A crowd gathered as they dragged her away, and Arista could hear Lynnette weeping. As they reached Coswall, the patrons of the Bailey turned out to watch. The men stood on the porch, holding mugs. She heard the word witch muttered more than once as she passed by.
By the time they reached the square, she was out of breath and choking on the gag. When she lagged behind, the guard holding the leash jerked hard and she fell. Her left knee struck the cobblestone of Bingham Square and she screamed, but the sound came out as a muffled grunt. Twisting, she landed on her shoulder to avoid hitting her face. Lying on her side, Arista cried in agony from the pain shooting up her leg.
“Up!” the soldier ordered. The rope tightened on her throat, the rough cord cutting her skin. The guard growled, “Get up, you lazy ass!” He pulled harder, dragging her a few inches across the stones. The rope constricted. She heard the pounding of blood in her ears. “Up, damn you!”
She felt the rope cut into her neck. She could barely breathe. The pounding in her ears hammered like drums, pressure building.
“Bruce?” one of the guards called. “Get her up!”
“I’m trying!”
There was another tug and Arista managed to sit up, but she was light-headed now. The street tilted and wobbled. As darkness grew at the edges of her vision, it was becoming difficult to see. She tried to tell them she was choking. All that came out was a pitiful moan.
She struggled to reach her knees, but the dizziness worsened. The ground shifted and dipped. She fell, hitting her shoulder again, and rolled to her back. She looked up at the soldier holding the leash and pleaded with her eyes, but all she saw in reply was anger and disgust.
“Get up or—” He stopped. The soldier looked abruptly to his right. He appeared puzzled. He let go of the rope and took a step backward.
The cord loosened, the pounding eased, and she could breathe again. She lay in the street, her eyes closed, happy to be alive. The clang of metal and the scuffle of feet caught her attention. Arista looked up to see the would-be strangler collapse to the street beside her.
Standing an arm’s length away, the hooded man loomed with a blood-coated sword. From his belt he drew a dagger and threw it. Somewhere behind her there was a grunt and then a sound like a sack of flour hitting the ground.
The hooded man bolted past her. She heard a cry of pain. Metal struck metal, then another grunt, this one followed by a gurgling voice speaking garbled words. Another clash, another cry. She twisted around, rolling to her knees. She found him again. He stood in the center of Bingham Square, holding his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Three bodies lay on the ground. Two soldiers remained.
“Who are you?” the sergeant shouted at him. “We are imperial soldiers acting on official orders.”
The hooded man said nothing. He rushed forward, swinging his blade. He dodged to the right, and catching the sergeant’s sword high, he stabbed the man in the neck with his dagger. As he did, the remaining soldier swung at him. The hooded man cried out, then whirled in rage. He charged the last soldier, striking at him, his overwhelming fury driving the guard back.
The soldier turned and ran. The hooded man gave chase. The guard nearly made it to the end of the street before he was cleaved in the back. Once the soldier collapsed, the man continued attacking his screaming victim, stabbing him until he fell silent.
Arista sat helpless, bound in the middle of the square as the hooded man turned. With his sword and cloak dripping blood, he came for her. He pulled Arista to her feet and into a narrow alley.
He was breathing hard, sucking wetly through the scarf. No longer having the strength, physical or mental, Arista did not resist. The world was spinning and the night slipped into the unreal. She did not know what was happening or why, and she gave up trying to understand.
He dragged her into a stable and pushed her against the rough-hewn wall. A pair of horses shifted fearfully, spooked by the smell of blood. He held her tightly and brought his knife to her throat. Arista closed her eyes and held her breath. She felt the cold steel press against her skin as he drew it, cutting the cord away. He spun her around, cut her wrists loose, and then the cord holding the gag fell free.
“Follow me, quickly,” he whispered, pulling her along by the hand. Confused, she staggered after him. Something was familiar in that voice.