Page 17 of The Enemy's Daughter

“Get behind me,” Tristan hisses through his teeth.

Suddenly, something spears my lower back and throws me to the ground. I cry out. Glancing at the source of my pain, I find a large blade. The woman who threw it reveals herself from behind a tree.

“Stop!” Tristan calls. “Do not attack!”

A half dozen people, both men and women, crash through the bush from all angles, an assortment of bows and other weapons all aimed at me. I attempt to scramble back, but the knife is excruciating, preventing any movement. Breathless, my eyes take in one, then two of the soldiers. Their outfits are dark, and their black pants are identical to Tristan’s, with a multitude of large pockets.

Kingsland.Bleeding skies.

“Vador!” Tristan calls, struggling to free himself. “I have it handled.”

An older man with dark brown skin and a severe jaw tightens his lips as he stares down the scope of his crossbow. “With all due respect, sir, it doesn’t look like it.”

Sir.

I stab my knife into the ground and use it as leverage to pull myself up.

“Stop moving,” Vador says to me. “Toss the knife away.”

No way. I know how this is going to go, and I’m helpless unless I get on my feet. I plant a knee and push myself up.

“Lower. Your. Weapons,” Tristan yells. He shifts, fighting against the bandages binding his hands.

A wave of pain coagulates into agony, and I groan face-first into the ground. Hot liquid drips down my side.

“You’re bleeding,” Tristan says to me. “Stay still.”

Why? So they can take me hostage? I can’t let that happen.

Tristan’s arm jerks again, and his hands appear from behind his back. He grimaces in pain as he lifts them to the leash around his neck. In seconds, he’s completely free.

I stare, confused.

One of the women expertly raises a hatchet, drawing my attention, and hopelessness threatens to drown me. I’m surrounded. Every soldier is strapped with at least a bow and a quiver of arrows, and there’s no shortage of knives and swords. On top of their matching clothing are plates of black armor, which makes them look like an old-world army.

Tristan steps in front of me. “Vador, she’s injured. She’s not a threat. And as you can see, I didn’t need your help.”

If he could have freed himself all this time, then why didn’t he run?But thinking is growing more difficult as I’m hit with another wave of pain.

Most of the soldiers lower their weapons; two of them don’t.

“We’re taking her in. Alive,” Tristan says.

“An eye for an eye,” drawls the muscular man in the middle, his arrow pointed at my chest. “This is your chance.”

My options sound like a real party: death or be taken in for torture. Very quickly, my choice is made. With a trembling hand, I ease the knife out of my lower back, which, thanks to the thick trim of my denim jacket, didn’t penetrate as deeply as it could have. Still, a white-hot iron of pain steals my breath. Pulling on every last reserve, I climb to my feet.

“Stop moving!”

“Drop your weapon!”

I stumble forward like I’m weak and disoriented, then make my move. Tristan’s body slams against my front as I wrap an arm around his neck and jerk him back. My knife goes straight for his throat. It bounces against the thundering beat of his carotid artery.

Everyone goes still. “I will not be your prisoner. I’m leaving... with him. Don’t follow us if you want him to live.” My jaw clenches. But of course they will follow. I can’t stop them. A sound of despair leaks from my throat. “And a horse,” I add. They must have them nearby. “Bring me my horse and every one of yours.”

Tristan starts to speak, but I dig the knife farther into his neck, cutting him off.

Vador ticks his head, signaling for some of the men to inch to his left. They’re trying to corner me. Time is running out.

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