Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Behind a large table covered in maps and parchment, a tall Wyrd with a sharp nose is bent over his quill as he scribbles in haste. He stiffens at my approach, but barely flashes his gaze my way. The dress is enough to tell him who I am and what I’m here for. He taps the table next to a half-eaten meal of cured meat, cheese, and bread. “Here.”
As I set the tonic down, I scan the space. Next to the table is a low cot and a wool blanket, on a shelf are piles of books—treatises? Records? Tactical guides? In the other corner is a stand of armour—helmet, breastplate, gauntlets—ready to be donned for the next surge against the Skeldar defence.
Movement from behind the stand has the commander looking over. He taps the table where his leftover food sits. “Offer this to the girl.”
I incline my head and pick up the tray. My step almost falters when I glimpse Akilah. She’s sitting against a post, in a blue cotton dress with her hair braided over one shoulder, and she’s bound with rope at her wrists and her ankles. Although I will her to, she doesn’t look up when I set the tray beside her. Instead, she lashes out with her bound hands and the bread, cheese and meats scatter over the ground.
“Feisty, aren’t you?” the commander says with a hint of admiration. He lays down his quill and crosses the room; I pick up the strewn lunch, watching from the corner of my eye. Akilah looks tense and angry, but I don’t see bruising or blood.
The commander leans against the post, crossing his ankles. “Come, you need to eat.”
Akilah turns her head to the tent wall.
“You’re upset at the situation. I understand that. But I’ve done my best in the circumstances.”
She huffs.
“I didn’t let my generals get their hands on you, nor the high-ranking officers. I even faked whipping you.”
Akilah sags at this and her gaze falls to the ground and her bound feet.
The commander lets out a weary sigh. “You’ve got to understand. Magic is irreplaceable. He is worth ten, maybe twenty, of any other healer.”
I pinch meat and flick it down onto the tray. The movement catches Akilah’s attention, and she looks over at me. Her eyes momentarily widen and she quickly snatches her gaze away, schooling her shock.
After a moment, she clears her throat. She’s speaking to the commander, but also to me. “We don’t want to be here.”
“Once we have control of Ragn, I’ll set you free.”
“You think you’re kind.”
“You could be thrown in with the other prisoners. I’m making sure you’re looked after.”
“By making me sleep in your tent? Making others think that we—”
“Out there, other soldiers do more than think.”
I pick up the runaway bread roll and reach out, offering it to her, keeping my head bowed.
“Eat!” the commander says.
Keep your strength, I say with the push of my hand towards her. I’ll get you out soon.
She takes the bread, her fingers finding momentary connection with mine.
I don’t linger long, quickly pulling myself to my feet and heading for the door.
“Wait,” the commander calls, and I freeze.
He moves behind me and my pulse ticks up. But then he settles once more at his table. “My war hound was agitated this morning. Feed him more.”
With this dismissal, I step out into daylight. The sun is warm on my skin after the tense air of the tent, but nothing can be warm enough to ease my tension. I need to grab Quin and get Akilah out. My eyes flick to the guards flanking me, the last barrier before I reach Quin, and just as I hope I’ve slipped past them unnoticed, a voice calls, “Oy. The commander told you to feed his hound. He means right away.”
I freeze and suppress a wince, gaze sharpening anxiously on the commander’s tent before focusing on the soldier who is jerking his thumb over his shoulder, presumably in the direction of the hound.
With twelve sets of Wyrd eyes on me, I glide demurely around the back of the commander’s tent. The shadows are short at this time of day, but along with the sudden scent of hay and dust, there’s a sudden shift in feeling behind me. The hairs on my nape prickle and I know I’m being followed. It’s not Quin and his cane, but the Wyrd. His presence feels thick and sticky, like he’s going to be hard to shake off.
“Hound’s barking mad,” he says, swaggering up to my side, breath wet at my temple. “I’ll help you.”
He touches my elbow and I grit through it as he steers me to the war hound. The snarling dog has its own spacious tent in a fenced area with room to move and hay to sleep in. I shake off the Wyrd under the guise of getting food: preserved snake meat, sitting on a shelf beside some large sacks.