prepared, however, for what greeted him as they broke open the silo. Tehl had halted as the stenches of urine, body odor, and blood assaulted him. Filthy women, children, and the elderly trembled on the ground, terror evident in their eyes. The children whimpered, hiding themselves within the skirts of their mothers. All bore evidence of the Scythian’s cruelty, each one bruised and battered. His heart broke within his chest, simultaneously growing hot with rage. They would not get away with committing such atrocities.
“Peace,” he whispered. “We mean you no harm. We are here to free you from this prison. My men and I are removing the Scythians to ensure your safety.” At his words, some burst into tears while others seemed to say prayers under their breaths.
“Safety?” an incredulous voice cut through the air.
Tehl searched the group of villagers for the owner of the voice. He stopped when he saw a young woman kneeling with two small children. She stood to face him with narrowed eyes. She was a tiny thing; he doubted the top of her head reached even his shoulder, yet her chin jutted out defiantly and her fists clenched. She was the owner of the angry voice.
“Does it look like we’re safe?” she hissed, gesturing to the people. “Where were you two days ago? You let this happen, you…” She swallowed and continued roughly: “you let our loved ones die.”
An older woman placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Dear one, don’t blame these men. That’s simply not fair. They didn’t harm us. They are here to help.”
Lips tight with anger, the young woman shook her head and stabbed a finger at him. “No! What isn’t fair is that our king didn’t protect us! And now? Now our families are gone forever.” She blinked rapidly, fighting back tears, and glared.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Tehl offered, hating how generic his words sounded. He meant it, every word.
She dropped her head. “That won’t bring them back.” The young woman sucked in a breath and pinned him with eyes full of unshed tears. “Finish this,” she growled. “Not one of them deserves to live.”
“Never fear on that account, lady. It will be done.” Tehl’s promise was sincere and deadly.
She’d studied him a moment and dipped her chin in dismissal. The young woman scooped up the little ones at her feet and buried her face in the downy fuzz blanketing their heads.
Tehl had grappled with himself. He wanted to rage through the village, destroying anything Scythian he could get his hands on. Turning to his men he registered his own shock and anger mirrored in their faces—clearly, they too were struggling with this.
He had turned back to the villagers and offered the group a smile meant to inspire confidence. “Stay here until we come for you and don’t worry; you’re safe now.”
An unladylike snort exploded out of the young woman. Her blue-gray eyes locked onto him. “Mmhmm. Because we have been so safe here previously!” she mumbled. “Are you really going to leave us defenseless? Without even weapons?”
Tehl reached into his boot. Plucking out a dagger, he held the hilt out to her. “You do know how to use one of these?”
She scowled at him as she passed one child to the elderly woman beside her. “I am well acquainted with daggers, thank you.”
“Good. Do you require anything else, my lady?”
She ran her finger along the blade and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “No, that will be all, I’m sure.”
A smile tugged at his lips. She was feisty, in a way, reminding him a bit of Sam. “What’s your name?”
“Jasmine, my lord,” she tacked on the title with a bow, or as much of one as she could execute with a small child on her hip. It seemed her anger toward him had waned, a little.
Sethen stepped inside. “The commander has signaled.”
Tehl jerked his chin at Jasmine. “Protect your people.” Her eyes widened as he spun on his heel and moved from the doorway.
Jethro brushed his dirty blond hair from his eyes and whispered, “They’re southeast of the center. We need to move if we want to catch them.”
Their group rushed through the village, stepping over fallen Scythians at every turn. His brother had obviously moved quickly. Stealthily as well—there’d been no sounds of battle. As they approached the town’s center they halted, remaining hidden in the shadows while Jethro called out a signal. Some of his tension left his body when they heard his brother’s answering call.
As Tehl and his men approached the fire-lit square, he saw five Scythians kneeling on the ground before his brother, surrounded by the Elite. Samuel, who had been pacing, paused when he caught sight of them and then strolled up to Tehl, feigning casualty. His tension returned, followed by a healthy dose of adrenaline. Something was wrong.
“We have a problem.”
A short statement—and not one that boded well.
“There are Scythians in the trees across the river, over the Mort Wall, observing us, yet so far they have done nothing to come to the aid of their kin.” His brother jerked his head toward their captives. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something is wrong. They were defeated far too easily.”
That gave Tehl a real pause. Scythians were notorious for fighting until death rather than be taken captive. Their soldiers were not trained to be passive. He squinted over Sam’s shoulder at the brawny group of warriors, their dark eyes staring back seemingly void of all emotion. His brother was right, something was amiss in this situation.
“A trap?”
“No,” Sam said in a low tone. “The area has been scouted and there are no others. It seems those watching from the Scythian riverside are alone.”
Tehl scanned the dense forest for any hint of the soldiers his brother spoke of but could detect no signs of movement, not until the moonlight caught the tip of an arrow. Why hadn’t they attacked? He and his men were within the archer’s range. What were they waiting for?
Tehl caught his brother’s eye and spoke under his breath. “Maybe we should give them a show and draw them out?”
Sam nodded, and Tehl stalked toward the line of warriors, halting just before them. They were truly giants of men. He himself was a tall man, but a few of them topped him by five inches. In addition, each man wore his long black hair exactly the same: knotted back with bone and
feathers. The skin of their faces was so flawless it seemed unreal, almost like they’d been hewn from stone.
Unnatural.
Tehl suppressed a shudder. It was actually what led to Scythia’s exile from the rest of the world: an unhealthy obsession with perfection—more specifically the perfect warrior—and these statues, kneeling dark-eyed and motionless before him, served as proof that their obsession had not been abandoned.
He moved down the row inspecting each man, noting the swirling designs painted on their skin and their multiple piercings. Coming upon the last one though, Tehl froze.
Not a man. A woman.
Beneath the myriad of scrawling designs, her bronze skin glistened in the firelight. She dropped her head, sending her midnight braid slithering down her back. Tehl stepped closer and grabbed hold of it, giving it a rough tug. Her face tipped upward, exposing blank, black eyes tipped up at the corners. He’d never before seen a Scythian woman. He understood them to be guarded jealously by their men. Her face sported sharp, high cheekbones with arched brows and a pouty lower lip. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about it.
“They’re sending women to do warriors’ work now?”
Silence met his question.
No response, not even a flicker in her eyes.
Tehl lifted his eyes to the forest, he shouted across the river. “There is no need for hiding. We are warriors, not spies. Tell me, where is Your Honor?” He dropped the woman’s braid, holding his breath. Would they take the bait? His eyes darted to the woman and again to the riverside. Eight warriors had emerged from the forest and now stood on the riverbank. An enormous warrior stood at the forefront, regarding them steadily, his black hair hanging down his bare chest.