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EXCERPT
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Ammey
rode behind Zenon nearly the entire way to Wydenyl without
uttering a word. Not only was she being forced to go into
seclusion, she was not even allowed to ride her own horse.
As if she was a helpless child, or perhaps it was that she
was not trustworthy enough to stay put. It was insulting.
“They
only want what’s best for you,” Cael said, trying
to make conversation again.
“Why
are men always so certain they know what’s best?”
Ammey retorted.
Cael
laughed. “Is that why you wore the tunic and leggings?
To get back at them?”
Ammey
gave him a sour look. “I always ride in them. How childish
do you think I am, Cael?”
“No,
not childish,” he replied, shaking his head, but still
smiling broadly. “I’m only concerned for the effect
you’ll have on the holy men.”
“I
brought an overgown to put on,” she replied in a disgusted
tone. “They’ll never see--”
A woman’s
terrified scream split the air, and Cael and Zenon reacted,
reining in their mounts sharply.
“Do
you smell that?” Zenon asked quietly. Ammey felt his
body tense, not fully cognizant that hers had, as well.
The wind
suddenly shifted and the smell of smoke was heavy in their
nostrils. Another scream, this one punctuated.
Zenon
was suddenly furious at himself for not being more on guard.
He shifted and offered his arm to Ammey. “Get down.
Stay here.”
She obeyed
without argument. This she did because of the screams, because
she understood their duty to find the cause. They did have
to answer to her father and brothers. Still, they were just
outside of Wydenyl, an ancient village settled by separatist
druids a thousand years past. There were not many of the order
left, but those that were, the village fathers, were pacifists,
holy men, and Wydenyl was considered sanctum sanctorum. Whatever
was happening could not be too terrible. Perhaps a woman was
being flogged for setting fire to an enemy’s house.
It was terrible for the woman, of course--
Ammey
imagined what Tom’s surly reply would have been. “Always
one to let your imagination run away with you.”
Ammey
held up her hand to ward off the morning glare, and watched
as Cael and Zenon approached the eastern gate. Without warning,
Cael jerked around, coming completely off his horse. He was
facing her now, an incredulous look on his face. It was so
bizarre a sight, Ammey nearly laughed out loud, but then Cael
dropped to his knees, and Ammey’s amused expression
vanished, replaced by one of horror as saw the dart stuck
in this throat. A single line of blood ran from its poisoned
tip.
In the
instant it took for his body to fall forward, Ammey was snatched
from behind, a strong hand clamped over her mouth. “Don’t
make a sound,” a man hissed in her ear. “The village
is under siege.” She was dragged backwards into a grove
of trees and further, into a furry bana tree. The soft, pliable
limbs engulfed and hid them from view, but they also prevented
her from seeing what was happening, and Zenon was still out
there. Cael was hurt. She tried to pull the hand from her
face, but her effort only resulted in her captor assuming
a tighter grip. She panicked and strained against it, shaking
the limbs of the furry bana.
“Do
you wish to die?” he hissed. “There are a dozen
men out there who wish nothing more than to ravage your body
until you’re dead.”
She stopped struggling. The description was too close to what
had happened to Julia, and the thought made her feel ill.
Indeed, she heard distant male voices and stopped breathing.
“Should
we burn them with the others?” one called.
Them.
Burn them with the others. The words rang over and over again
in her mind.
“No,”
came a brusque reply. “Leave them. Let’s go.”
There
was the sound of several horses, riding away.
Ammey’s
captor loosened his grip, but did not let go of her. It no
longer mattered. She felt weak with fear and grief, so much
so that the arms around her had become a comfort. Seconds
passed, minutes. Ammey sunk into the hold, her entire being
shaking with the beat of her heart.
“They’re
gone,” a deep, male voice spoke from a short distance
away.
Her captor
finally released his hold. “You can go,” he said.
She moved
her jaw, still feeling the imprint of his hand on her face,
and tried to move, but suddenly, her legs weren’t able
to.
“You
can go,” the man repeated.
She reached
out an arm and clutched a soft limb, but her legs would not
cooperate with her wish to move.
Apparently
impatient with her, the man wrapped an arm around her waist
and dragged her out, just as he had dragged her in.
She winced
at the sunlight as they immerged from the tree, so quickly
had her eyes adjusted to the shade of the furry bana. A man
with black skin gaped at her, and two other men were moving
toward them. “You take shelter in a tree and come out
with that?” the black man asked. Was he a Moor? She
had seen black men before, though not many. The sight of him
was strange to her.
“She
was with the two that rode in,” her captor spoke.
Ammey
saw Cael and Zenon lying on the ground and she rushed to them,
past the dark skinned man, who turned to watch her.
