Garek pushed past him, the witch light showing a form slumped against a tree. Bolin brightened the illumination as Garek knelt beside the man. The Commander lowered his head. "It's not him."
That provided little relief. Bolin ran a hand through his sodden hair. For an Imperial soldier, a quick end would be a far better option than being taken alive by marauders. They were experts at making a game of death, betting on how long they could keep their victim alive and conscious. If they had Berk, they'd make extra sport out of him for killing one of their own.
He dropped his hand to Garek's shoulder. "We know where they were camped."
"And we know they'll have split up and moved by now."
Garek lurched to his feet. He started casting about, scouring the ground. He stooped to retrieve something, turning back to Bolin, his face a grim mask. A dagger, undoubtedly Berk's, rested in his palm. The blade had been bloodied, and a strip of dark blue fabric edged in silver tied around the hilt.
"I'll not leave him to them."
"They have Ciara as well," Bolin said.
"And by comparison, her treatment will be gentle." Garek's voice sounded strangled.
As much as Bolin wanted, he couldn't argue Garek's point. Marauders took women as warrior concubines. They would bid on Ciara, probably wager her against Berk's survival. Eventually, one would claim her. Or attempt to. Bolin had seen firsthand what would happen to any man who tried to force himself on her. If they learned she had healing skills, her treatment would be considerably better. Goddess only knew what Ciara would do to them if provoked. Nialyne's wards had no hope of holding Andrakaos if Ciara's fear and anger got the better of her. In some regards, her laying waste to a campful of marauder scum would be a blessing. The possibility of Ciara surviving such an event, of being able to hold onto that wild power once released, however, were slim. And then they would all have a much larger threat to face.
"We're wasting time." Garek tucked the dagger through his belt. He stopped at Bolin's shoulder, his hand still resting on the weapon. "This is for the heart of their leader."
Sully looked up from checking a girth as Bolin and Garek led Berk's horse around the tree. When his gaze landed on the crossbow slung over the empty saddle his eyes closed, and his fingers tightened around the leather strap.
"We'll bring him home," Garek said, his hand gripping Sully's arm. "One way or the other. He comes home. How many horses did we lose?"
"Three."
"Let's get whatever supplies we can divided between the rest. Whatever can be carried."
Bolin went straight to Nialyne. "They have Ciara and Berk. Your wards won't hold if they push her."
"Then let's pray to the Goddess they don't."
***
Wet horse.
The smell assaulted Ciara's senses as she dragged herself out of the fog in her head. She blinked her eyes open and tried to make sense out of what she saw. Her hair hung above her head in a muddy, snarled mess, and her cheek smarted, rubbed raw against a dirty grey hide. Her entire world had turned upside down. She struggled to right herself, kicking her feet and squirming against the saddle she'd been draped across. Fingers wrapped around her leg, digging into her thigh, and a voice said something low and gruff. Ciara stilled. She didn't need to know the language to understand the intent.
She worked her tongue, trying to find room for it in a mouth stuffed with cloth, and gagged against the sour taste. The horse broke into a trot, and Ciara groaned. Each jarring bounce of the choppy stride drove bits of the saddle into bits of her body. She struggled to get her numb fingers behind the girth for some stability, and then they were cantering. A spasm twisted her back muscles, her legs and arms flopping against the horse as though she were nothing more than a rag doll.
Oh, Goddess's blood. The ground rushed by beneath her, and Ciara squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden head spin. The fuzz refused to leave her brain. Whatever they had used to knock her out made thinking an impossible task. She tried to brace herself against the movement of the horse, a scream of frustration and anger growing in her throat.
About the time she felt she couldn't take it any longer, the rider shifted his weight back and the horse slowed to a walk. Voices surrounded them, the sounds of other horses jostling about, people moving. A woman's voice rose above the rest. The words were meaningless to Ciara, but they carried the tone of an order.
Fingers tangled in her hair and jerked Ciara up and back. She had no time to get her feet under her as the rider tossed her unceremoniously to the wet ground. Then someone had her by the arms wrenching her up.
"Get your hands off her."
