Othic stares at me, his breath huffing out in a small, surprised cloud in the cold air. I can see his mind working, the warrior's tactical brain processing what I have said.It is madness.I see the thought in his eyes.It is a suicide run. She is not a warrior. They are just human females.
He looks down at the slavers. Tars is practically asleep, slumped against the post. The other three are laughing, passing the zhisk skin, their clubs and swords resting carelessly on the ground beside them. He looks at the cage, a dark mass of fear. Then he looks at me.
I am not the terrified girl from the estate. I am not Privis's "Lady Doll." My face is hard. I am not asking. I amtelling. I am furious.
His gaze changes. The self-loathing fades, replaced by a sharp, calculating gleam. He assesses the situation: the drunk leader, the single key, his own lack of a weapon.
His plan—the mad, desperate race from Eelry—failed. It got him poisoned, disarmed, and trapped.
Now, we will try mine.
He gives me a single, sharp nod. The movement is small, but it is a promise. A new pact. He is a warrior of the Iron Tusk. He has no axe, but he has a new weapon.
Me.
17
OTHIC
Iam a coiled spring, wound so tight I feel my muscles ache with the need to act.
Below me, the barn stinks of human filth. The greasy smell of their roasted meat, the sour tang of spilled zhisk, and the sharp, acidic odor of the women’s fear all combine into an aroma that is an insult to my senses. My blood hums with its old power. My left arm, once a useless ruin, feels strong, the scar a tight, pulling reminder of Krell’s treachery. I am whole.
And I am hiding in a pile of hay.
The urge to simply drop from this loft, to feel my boots hit the earth and my hands close around a throat, is a physical, burning need. But I look at Aurora. She is a pale shadow beside me, her eyes fixed on the scene below, her face registering cold patience.
Her plan is madness. It relies on cowed, broken humans. But it is not the plan of a brute. It is the plan of a hunter. She is right. A roar and a charge will get me shot by crossbows. I hate this. This is not a charge. It is... skulking. But I will do it.
The day is a slow torture. The sun crawls, a golden dagger twisting in the dusty air. The slavers drink. Tars, the leader, isloud and stupid. The lanky one, Jax, is vicious, his laughter a wet, ugly sound. I watch them. I learn them.
My chance comes as the sun bleeds away. An older woman, her hair gray with terror, is shoved toward the well just outside the barn door. The slavers are arguing, their voices raised over the last of a zhisk skin. They are not watching.
Now.
I drop from the loft, landing in the deep shadow by the door. My bare feet make no sound on the packed earth. I am a shadow. She returns, her bucket heavy, her body shaking.
"Psst."
She freezes, her eyes going wide, her knuckles white on the bucket handle. She is about to scream.
"Do. Not. Scream." My voice is a low rumble, a blade in the quiet. "I am not your enemy."
I let her see me, the monster in the shadows.
"Tonight. When it is dark. I will open that cage." Her body is shaking so hard she spills water. "You must tell the others. When I open the cage, you do not run. Youfight."
I point to the weapon pile by the fire. "Take those. Kill them."
She just stares, her mind frozen. I growl, low and impatient. I see the terror in her eyes, but then, something else joins it. A black, bottomless rage. She nods. Just once. She runs back to the wagon.
Night falls. The barn is dark, lit only by the dying red embers of their fire. Thesoundof their snores is a wet, rattling chorus. Tars, the leader, is slumped against the wagon wheel, his mouth open. Jax is a heap of limbs by the fire, his body twitching in a drunken sleep.
I drop from the loft. This time, I do not hide. I am the predator.
My bare feet land on the packed dirt floor with no more sound than a settling bag of grain. I am Iron Tusk. I glidethrough the shadows, the smell of unwashed human male sharp in my nostrils. My heart hammers a slow, heavy drumbeat against my ribs.
I loom over Tars. His heavy, spiked club is on the ground. On his belt, glinting in the faint ember-light, is the heavy iron key ring.