Zenon
was face up, staring sightlessly at the sky; Cael was face
down. Ammey dropped to her knees and felt for signs of life
in Zenon, despite the certainty of his death stare. She reached
for Cael, next. They were dead. Dead. Because they’d
brought her to this place. They were young, healthy, handsome
men, neither of whom had seen their twenty-fifth winter yet,
and they were dead. They’d been trusted friends and
far too valuable to die for no reason. She’d said they
were too valuable to be wasted on escorting her! Hadn’t
she said that? Furious, agonizing grief tore a sob from her
chest.
“Where
did you come from?” the black man asked her. He’d
walked close, as had the others, four of them.
She looked up at the black man, incensed by his calm. “Wydenyl
was attacked, and you just stand there?” she demanded.
Her voice was shaking as hard as the rest of her. Her face
was wet with tears that would not stop.
“We
should go,” one of the men spoke with urgency to his
voice. “The village is burning.”
It was
true. The roaring and crackling of fire was stronger now.
Wydenyl was burning. Her gut and her chest were burning. Cael
and Zenon were dead because of her. The wind shifted, enveloping
them all in a smoke so thick, she couldn’t see.
“Let’s
go,” the black man ordered. “We have to get downwind.”
“No,”
she argued, getting to her feet. “We have to help them.”
A hand closed in on her and began pulling her away. “Unhand
me! We have to help them!”
The hand
let go of her, but a second later, she felt pressure on her
stomach, followed by the sensation of being lifted off the
ground. Someone had thrown her over their shoulder and was
hurrying away. Ammey, choking on both the smoke and her embarrassment,
pounded the man’s back with her fists. “Put me
down!”
He answered
with a stinging series of slaps to her rear end, made more
potent by the thin fabric of her leggings. It worked to increase
both her humiliation and her ire and she pounded harder. So
did he. When he finally set her down in a smoke-free clearing,
she launched herself forward at him, red-faced in her fury.
He must have been expecting the move because he grabbed her
wrists as she came at him, slung her around and then sat her
on the ground. “You hit me first,” he reminded
her. “And there is nobody left to help!”
Even
scowling, he was extremely handsome, which only served to
increase her humiliation. His hair was brown, his beard and
mustache neatly trimmed, his eyes a rich golden brown.
The black
man, obviously the leader of the band, knelt on one knee.
“We have much to do, little hellcat, so perhaps you
could simply tell us who you are and what you and your friends
back there were doing.”
“Or
perhaps you could tell me who you are and what you were doing,”
she came back at him. Her behind was smarting, her face hot
with mortification and rage.
“Forzenay’s
the name,” he replied.
She drew
in a sharp breath, not expecting this.
“You’ve
heard the name,” he remarked.
“The
assassin?” she said in a suddenly small voice. “Forzenay’s
Five,” she murmured, looking at the others. The infamous
assassins of Azulland.
“This
is Kidder,” Forzenay said, gesturing to one of the men.
“Graybil, Stripe--” he gestured to a man with
a stripe-like scar on one side of his face. “And you’ve
already met Vincent,” Forzenay finished with a smug
grin, gesturing to her captor.
“Charmed,” Vincent said sardonically.
She was
tempted to flail at him again, but they would only restrain
her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded,
directing the question to Forzenay. “And why didn’t
you help them?”
“We
did help, little hellcat . . . in a discreet enough manner
that Corin’s men would not know.”
“You
helped?” she repeated, her voice dripping with scorn.
“Discreetly?”
“That’s
right.”
“You
did not help my friends,” she accused. “You did
not help that woman I heard scream. Perhaps you were too discreet.
When the victims of a massacre do not realize you exist--”
“Who
are you?” Forzenay spoke sharply, interrupting her tirade.
“I
am Ammey McKeaf,” she replied, raising her chin slightly.
Forzenay’s
eyes narrowed, then they roamed her face. “Of course.
I should have seen it.”
“Daughter
of the McKeaf,” Vincent said quietly, shaking his head.
“Your
father is a good man,” Stripe spoke up.
“A
good friend,” Kidder added.
She frowned.
“You know my father?”
“Listen
to the doubt in her voice,” Vincent exclaimed. “Why
would we lie?”
“I
don’t know you,” she replied more calmly than
she felt. “How would I know?”
“She
makes a point,” Forzenay conceded.
A crash
shook the ground, a painful reminder of an unspeakable loss,
and Ammey turned to stare at the burning village. “All
those people.”
“No,”
Forzenay said. “We learned of the plan to sack Wydenyl
and warned them,” he explained. “They have an
underground tunnel everyone was supposed to have escaped by.
I heard the woman, the same as you.” He shook his head.
“Things go wrong, but most got to safety.”
Ammey
breathed out, deeply surprised by this. “H-how did you
learn of the attack?”
“We’ve
been tracking the leaders, the planners of the raids,”
Forzenay said. “As your father knows,” he added.
“My
father knows?” she repeated, stunned.
“We’re
on the same side, Ammey McKeaf,” Stripe added.
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