Page 9 of Prize of the Warlord
“A camp.”
“Do your people have towns?”
“Settlements further north. Lodges that can be dismantled and moved elsewhere.” He’s eyeing my too-small breasts now, and he leans in a little closer. Instinctively my body responds, a barely perceptible arch of my spine, a slight sway toward him.
Instantly his grasp tightens, and there’s a scintillating, terrifying moment where I think he might put his mouth on my breast—but instead he throws me backward, onto the blankets. “I’ll send food for you. And clothes.”
I claw one of the blankets over myself. “My betrothed thinks I’m beautiful,” I throw at him.
“Ha.” And with that single caustic laugh, he stalks out.
10
A bony dark-skinned girl with delicate white glyphs painted across her brow enters the tent soon after, carrying a tray, with some clothes draped over one arm. Her arms and legs are covered in furs, with leather straps banding her wrists, forearms, and elbows. Her leggings are soft dark leather, tooled with symbols like the ones on her forehead. Her curly black hair is banded at intervals and knotted with bone, like Zeha’s braids.
“Why do you wear bones in your hair?” I ask.
“To keep thejäkelaway,” she answers. ”If they smell death on you, they will not come for you. They prefer fresh things, live things. See, the Warlord gave me some bones for you as well.” She plunges a hand into her pocket and brings it out filled with tiny bone fragments.
I wince. ”No thank you.”
“If you do not wear the bones, thejäkelwill take you.”
“The Warlord doesn’t wear the bones.” I don’t remember seeing any such bits in his long blond hair.
“He does wear them, underneath.” She reaches behind her ear, to the nape of her neck. “We all do.”
I’m guessing thejäkelare some type of evil spirit, and probably not real, but I nod my assent. Wrapped in the blanket, I let the girl comb out my gnarled waist-length locks while I nibble tentatively at the food she brought. “Is there milk in this?” I ask, touching the bowl of creamy soup.
“Musk ox milk,” she says.
“I can’t eat it. It will make me sick.”
She giggles. ”The Warlord said you were difficult.”
“This isn’t me being difficult. My body can only handle milk in little bits, like in baked goods. Isn’t there anything else to eat?”
“Not right now,” she says. “But when you are dressed and your hair is done, you can ask the Warlord for something else.” Another stifled giggle, as if she’s anticipating the scene that will cause.
I manage to eat some bread and dried fruit, and I pluck chunks of vegetables and potato out of the soup, but I don’t drink the broth.
When the girl is done, my hair has been elaborately looped and braided, with bits of bone knotted here and there. There is no mirror, but I pat the coiffure gingerly. I must look a far cry from my usual self. And the difference between captive Ixiana and free Ixiana only widens once I’m dressed in thick red wool and gray furs and soft brown skins. A corset of stiff leather, glossy as acorns, secures my waist and ribs. Scarlet wool and silky gray fur layer my shoulders, and fur-lined boots encase my feet.
I hate that I look like one ofthem, but I’m finally warm and fed and comfortable, and thanks to the healer, I feel stronger than I have in a long time. I know the effect is temporary—my parents have hired healers for me before, and while they can remedy fevers and repair flesh wounds, they cannot reach deep enough inside me to permanently repair my body.
For now, though, I feel good. Which means I need to steal a horse and escape, before my health wanes again.
When the girl leaves with my dishes, I hold aside the tent flap for her and use that opportunity to scope out my surroundings. I can see a few other tents, two fires, and a makeshift shelter under which three burly horses stamp and snuffle, their breath steaming into the cold.
My heart sinks as I realize we aren’t in the Bloodsalt anymore. We’re in a forest, populated by a few birch trees and some other trees, black ones threaded by red veins. The leaves overhead are skeletal, translucent and colorless, with webbed veins of scarlet just like the trunks. Overhead, the sky is the darkening gray of late afternoon, lanced with pink streaks from the setting sun.
No one is guarding my tent. They probably think I’m too weak and foolish to escape.
I ease out through the opening and shuffle along the outside of the tent. I look like one of them. All I have to do is pretend I belong, that I’m supposed to be walking around the camp.
The raiders are enjoying their evening meal. They cluster around the fires, talking and belching and slurping soup. There seems to be a handful of additional warriors, probably from the diversion group the Warlord mentioned. They must have caught up to the dozen ruffians I was traveling with.
I don’t see the Warlord anywhere.
