“I’d have to kill him if I did so,” Gilda whispered. She looked at him sidelong. “Perhaps I’ll think about it and see what happens.”
Owen stopped and raised his brows at her, surprised by her admission of interest in killing her clan leader. He let out a slow breath. The past few weeks of sleeping outside and walking in the cold, running from Wielders, and suffering beatings and hunger had taken its toll on his body, and he was ready to sit down.
Sitting on a stump, Owen exhaled, letting his shoulders relax. Though when he glanced up at the thuggish men giving him lewd looks nearby, he tensed again.
“You’ve already shown them you’ll defend yourself rather than run away,” Gilda said softly. “Don’t let your fear show, or they’ll rip you away from me and do what they will with you.”
He cut his eyes to the hanging man nearby. Flies and gnats swarmed the body. Owen’s temples throbbed. What if it had been him on that tree instead?
Something beyond the tree rustled. Owen’s heart thudded for a moment, but it stopped, and he took it for an animal. No doubt attracted to the dead body. He shivered.
“What did you do,” Owen started, swallowing down the sickness building in his throat, “before you were here?”
“I was part of a bigger clan. We sort of moved around a lot. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Clamor Gang?”
Owen shook his head.
“No? Well, we were more well-known down in western Avathon. We only came up this way a year or so back. We’ve had more trouble up this way, too. Not long ago, some men branched off from us. It became too much for them.”
“How did you get into Milarc?”
“Through the caves that run along the eastern coast of the peninsula. It comes out around Covehaven. You just have to make sure the guards out that way don’t see you.”
Owen nearly laughed. “Of course. That’s the way I was heading for.”
“You’re looking to leave the country? What exactly have you done?” When he hesitated, Gilda said, “Oh, come on. I told you about me.”
“You told me about your gang, not your personal life.”
She sat straighter. “True, but you’ve piqued my curiosity. I may just be able to help you, should I get you out of here.”
“Would you?”
“Just let me come up with a plan.”
A commotion nearby halted their conversation. A few men laughed and yelled.
Owen and Gilda made their way to the source of the noise to find the men gathering in a circle. Owen pushed his way through. When he saw who was engaged in the fist fight, his eyes widened with surprise.
Colt stood before one of Harold’s men, his dirty-blond hair disheveled. His face was dirty, his beard looking rough and his eyes red from weariness. With a swift punch, he knocked one of Harold’s men to the dirt. A drunken man staggered forward to join in the fight against him.
Owen moved forward. “Stop!” he cried.
At the sound of Owen’s voice, Colt looked up. His eyes widened, and the drunken man took out a knife, chuckling softly.
Though the man did not seem much of a threat, Owen flung himself between the both of them. “Leave him alone!”
The drunk man staggered back and belched.
Colt took Owen’s arm and pulled him back toward the trees. This caught the eyes of those watching, and they all formed a circle to keep them in.
Dellum came up to them and jerked Owen back. “You think you’re takin’ that lad off with you, eh?”
Owen grimaced from the smell of alcohol on the man’s breath.
Breathing heavily, Owen glanced at each of the surrounding men. Gilda was right—most of them were dazed, half drunk, or tired. There were only about six of them gathered around, while the other three lay on the ground.
“Do you know him?” Gilda asked Owen.
“He’s my companion. Let us go, please.”
“We can’t let ‘em go.” Dellum peered down at her. “It’ll be on you if you do, missy. We won’t vouch for you.”
“They pose no threat to us,” she replied. “They can be gone before Harold gets back.”
Dellum narrowed his eyes. “You know, I’m mighty tired of a woman tellin’ me what to do—and a witchy one at that. You broke up the fight last night, and now this.” He grabbed her arm and nodded at Rigel. “I say we hold her till Harold gets back. Let ‘im decide what to do with her, since all she’s doing is feedin’ our captive all our food and trying to break ‘im out.”
Rigel moved forward, a smile on his lips. “A pleasure.”
“No, this was on me!” Owen said. “I asked her to let me go and she wouldn’t.”
