Page 11 of The Enemy's Daughter

With a grunt, I send my knife sailing through the air faster and harder than I’ve ever thrown it. Only after it leaves my hand do I comprehend what I’ve done.

I’m about to kill a man.

He lets out a startled cry as the blade strikes him in the shoulder. He stumbles a little, then falls behind a tree.

My mouth works. I almost apologize. I’ve never struck anyone before. “I—I told you not to move.” Stepping quickly, I round the tree to keep him in my sights and ready another knife.

He glares back at me, his face murderous as he clutches his shoulder.

My relief at not killing him evaporates. “Did you think Iwouldn’t try to stop you? I know where you were going.”

Despite the knife still stuck in him, he springs to his feet.

I jump. “What are you doing? Stay down.”

He takes a small step, and his movements remind me of a bobcat, smooth and prowling, just like how he slid through the forest. Two things hit me at once: this man is younger than I thought—closer to my age—and I’m about to break my promise to Freia by being murdered.

“You haven’t stopped me,” he growls. There’s something fierce and remorseless in his eyes. It’s every story I’ve ever heard about the Kingsland come true. “You can’t stop any of us. We’re just getting started.”

What is he insinuating—that he’s not the only one who may have broken through the lines? Is this a coordinated attack? My gaze snaps to the side, looking for other assailants before returning to him. “Drop to your knees.”

He does the opposite and straightens up. He’s not as tall or brawny as Liam, but that doesn’t make him any less formidable. He’s fit and clearly strong, and based on how he moves and runs, he’s trained. A hand-to-hand fight would be a disaster, unless I could scratch his eyes out. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Weapons.

“Toss your arrows.” I scan his body, pausing on his zippered black jacket, which looks new. Traders rarely find things from the old world in this good of a condition. But then again, you can pick from the best when you raid them or sabotage their supplies before they make it to the clans. My gaze stops on his black pants with rectangular, pouch-like pockets. “And empty your pockets.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw; then, like I’m nothing more than apesky fly bothering him, he takes a step away. “I don’t have time for this.”

My arm twitches at his movement, and I launch my knife. I meant to skim the bulging pocket on his leg that I told him to empty. Scare him into obedience. But I’m nervous and my hands are sweaty. Also, my aim’s notthatgood. The knife lodges again in his shoulder, beside the other one.

He flinches in pain. “What the hellfire?” Wild eyes, the shade of spring grass, glare back at me.

I draw my last accessible knife and raise it in the air. “Empty your pockets and toss your arrows, or the next time I throw, I won’t purposely miss an organ.” My voice is shockingly clear, despite the hurricane of uncertainty inside me. I sound like Father.

Caution finally enters his narrowed eyes.

Good. “And while you’re at it, I believe I asked you to drop to your knees.” It doesn’t escape me that one pull from that strap-like quiver and I could have an arrow in my heart. I don’t know why he hasn’t tried. Perhaps the pain from the knives lodged in his shoulder is disabling him. That, or I’ve convinced him I’d throw a knife faster than he could nock an arrow.

Lowering himself to the ground with a grimace, he empties his pockets with his uninjured arm. Then peering up at me with unadulterated hatred, he slowly unclips his quiver. It drops to the ground.

“Now back up,” I say. “Until you’re against the tree.”

He pauses, then reluctantly obeys, eyes never leaving me as I one-handedly swing my backpack to the ground and retrieve the long rolls of bandage from inside.

“Hug the tree. Backward.”

His head tilts as if he’s having second thoughts. He should. I could leave him to be mauled by a wildcat or bear. Tempting—at least the tying-him-up-and-leaving-him part. Then someone who knows what they’re doing could be sent to deal with him. But with an imminent attack, there isn’t time. I exhale in a rush, adrenaline making my voice hard. “Do it so I can fix your shoulder. Unless you’d prefer to bleed out.”

Tentatively, his head turns to examine the wound. There’s an unmistakable sheen of dark liquid coating his black sleeve. It doesn’t appear to be enough to have hit an artery, but I’ll know more after I get a better look.

His movements couldn’t be more reluctant as he shimmies back against the tree behind him.

Not wasting a second, I drop to my knees and tie his hands together behind the balding pine. He grunts as I tie off the knot a little too tight.

The second he’s secured, I fall back on my heels in relief. Bleeding skies—that actually worked. I’ve never been more thankful for the sturdy fabric Mum insisted we weave ourselves to make our bandages.

After retrieving my bag from the ground, I gather a few supplies in front of me. “What’s your name?”

---