“Uh,” was really the only thing Orval could think to say, trying to slow his heart and his breath. He wet his lips, feeling the rough cloth against his face. “Hard to talk with a blade to my throat,” he rasped.
“Harder to talk without a throat,” one of his captors snarled.
“There seems to be a misunderstanding—” Orval started.
“No misunderstanding what we have seen with our own eyes.” A woman’s voice rang out, sharp and hard. “We seek answers, scribe, not your blood. Answer our questions and you may return to your master.”
“I’m not a scribe, well, I am but—” Orval started to explain but they tightened their hands on him and forced his arms farther back. Anger shook him, then. Bullies, all of them.
Their sweaty hands grasped his wrists, their breathing was just as ragged as his. Fear was everywhere, and that which is feared is to be harmed.
“Answer her questions,” came a hiss.
“She hasn’t asked any,” Orval snapped, letting his temper get away from him.
His arms were jerked back yet again, painfully pressing him to the pillar behind him.
“Tell us of the Lord High Baron,” came the demand. The same female voice—and there was no fear in it. “He is clearly a warrior. How many are his forces and from which direction will they come?”
“None,” Orval said. “He— I— have no forces.”
“What sort of fool comes here to claim a barony without support? Brings only his wife, his son, his babes, one handmaiden, and a scribe?” Her disdain was clear, and Orval stiffened.
“The sort of fool who comes out to talk instead of flourishing a sword.” Orval’s anger grew. People always did this, assumed that he was a nothing due to his lack of weapons.
The woman scoffed. “What kind of Lord High Baron sends a scribe to his death?”
“The kind of Lord High Baron that risks himself to seek out his watchers to ask questions.”
“What?” From the confusion in her voice, it seemed that maybe she was finally listening.
“I am the Lord High Baron of the Black Hills,” Orval sucked in sour-tasting air through the sack. “Orval of the Airion House of Xy.”
There was silence then; he could almost hear them thinking it through.
“Any movement from the gatehouse?” she asked.
“No,” a different man’s voice, from farther off.
“There won’t be,” Orval said. “They’re bolted in, safe, waiting for my return.”
Breathing. Boots on the floor.
The sack was pulled off swiftly and Orval found himself blinking into the light of a lantern. He could see nothing else but the bright glare. Then the sack was back over his head, stifling him again.
The knife edge returned to his throat, cold against his skin, the point sticking into the bottom of his jaw. Orval felt a slow trickle of something wet and warm start down his neck.
“You have the look,” the woman said slowly. “The eyes, for certain.”
“And the hair,” Orval said ruefully. “Do we still need the sack?”
The blade pressed deeper. He sucked in a breath.
“We could kill you now,” she said, “and be rid of—”
“I came out to talk, didn’t I?” Orval interrupted quickly. “So I will talk. Xyrath and Satia want you to rid them of the Airion bloodline.” He sucked in another stale breath. “They hope you kill me, my wife and children, and my aunt. End the Airion bloodline and give the Wyverns an excuse to send an army to subdue you and claim this Barony.”
“You lie,” another voice, male this time.