Dellum struck Owen across the face, knocking him back against Colt.
The other men hooted and whistled until Colt lunged forward and punched Dellum square in the jaw.
The bigger man staggered, blood dripping from his nose. Before he could round on him, Colt punched him again, then once more. Colt thrust his fist into the man’s gut, making him double over, and threw him to the ground. The other men watched, some of them hollering, but the others scowling.
Eventually, they pulled Colt off, taking turns beating him.
Owen tried to defend him, but they pushed him away. Then someone grabbed him and tied rope around his wrists. Rigel pushed him toward the big tree where the man still hung from the branch.
Owen’s heart pounded in his ears, and he caught Gilda’s wide eyes as Rigel marched him and Colt to the tree. Rigel threw the slack of their ropes over the branch and strung them up just until their arms stretched up over their heads.
The pain in Owen’s ribs intensified. He stifled a cry, burying his face in his sleeve.
The men rejoiced with mugs of ale and danced around each other. Dellum circled them both, a club in his hands. He strolled up to Colt, whose right eye remained half-closed. Blood ran from his nose and lip.
“I’m thinking another hangin’s in order,” Dellum said. “Eh, Harold’ll see to this.” He spat in Colt’s face before turning away with the other men.
In the distance, Gilda stared at them. Rigel placed a hand on her shoulder, but she pushed him away and stalked off to her tent.
“Colt,” Owen breathed, looking at him. “Colt, are you all right?”
Colt spat a wad of blood out onto the ground.
“I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
Colt laughed softly. “Shut it, Owen,” he muttered.
“Why did you come after me?”
Colt twisted in his ropes and stared at him. “You’re a twit.”
“Is that all you have for me, then? Insults?”
“Will you let me catch my breath for a gods-damned minute?” Colt sighed heavily and winced.
They both went quiet. Owen watched Gilda’s tent, but she never emerged. The effects of the hard beating he took the night before affected his whole body. The pain was piercing, nearly enough to make him faint.
A few drunken men strolled up to them and messed with them, poking them with sticks as they hung from the limb.
One large man laughed until he cried. “Oh, aye—you seen Grayden?” he said to another. “Haven’t seen his ugly mug all day.”
“He was walking the perimeter,” the other man said. “You know how he likes to stalk off alone now.”
The men laughed and turned away, but remained close by.
Several minutes passed. Owen looked at the dead man hanging beside him and closed his eyes. The stench of death nearly gagged him.
Taking a few breaths, he looked at Colt. “What do we do?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. Maybe you can do something to get us out of here.”
The day went on, but Owen was unable to speak with Colt, as someone was always watching them. Eventually, the sky grew dark. The fire blazed and the men began drinking once again. Amid the rise in their activity, a band of new men entered the camp, shouting.
“Harold!” someone yelled.
Owen stiffened. A tall, muscu
lar man came forward with four other men. He held a heavy, dangerous-looking hammer, with sharp metal spikes on both ends. Owen watched as the man conversed with the others, then looked his way. Harold did not come to them, but instead entered Gilda’s tent. After several more minutes, Rigel and Dellum untied Owen and Colt and brought them both to the tent.
Inside, Gilda sat in a chair, while Harold stood beside her, a firm hand on her shoulder. A red mark adorned her right eye, and she looked shaken.
Owen grunted as the men pushed him and Colt to their knees on the floor.
Harold nodded at Rigel and Dellum. “You two keep watch outside.” When they left, Harold glared at them with cold, dark eyes. His head was shaved low, prickly hairs just beginning to sprout on his head. His large frame shadowed Owen as he came up to him.
He bent down and tipped Owen’s chin up with the sharp end of a knife. “Which one of you killed Grayden?” His putrid breath made Owen pull back. “Was it you?”
Terror seized Owen’s gut. He had not killed anyone, but he did not know what his companion had done before he infiltrated the camp.