Ciara twisted, relief flooding her as she caught a glimpse of Berk. A shove moved her forward. Her feet caught as something tightened around her ankles. She realized too late she had been hobbled, and thrust her bound hands out in front of her to break her fall. But fingers locked around her biceps, keeping her upright, and propelled her into a circle of rough-looking men and women. All of them armed. Not a friendly face among them.
Berk stood between two men, hobbled as well, his hands tied behind him. His shoulders were back, every line of his body taut, his gaze leveled on a woman who stood apart from the others. She wore leather armor, tooled with an angular, intertwined design. Though it glistened from a recent oiling, it had definitely seen better days. Her hands rested on her waist, and she held herself with an unmistakable air of authority. Eyes the color of a deep summer sky flicked Ciara's way. The woman said something in her tongue, and one of the men next to Ciara yanked the gag from her mouth.
"I am Linea, and this is my camp," the woman said, her voice thickly accented. "It is by my good graces you both still live." Her gaze narrowed on Berk. "Especially you."
"What do yo--" Ciara yelped, her head snapping to the side and tears springing to her eyes with the force of a backhanded blow across her face.
"Bastard." Berk lunged forward, shoulder lowered into the guts of the man who had hit her. Another guard stepped in, and brought his knee up hard into Berk's stomach. He doubled over with a pained grunt.
"Stop it!" Ciara yelled.
The woman laughed. She grabbed a fistful of Berk's hair and twisted his head back. "I like good sport." She gestured, and two men hauled him upright.
Berk swayed. Dried blood caked the side of his face and neck.
Linea turned back to Ciara. "You have magic."
Ciara swallowed. "I'm a healer." Something told her it would be best to keep it simple.
The gaze sharpened. "A healer? In the company of an Imperial soldier? That must make you important."
"I'm just a healer," Ciara replied.
The woman made a noise. "There's no such thing as just a healer. Not where I come from. So how does just a healer acquire her very own, personal, Imperial dog, hmm?"
She stepped forward and slid her hand across Berk's chest and the crest emblazoned on the deep blue fabric. He jerked at the touch and Linea laughed. "I'll guess you're lovers."
Ciara's cheeks heated. "No."
The woman held up a hand for silence. She circled Berk, her hands gliding over his body. "No shame in it. He's a fine man, even if he does reek of Imperial dung. Pleasing to the eyes. Firm to the touch."
Linea reached around to grab Berk between the legs. He flinched and snapped his head back. Linea swore. She slammed her foot into the back of his leg, and Berk fell to his knees. Linea cranked his head back a second time, digging her fingers into his exposed throat. Blood trailed from a gash on her lip as she put her mouth next to his ear and whispered something. She released him with a shove, and strolled back around to face them both.
Her tongue slid from between her teeth to clean the blood from her lip. "Get him up."
Two of her men hauled Berk roughly to his feet.
"I'm going to enjoy hearing you squeal," Linea said to him. "The last bit of Imperial dung we came across didn't last nearly long enough."
Linea waved at the crowd and they parted. Berk took a step
forward, a look of horror crossing his face before he schooled his expression into something eerily devoid of emotion. An iron cage about the size of a pony cart sat half Ciara's height off the ground, balanced on huge boulders. Below it smoldered the remains of a fire. Ciara gasped. Inside, curled in on itself, laid something that looked as though it had once been a man.
Ciara glanced at Berk. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, and Ciara prayed the look in his eyes would never be directed at her.
Linea lifted her hand toward his face, and Berk pulled violently away from the touch. He would have killed her given half the chance, Ciara could feel it. His whole body shook with rage. Without thinking she shoved her way between him and Linea. "Leave him alone."
The woman stepped back, laughing. "Perhaps not lovers yet, but you wish to be."
"What do you want from us?" Ciara asked. Berk made a noise behind her, and tried to push Ciara aside but she stood firm.
"You've got spit, I like that." She squeezed Ciara's face. "My brother is ill. You will tend to him. And you better be more than just a healer, because if he dies, so do you. As for your dog..." Her gaze slid hungrily over Ciara's shoulder. "I'll let you know if he's as good a lover as he looks."
