"Go to Brenneth," Ralvar said. "I need to see who's at the gates."
"No." The word came out before she could think. "I'm coming with you."
"Delia—"
"If they've come for me, I need to face them." Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady.
For a moment, she thought he would argue. Saw the war in his eyes between his need to protect her and his respect for her choices.
Then he nodded once and took her hand, his grip tight enough to hurt. "But if it comes to violence, you stay behind me. Promise me that much."
"I promise."
Chapter 23
The walk to the gates was the longest of Delia's life.
Ralvar kept her hand in his, but even that anchor couldn't stop the cold spreading through her chest. Warriors fell into step around them—not escort, exactly, but presence. Solidarity. She counted six, then eight, then lost track as more orcs peeled away from their tasks to join the procession.
They're coming for me.
The thought circled like a carrion bird.
"Breathe," he said quietly, without looking at her. "You're safe."
"You don't know that."
"I know that no one takes you from here against your will." His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "Whatever waits at those gates, you face it with the Mountain Clan at your back. And me at your side."
The gates loomed ahead. Massive things, twice Ralvar's height, iron-banded wood that looked like it could withstanda siege. They stood open during daylight hours, but warriors flanked them now, hands on their weapons.
Delia's stomach lurched.
Breathe. Breathe.
She could see them now. A cluster of figures just inside the gate, surrounded by orcs who hadn't drawn weapons but hadn't relaxed their vigilance either. Human figures. Human clothes. Human—
Her step faltered.
The bearded man from the wagon. Harren. He stood near the back of the group, his weak chin hidden by his collar, his gaze darting nervously between the orcs surrounding him. Beside him, the younger guard—the one who'd called herstock, who'd laughed about how long workers lasted at the far site—looked like he might be sick.
But they weren't in charge. That much was immediately clear.
The man at the front was different. Tall for a human, though still dwarfed by the orcs around him. He wore traveling clothes of fine quality—dark wool, good boots, a cloak pinned with a silver clasp that caught the afternoon light. His face was narrow and sharp-featured, with the kind of practiced neutrality that Delia recognized from years of watching merchants and officials conduct business they'd rather not dirty their hands with.
He held a leather satchel in one hand and a rolled document in the other.
"Captain Stonefang." The man's voice carried easily across the courtyard. "I am Magistrate Corwin, representative of Castellan Vorn's holdings in the eastern territories. I've come to discuss a matter of—"
"I know why you've come." Ralvar's voice cut through the magistrate's like a blade through silk. He hadn't stopped walking, hadn't slowed, and the crowd parted before him until he stood directly in front of the human delegation. "You're here for her."
The magistrate's gaze slid past Ralvar to Delia.
"The woman you're harboring," Magistrate Corwin said, his tone perfectly pleasant, "is under legal contract to Castellan Vorn. Her departure from authorized transport constitutes breach of contract and theft of services. I'm here to retrieve her and return her to her lawful obligations."
"Lawful." Ralvar said the word like it tasted of ash.
"Quite lawful." The magistrate unrolled the document. "I have here the original contract, signed and witnessed, as well as a writ of retrieval issued by the regional magistracy of Valdara. This woman—" He consulted the paper. "Delia Harrowmere, is bound to seven years of service in repayment of debts incurred by her family. She has served none of that term. By law, she belongs to Castellan Vorn until—"