“The bitch says you were here first.” Harold barely wedged the tip of his blade into Owen’s skin, causing a sting. He drew away and narrowed his eyes on Colt. “But I have reason to believe it was you. Killing men in cold blood, then covering their bodies with the deadened leaves. Was it worth it to get to this whelp?”
“It was.” Colt’s reply was deep and quick.
Owen hung his head, his eyes darting up at Gilda. She glared at Harold from her seat, a sneer forming on her face.
Harold made a frustrated laugh as he stood before Colt. He shook his head, and for a moment Owen thought the man might kill Colt right then. Instead, he said, “Which one do you want to kill, woman? If you don’t make it messy, I’ll let you kill the other.”
When she did not respond, Harold grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her up. “I said choose, whore!”
“Leave her alone,” Colt snapped.
Harold narrowed his eyes. He shoved Gilda away and hit Colt across the face with the hilt of his blade. Colt grunted. Blood dripped from his mouth.
Owen tried to channel in his ropes but found himself unable. He cut his eyes to Gilda, who glared at Harold with a fire that looked more powerful than anything he could summon himself.
“Why not hang them instead?” Gilda said, looking away. “All the others want it, anyway. They’ve been talking about it since the last one.”
Harold scratched his chin. “Huh. Another hangin’?” He grinned maliciously.
As soon as Harold shouted outside, a man grabbed Owen up, and forced him out of the tent. Colt struggled to get away, but there were too many men. Gilda emerged from the tent with a straight face. Owen tried to meet her gaze, pleading silently to her.
They were back at the tree once more, but the other dead man was gone. The men released the rope around their wrists, and instead wrapped a rope around Owen’s neck. The noose tightened uncomfortably around him. Harold’s men stood him on a flimsy crate next to Colt and surrounded them, shouting and making rude gestures with their hands.
Owen looked at Colt, eyes wide.
“And what be the sentencing from the council?” Rigel called out, putting his hand to his ear.
“Death by hangin’!” the men shouted.
“Hang ‘em all!”
“Dump their bodies into the marsh after!”
“And let the tide drag them out to sea!”
Harold watched with his chin held high, his arms crossed, and a smirk on his face.
Owen swallowed hard and looked up at the open sky, where dark clouds billowed in with a gust of wind. The tree behind him creaked, its sturdy branch swaying slightly.
He burned inside, feeling his power as it boiled in his veins, but he did not let the force of it out. He let it build, instead, waiting for the right moment.
When he noticed Gilda watching him, her dark eyes curious, he stiffened.
Rigel neared the rock Colt stood on.
No one seemed to notice Owen’s hand as he held it out toward the man, low to his side. His body vibrated as he glared at Rigel. The warmth in his veins magnified.
With his hands free, Owen thrust out his arms, and a burst of his power, as strong as a hard gust of wind, shot out. The water puddles rippled, and every man standing was thrown to the ground. Owen’s power pulsed through him again, and he shifted the air around him with his hands. Rigel slammed against a tent as Dellum smashed against the trunk of a nearby tree.
Owen’s heart hummed with the rush of power and adrenaline coursing through him. When he heard a few men scream, he looked up. Three of them had landed in the bonfire. They ran and rolled on the ground. A nearby tent was ablaze with orange flames, spreading to the others.
Owen’s burst had thrown Gilda against a rock, and now she limped toward them.
Owen faltered and drew his arms back.
Then the crate beneath his feet slid out from under him and the rope squeezed against his neck so tight, the only thing he could think about was trying to breathe. His hands grabbed at the fibers as he hung. His body jerked around and around.
Two arms wound around him and pulled him to solid ground.
Owen gasped for air. He coughed against someone’s chest. He recognized the familiar lemon energy as his companion held him close on the single rock sheltering them both from death’s grip.
Around the camp, the fire grew larger. Men screamed as they caught fire. A tree went up in flames, spreading to others quickly.
Owen tried to catch his breath, hoping the swing of the rope would not tease him again.
“Knock him to the ground!” Harold called out to one of his men. “Put out the fire!”