She shoved Ciara into the waiting arms of one of the men. Ciara tried to pull away from him, but he hoisted her off the ground and slung over his shoulder like a sack. She kicked her feet, crying out at a stinging slap across the backside. Berk lunged forward with a roar of anger, and then Ciara lost sight of him as the crowd closed in.
***
Berk shivered in the draft that moved through the tent and across his bare torso. He twisted his wrists against the bindings holding his arms stretched high above his head, trying to work some feeling into his numb hands. His shoulders ached, and his calves burned from the strain of being forced to stand on the balls of his feet. They had stripped him down to his trousers and tied him to the center post. He hadn't made it easy for them. Foolish, because that just made it harder on him, but seeing Ciara manhandled and carted off in that fashion sent him into a rage. And the burnt body in the cage--Goddess's light, he didn't want to die like that.
"Mmm, mm, mmm." Linea stood in the opening of the tent, running her eyes over him. "You are a tasty morsel. Shame you've thrown your life away on licking the Emperor's balls."
She let the flap close behind her as she strolled in to stand in front of him.
"Let Ciara go."
She pressed a hand to her breast. "That's so noble. I realize you feel obligated to plead for her life instead of your own, but I need a healer. Plus, I'll be paid well for her. Although, I may just keep her. If she's any good she'll be treated better than most. If not? Well, the boys are already bidding for her." A wicked grin twisted her mouth. "They're already bidding for you as well. The last whelp didn't make for very good sport. Scrawny, young thing. Barely off his mum's tit from the looks of it. Cried and bawled like a little girl. Even pissed himself."
Berk curled his lip. "What did he ever do to you that he deserved to die like that?"
"Put on the blue. Same as you." Her eyes drifted from his face, and her bottom lip jutted out. "Aw, they've gone and damaged you already. Does that hurt?"
She smashed her fist against the deep bruise across his stomach. Berk would have cried out if the blow hadn't taken his breath with it. He squeezed his eyes shut, and choked out a strangled gasp.
"That's for the bloody lip," she said, mouth close to his ear, her teeth nipping his lobe. "Some of the boys wanted to get to you right away. They're wagering you'll last a while. You've got a fighter's look, and plenty of cock. Got a couple lined up who want to fight you before we get to the really fun games. But you're mine first."
She trailed her fingertips across his skin as she moved away, and Berk shuddered in revulsion. His gear had been piled to the side, and Linea hunkered down to rifle through it. The remains of his tabard she tossed at the fire pit with a scowl.
"I'll say one thing, you Imperial pig balls know your weapons." She stood, hefting Berk's sword and he clenched his jaw. "Now this…this is nice. Definitely not Imperial issue." The blade whistled as she swung it, firelight glinting off the polished steel. Berk sucked in a reflexive breath when she whirled and placed the tip of the blade against his chest. "Looks to be northern forged. A family heirloom? Daddy's sword, perhaps? I'll make you a promise. Once we're done with you, I'll kill you with it. That will make it truly special, don't you think? Maybe I'll even send it home with your head. A gift to the Emperor for all your fine service."
"Rot in hell."
Linea scowled and clicked her tongue. "I thought you guard types had better manners."
A startled cry escaped him when she flicked the sword downward as she turned away, leaving a shallow cut half way to his stomach. Linea winked over her shoulder.
"Get used to it," she said. She sheathed the sword and placed it on a trunk beside her sleeping palette. "We're just getting started."
She reached around to her side and unfastened the buckles for her leather breastplate and slipped it off. Her boots went next, then her belt and weapons. Berk averted his eyes when she tugged her tunic over her head, leaving her naked.
"Not shy, are you, dog?"
She came to stand in front of him again, his boot knife in her hand. Berk could barely find enough spit to wet his lips. His pulse quickened, and he prayed to the Goddess for strength. He didn't fear death itself, but the thought of dying with dishonor, of being trussed up like an animal without the chance to defend himself, or begging for mercy at the hands of a marauder--those thoughts filled him with dread.
He stared straight ahead. Images of his family--his mother's easy smile, his little brother's giggle, hunting in the Reaches with his father--those would be his strength.
