The hostages cried out in collective shouts and gasps of panic laced with horror.
Gage tilted his head, listening as the men gurgled and choked on the blood flooding their throats.
He stayed low, moving toward the sound of sizzling fluids, and the putrid stench of defecation tinged with something sharper, chemical.
A few seconds later, solemn realization hit him in his gut.
Zorion’s arsenic-dipped arrows.
Their insides were boiling, making the death that much more excruciating and torturous.
He extended his cane’s tip toward the nearest body. The arrow’s shaft protruding from his stomach still vibrated from the man’s dying spasms.
He turned their backs to them and walked away. They brought wrath down on themselves.
He reduced his cane and tucked it away before he slowly approached the hostages with his hands raised in a sign of peace.
“You’re gonna’ be okay. We’ll protect you.”
The hostages let out choked sobs and whimpers of relief as he began to cut at their bindings.
Once they were free, Gage clicked on his comms. “Hostages secured.”
Zorion dropped from the trees, the sound of his flight suit catching air and carrying him in a controlled glide toward the village, where he landed on a roof a few yards away.
A moment later, footsteps thundered across the wooden slats above him. He thought it was Zorion until a body tumbled off the roof, hit the ground hard, and rolled.
Too sloppy to be a Raven.
Gage stood and drew his cane out until one of the hostages grabbed his arm.
“No, not him.” He spoke boldly as if he were the one charge, maybe an elder. “Wait, he’s not like the others. He’s only fifteen and was forced to do this. His father beat him several times for sneaking us water.”
“My father is dead.” The kid said it with disdain, as if he wanted to attach the word “finally” to the end.
“What’s your name,” Gage asked as he drew closer.
He could tell the kid was tall, but underweight, by the way his breaths hit his forehead, and the sound of his light gait.
“Ben,” he answered, still looking scared.
“Your name,” Gage stressed.
“Ben J. Fischer.”
“Toss your weapon, Ben, get behind me, and stay down,” Gage said. “My brothers are not finished.”
“Who are you?” the elder asked.
There was only one name Gage could think of giving them.
“We’re the help you prayed for.”
“God bless you,” a woman whispered behind him.
He could tell by the way she talked that her lip was split badly.
He tore a piece of cloth from his coat, knelt, and touched it gently to her mouth.
