Page 6 of Prize of the Warlord
“And that’s… worse?”
He scoffs, lip curling.
Then he stalks a few feet away and turns slightly. I can still see him in profile as he unlaces his trousers, pulls out his dick, and begins to urinate on the salt.
I whip my head away, embarrassed. Some of the raiders are relieving themselves openly as well—and I realize not all the warriors are men, after all. A handful of them are women. One squats and pisses skillfully and carelessly, as unafraid to show her parts as the men are.
She pulls her pants back into place and eyes me. From beneath her fur cap, several long blond braids drape her shoulders. As she stalks nearer, I notice bits of something hard and white woven into the braids. Are those—tiny bones?
“I am Zeha,” she says.
“Ixiana,” I reply. “But you knew that.”
She nods. “I will be a wall for you, if you like.” She spreads her cloak out like a shield.
I almost thank her, because it’s a kindness I’m grateful for—but then I bite my tongue because she aided in the attack on my family’s stronghold. She has attacked my people, probably killed some of them. She has stolen things from my father’s land. And she’s kidnapping me.
I don’t owe her any gratitude.
I’m weaker than I was last night, and taking care of my business is a little messier. When I’m done, Zeha walks away without another word. I crawl a little way from the spot and collapse, my mind a fevered blur of agony.
This is a nightmare. How I wish it was a nightmare. Stolen from my home, wearing nothing but a nightdress, when normally I would never venture out of my room without a thick padded dressing gown over my nightclothes—and I’d never go beyond the fortress walls without a fine gown and multiple layers beneath it. I’m used to taking care of bodily needs in a privy stocked with delicious-smelling herbal soap. I’ve never been pressed against a man I don’t know.
And now—I’m nearly naked, my scanty garment hitched up to my thighs, freezing and burning by turns while I lie in the salt a scant few paces from my own piss. My hair is a tangled mess, and I hurt everywhere.
If there’s one good thing about the fever and pain, it’s that I haven’t been able to truly panic about my fate. I just want to feel better. I crave the physical comfort I’m used to with all the power of my being, and Ihate, hate, hatethe man who has taken me away from everything safe and delightful.
Zeha returns and holds out something to me—a dry, grainy, bready sort of thing, studded with wrinkled fruit.
I almost retch at the bare sight of it. “No,” I wheeze.
Squinting, she presses a wrist to my forehead. Abruptly she stands and calls, “Cronan!”
Deep-Voice strides over.
“Your prize is sick,” Zeha says. “Feverish, and I don’t like the sound of her breathing. Is she injured anywhere?”
“She spoke of some—chafing.” He practically seethes the words while glowering at me, as if he despises every bit of my weakness. “What in the gods-rutting pit is wrong with this girl? I’ve never seen such a flimsy scrap of flesh. They’re not going to want her back—she’s worthless. We should have taken the older one.”
“We couldn’t get to the older one,” Zeha says calmly. “Not without great loss of our people.”
“I’m not worthless,” I whisper.
Cronan sinks into a crouch beside me. “Tell me your value.”
His face blurs before my eyes, and when I try to speak, only a ragged exhale comes out.
“As I thought.” He rises and speaks to Zeha. “We’ll wait here until the others catch up. I want to know if there were casualties from the diversion attack.”
My thoughts swirl, trying to assemble reasons why I’m of value, why I’m worth anything to anyone except my family. Maybe I’m not even worth much to them. Maybe they only love me because they have to.
Maybe they won’t want me back.
8
I can feel myself sinking, dropping into the infinite azure, spine curved and limbs relaxed, drifting slowly away from the light into a darker, more desolate place that is a colder, deeper blue.
I think I might be dying.
