Othic's entire body goes from a mountain of tense pleasure to a mountain of lethal, rigid stone. His hand rips from my hair.
A low, tiredwhinnyof a horse.
No.
Heshovesme, hard and fast, back into the deep hay, his hand clamping over my mouth, stifling my cry. His eyes are wild, not with passion, but with a new, cold terror. He is scrambling, his hand instinctively snapping to his back... and finding nothing.
He is unarmed. He is weak. And we are not alone.
THUD.
The barn door, the one I could barely move, is kicked open. Bright, harsh sunlight lances into the dusty darkness.
A rough, human voice drifts in. "Looks empty. Good enough. Check the barn."
15
OTHIC
Ido not move. I am a mountain of stone, buried in the dark, dusty hay.
My hand is clamped over Aurora’s mouth, stifling her gasp. Her body is a small, trembling thing, pressed behind me. Her breath is hot and wet against my palm. I am her shield. My entire body is a rigid, coiled spring.
The numiscu poison is gone. My left arm is no longer a useless slab of meat; it is whole, my strength flooding back, a familiar power humming in my blood. But I am unarmed. My axe, my soul, is gone, and I am buried in straw like a nesting rodan. This tactical situation is a disaster.
The rough, human voice from below barks again. "Check the loft, Tars. Make sure nothin' is nested up there."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rungs of the wooden ladder groan under a heavy weight. My heart hammers a slow, heavy thrum against my ribs. I hold my breath, forcing my body into absolute stillness. I am not an orc. I am a shadow. I am a part of the barn.
A greasy, bearded face appears over the edge of the loft, scanning the darkness. His smell hits me—stale zhisk, unwashedsweat, and the grease from the meat he is roasting. His eyes are dull in the single beam of sunlight lancing through the wall. He holds a long, crude spear.
"Nothin' up here but old hay," he grunts to his comrades.
He is not satisfied. He heaves himself onto the loft floor. His boots are loud on the planks. He jabs the spear into the deepest pile of hay, the one near the far wall.Shhhk.
He moves closer to us.Shhhk. The sound of the tines ripping through the dry stalks is deafeningly loud.
He jabs again, into the pile just beside us. I feel Aurora flinch as the shaft of the spear brushes her leg. My entire being tightens. I could break his neck before his next breath. But I wait.
Shhhk. The iron pointscrapesagainst the leather of my boot. I do not flinch. I do not breathe. The metal is cold, a half-inch from my flesh. I can feel the pressure of the tip, a dull, insistent push. If he shoves, it will go through the leather. If I move, we are found.
He grunts, his breath hot and sour. "See? Nothin'," he says, his voice bored. He spits into the hay, not three feet from my face. The glob of mucus lands with a wet smack. "Just rodan shit."
He climbs back down the ladder, his boots heavy and careless.
The immediate danger is gone, but the strategic one has just begun. We are prisoners in our own refuge.
We do not move. We wait. The day drags on, a slow torture measured in the shifting of the sunbeam across the floor. It is a golden dagger, creeping inch by inch over the dusty planks, an agonizingly slow clock.
The sounds from below are an insult. The crude, braying laughter. Theclinkof zhisk skins. The sound of one of them urinating against the wagon wheel. They are animals.
The stench of their fire is greasy and thick. They are roasting the suru meat we had planned to save. That smell mixes with a new one, a scent that turns my stomach. It wafts from the iron cage. The sour, acidic, animal smell of raw, unadulterated fear. It is a scent I know too well. I have been the one causing it for six months.
I watch the four slavers. They are filth. Drunk, loud, and careless with their weapons, which they leave in a pile near their fire. They are not warriors. They are parasites. I count their strengths: four of them. They have crossbows, leaning against a barrel. Black. Oiled. Ready. That is their only power.
The sun finally sets. The barn grows dark, illuminated only by the red, flickering light of their crackling fire. It casts long, grotesque shadows that dance on the walls like demons. The leader, the big, bearded one called Tars, tears a greasy strip of meat from a bone and tosses it to the dirt. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