“They’re distracted!” came Gilda’s voice. She ran up to them and quickly cut the ropes from the branch. A man ran up to her, and she stabbed him in his chest.
Owen and Colt jumped off the rock and removed their nooses.
The man Gilda had slain lay on the ground, choking on his blood.
Colt pulled on Owen’s arm. “This way!”
“Wait!”
Looking over, Owen watched Gilda walk around the camp, her arms spread out, the fire seeming to move along with her hands. He narrowed his eyes at her. A few drunk men stumbled away from the fire and into the trees. The wind was no help in dousing the flames, only causing the fire to spread quicker.
Harold had only suffered a hard fall to the ground. He marched up to Gilda and yanked her forward by the arm. “Witch!”
“Hey!” Owen called. “Get off her!” His voice cracked, but the clan leader heard him.
Harold glared his way, eyes wide with fire. He pushed Gilda away and pulled up his hammer.
“Owen, you idiot.” Colt pulled him away as Harold rushed after them. He lifted his hammer as he neared them, but the weapon was slow to swing at them in time.
Owen broke apart from Colt and darted behind a burning tent.
“Come here, you little cunt,” Harold growled, swinging his weapon wildly, splintering the wooden beams of the tents. Owen moved behind the other burning tents.
When he lost Harold, he looked for Colt. The heat of the fire was too much, and he had to come back around into the opening of the camp to find him. He would not be leaving without him.
A man shouted nearby, catching him off guard. Owen ducked out of the way as the man swung his sword down. Finding a large rock on the ground, Owen pulled it up and gripped it in his hand. When the man came back around, Owen threw it at his head.
The man yelped and staggered either from drunkenness or dizziness. It was not until Owen picked up a flaming stick and waved it at him that the man took off into the woods, tripping over his feet as he ran into the darkness.
The glint of fire on steel caught Owen’s eye, and he jumped back just as Harold swung his hammer at him, narrowly missing him. He was cornered now, armed with nothing but a stick of fire. Harold kicked it easily from h
is hands, and Owen laughed nervously as he backed away.
As Harold raised his weapon again, Colt plowed into him, knocking him to the ground. Owen nearly staggered back into the spreading fire, his heart pounding.
The two men rolled in the dirt, fists flying.
Harold grabbed hold of Colt and punched him in the side, then dealt several blows to his face. Colt wavered, unable to strike back. Harold wrapped his arm around Colt’s throat and squeezed.
Owen ran forward in panic and tried to wrench Harold away from Colt, but Harold was too strong.
He scrambled for Harold’s hammer, but a boot stepped over it before he could grab it. Owen stiffened when he saw the glint of three sharp blades resting against the Gilda’s knuckles like the claws of an animal. Owen braced himself for an attack, but she stepped away and rammed the blades into Harold’s neck.
Blood sprayed her face. Harold let go of Colt, choking on his dying words, his eyes going wide as he fell to the ground.
Owen rushed to Colt’s side. His companion coughed heavily, and Owen put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He looked around at the few men that lay burning on the ground, and then at Harold, dead in a pool of blood. They had narrowly escaped death, but death had happened either way. When he looked at Colt, the sting of smoke made his eyes water.
“Now’s our chance.” Gilda’s voice ripped them apart. She gave Colt his blade and Owen his bag. “Come on.”
They ran out of the grove and into the woods with her until the camp was no more than an orange smudge in the distance.
“Why is she helping us?” Colt asked, his voice hoarse.
“I wanted out.” Gilda looked long and hard at him in the moonlight. “And I don’t kill Astrans.”
Owen smiled softly. “So then you’ll come with us?”
For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, but she said, “Yes. I’ll come.”
A few men shouted behind them.
Gilda looked at them and growled. “Here.” She unbuckled the dagger from her belt and handed it to Owen. “This is yours.”
Owen held his weapon firmly, and the three of them made their way through the trees. Before long, the woods thinned out, and the ground became soggy.
Beyond the Core (The Starborn Series Book 1) Page 26