Page 82 of Queen of War and Ruin

Panic burns in my chest. I roll forward, onto my knees, and then lurch to my feet. The room sways; for a heartbeat, I think I’m about to pitch over. I brace myself against the wall, gasping as little flashes of white light swim around my head.

And then I force myself through the door.

We’re in the courtyard of what looks like a small inn. I catch glimpses of trees, blue sky, a large building with a thatched roof. Vsenrog soldiers are everywhere, all watching me stagger drunkenly after the elf’s fluttering black cape.

He leads me to a row of wagons, then pulls off the heavy canvas covering the last one. His long fingers tap the rough wood of the wagon impatiently as I drag myself forward. Finally, gasping and panting, I reach the wagon.

There are so many ropes inside that it takes me a moment to recognize the human body beneath them.

My eyes sting. I bring my hand up to cover my mouth as my eyes trace Zarek’s neck, the curve of his chin, the way his hair falls across the rough planks of the wagon’s floor.

“W-Why is he tied up?” I manage to whisper.

“Because he’s dangerous,” the elf replies. “Now, go back into that barn and eat. Or I’ll cut something off of him.”

My mouth falls open as I stare at the elf.

“An ear,” he suggests, with a smile. “Or maybe a finger. Maybe his tongue.”

I stagger backward, my hands raised in front of my chest. Like I’m surrendering.

It’s only after I’ve drained the waterskin and forced down the stale loaf of bread that I begin to cry.

Chapter 43

Lilias

YOUR STOP

My eyes blink open in the gloom. I hold my breath, listening.

Varitan, the elf, usually speaks the moment I open my eyes. Then he’ll threaten Zarek and leave, letting me attend to the needs of my weak human body for a few moments before he touches me and knocks me unconscious again.

But all I hear now is the rustling of heavy cloth and a few murmured voices. A lamp swings over me. I wince at the sudden flood of light.

“Get up,” someone growls.

That’s a man’s voice. A human man. Not Varitan. My eyes adjust slowly, trying to make sense of the jumble of images in front of me. Lamplight against heavy canvas. Rough wood beneath my hands. It feels like I’m in some sort of box. There’s a tired snort, and the box rocks.

I’m in a wagon. I inhale, sharp and sudden, and then turn to my side. There’s a tangle of rope pressed against the wood.

And, in the middle of the ropes, there’s Zarek.

His eyes are closed, and he looks pale in the dim, filtered light. I reach for him before I can stop myself, brushing my numb fingers against his cheek and lips.

He’s breathing. I exhale slowly, letting go of a fear I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

There’s a sharp crack, and the wagon lurches to the side. A horse snorts, offended by the strange sound.

“Get up!” the man shouts.

I grab the side of the wagon and pull myself up, blinking at the harsh glare of the lamp. We’re in a city of some sort, surrounded by white stone buildings. Their windows are dark; it must be very late, or very early. I glance back over my shoulder at Zarek’s motionless body. He would probably know where we are.

A hand closes over my arm, and a tired-looking soldier wearing the blue and scarlet of Vsenrog pulls me toward the back of the wagon. I’ve seen him before, occasionally, when Varitan wakes me.

“Where are we?” I whisper, not really expecting an answer. “What’s going on?”

The man grunts, then pulls a board off the back of the wagon.