His muscles contracted as Linea drew the flat of the blade through the blood trickling from the sword cut. She held it up in front of his eyes.
"Look, just as red as mine, yet you piss-ants think you're so much better than everyone else. You shit the same, smell the same, even die the same." She broke off and went to squat beside the fire pit. "Have you ever been to Slaver's Run? I'll wager not. Too far beneath upstanding, Imperial prigs like you. The oddities at that market are well worth the trip. I swear, there's nothing you can't buy or barter for there. I could make a bit of coin on you. Plenty of ladies, and men, too, all looking for a pretty body to do things to. Then there's the arena--bet you'd fight like a lion, wouldn't you? Anyhow, there's this alchemist down on the Sixth Wharf who comes up with the most amazing concoctions not to be found anywhere else this side of the waves."
The light from the brazier danced across the supple curves of her body. A multitude of scars showed white against the tan as she worked at something. When she stood and turned she held a shallow bowl in her palm, stirring the contents with the tip of his knife. A blend of copper and spoiled meat assailed Berk's nostrils as she came closer, and he wrinkled his nose, lifting his head to try and distance himself from the smell.
"I paid a lot for this particular blend." Linea scooped some onto the blade and held it directly under his nose. His stomach churned at the stench. "I haven't been able to try it out until now. Care to guess what it does?"
"Cause vomiting?"
She laughed. "Good to see you've managed to keep your sense of humor. You're going to need it. This lovely blend is called Ilth Gyre Drinuum. Do you know what that means?"
"Something about ills and pleasures?"
Her brows rose. "Very good. A scholar as well as the sniveling pet of a whore's son." She rolled the knife blade in the bowl, the contents of it sticking to the blood along its surface. "That's a very literal translation, though. The alchemist likes to call it Demons of Delights. Pain and pleasure are two ends of the same horse, don't you think? Hard to have one without the other. And both at the same time?" Her nostrils flared as she rolled her head back, closed her eyes and inhaled. "Exquisite."
When she dropped h
er head to look at him again, Berk's blood ran cold. Her eyes had a hard, hungry look to them, and the upturn of her lips showed no softness. He twisted his hands in a desperate attempt to free them. Blood from the bindings trailed down his arms.
Linea cocked her head. "Here come the demons." And she drove the blade into his shoulder.
***
Ciara literally bounced off a guard attempting to run out of the tent where she'd been taken to tend Linea's brother. She picked herself off the ground, and thrust both hands against the man's unyielding chest as Berk's second scream ripped through the camp.
"Get out of my way!"
He grinned. "Linea just getting started." His fingers wrapped painfully around Ciara's upper arm, and he shoved her back toward the pile of furs where her patient tossed in the grips of fever. "Heal Zahn or it goes worse for both."
"I won't. Not until I know Berk is safe. I'll let her brother die, I swear it."
The grin never left the guard's broad, grubby face. "Imperial dog dies, I win bet. Zahn dies, I get healer. All good for me."
Ciara clenched her hands at her sides. "I'll make sure you get neither, then."
The next scream sounded weaker. Ciara pressed her lips together and did her best to shut it out. She prayed to whoever would listen to take Berk quickly to the Halls if they were so inclined. And if not, to give him strength to endure. She blinked back tears and turned her attention to Linea's brother. He had no wounds that she could find, only a raging fever that had apparently come on him out of nowhere, if her guard could be believed. It had laid him flat out three days past.
Even the youngest healer could call a fever. But when Ciara tried, her head and stomach launched an immediate and powerful revolt thanks to the remnants of whatever they'd drugged her with. She chewed at her bottom lip. Passing into the veil took clear focus, at least for her. But the camp had grown eerily quiet after Berk's last pained scream had been cut short. He didn't deserve this. He had only been trying to protect her. Ciara took a deep breath. The smell of burning peat permeated the small tent: dung, the sour scent of unwashed male, and...Ciara wrinkled her nose. She looked around her at the assortment of drinking bowls, lifting one to sniff the milky contents.
Emergence (Book 2) Page 16