Stinging pain seared his eyelid, a trickle of blood running down to pool in the corner of his eye, but Keris kept still. Silent. For though he’d cursed his eyes most of his life, he had no interest in losing
“Zarrah’s fate is not the concern of Cardiff,” Bermin answered. “Whereas the contents of your hold one of them.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” Aren said. “They are taught to speak of what they see with no regard for whether anyone cares to listen. Ignore their prattling and let us carry on with inspections of our hold and passenger berths.”
“I’ve no interest in your cursed hold, Cardiffian,” Bermin snarled. “Get your rudder fixed and remove yourself from these waters, else find you and yours beneath them.”
Without another word, Bermin strode toward the ladder, his soldiers following on his heels.
Beneath the edge of his mask, Keris watched the wheels turning in his sister’s eyes, her lips parting
Bermin’s whole body went stiff, the flush on his brown cheeks draining, everyone present seeming to hold their breath.
Then, in a burst of motion, Bermin released his soldier and whirled, his boot flying out. Keris could’ve dodged it, but instead he took the blow in the stomach. The impact slammed him backward against the wall. Bermin was on him a heartbeat later, the tip of his knife puncturing the blindfold over Keris’s right eye. “Perhaps it is better you see nothing at all, you pagan piece of shit,” Bermin whispered, his breath hot.
Stinging pain seared his eyelid, a trickle of blood running down to pool in the corner of his eye, but Keris kept still. Silent. For though he’d cursed his eyes most of his life, he had no interest in losing one of them.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” Aren said. “They are taught to speak of what they see with no regard for whether anyone cares to listen. Ignore their prattling and let us carry on with inspections of our hold and passenger berths.”
“I’ve no interest in your cursed hold, Cardiffian,” Bermin snarled. “Get your rudder fixed and remove yourself from these waters, else find you and yours beneath them.”
Without another word, Bermin strode toward the ladder, his soldiers following on his heels.
THEY MOVED RIGHT after dusk, a small force of twelve split into groups of three. Zarrah was with Saam and Daria. Her only weapons were a spear with a sharpened wooden point and a
knife formed of scrap metal that Daria had given her, but Zarrah felt no fear as they crawled on their bellies across the clear-cut at the top of the island, keeping low in the shadows as they slipped between gaps in the rocks that formed the border of the two tribes.
Silence was critical, for if the scouts spotted them and signaled, this would all be for nothing. But Zarrah had spent the last weeks hunting to sustain herself, honing her already practiced skills, and she made not a whisper of sound as she edged over the dead grass.
Daria’s hand brushed hers, and Zarrah caught sight of the first scout, nothing more than a shadow in a tree. They gave him a wide berth, not rising to their feet until they were well out of his line of sight, moving quietly down the treed slope in the direction of the beach and Kian’s camp.
If past behavior held, there’d be three sets of two guards walking patrol in the second layer, all heavily armed and strong fighters. And they needed to take them down without alerting any of the others that something was amiss. Possible with well-trained archers with well-crafted bows, but all
they had was a bow made from the wrong sort of wood and hair from a woman in the tribe who kept it long specifically for this purpose. To go with it, there were only three arrows that had been shot at them by angry guards, which meant the majority of the kills would need to be made at close quarters.
Using her hands suited Zarrah just fine, which was why she’d only shrugged when one of the other groups had claimed the bow.
Her fingers curled and uncurled around the haft of her spear, her breath making clouds in the cold night air. Tiny flakes of snow fell, and at any other point in time, she’d have stopped to catch them on her tongue.
But not tonight.
A belch broke the silence, and Zarrah froze, Daria and Saam doing the same. Her eyes skipped from tree to tree, searching for movement in the shadows, triumph filling her as she spotted two forms moving down a narrow path.
She waited for them to pass, then began her stalk. Already they’d agreed that she and Daria would go for the kills, Saam assisting as required. Daria held the short sword she favored, and she gestured at the one to the left. Zarrah nodded, silently agreeing to take the one to the right.
Daria took three quick steps, then one heavy one.
The men heard and whirled, the one on the left exposing his throat to Daria’s already slashing blade. Blood sprayed. The man on the right stumbled back, opening his mouth to shout a warning, but Zarrah lunged, the point of her spear punching through his throat. He gurgled, grabbing hold of the haft and jerking it from her grip.
He wrenched it from his throat, turning it around to slash at her, but Zarrah only backed out of range, watching as he choked to death on his own blood.
“So far, so good,” Saam said. “Let’s get what we came for.”
While Saam kept a lookout, she and Daria stripped the men of swords and knives, as well as the rations of food they found in their pockets. “I’m feeling the fool for not having tried this before,”
Daria muttered. “But we were so focused on food that—”
A scream split the night. Whether it was one of their warriors or one of Kian’s mattered little, for moments later, horns blared.
“Shit,” Saam hissed. “Time for us to go.”
Weapons were shoved into belts and food into pockets, and then they were on the move, eyes peeled for the scouts who’d be retreating to join their fellows.
Saam caught sight of the scout first and dropped low. Zarrah followed his lead, marking the figure, who moved oddly—as though he were skipping or limping. Easier to allow him to pass, but this was knife formed of scrap metal that Daria had given her, but Zarrah felt no fear as they crawled on her plan, and Zarrah needed to see it through to success. Moving in a crouch, she lifted her spear into position to throw, only for Daria to gasp, “Zarrah, no! It’s—”
Her feet went out from under her, only training keeping her from screaming as her body was inverted.
Zarrah had spent the last weeks hunting to sustain herself, honing her already practiced skills, and she A trap.
She’d stepped into a fucking trap and was now dangling high above Sam and Daria, the blades Daria’s hand brushed hers, and Zarrah caught sight of the first scout, nothing more than a shadow in she’d collected having slipped from her belt to fall in a pile beneath her.
“Flay,” Daria said, completing her warning.
Zarrah’s heart chilled at the name of one of the most notorious mass killers ever condemned to Devil’s Island.
Yet Daria seemed more angry than afraid as she demanded, “Where are you, you sick little piece of shit?”
A giggle sounded from nearby, but Zarrah couldn’t see the murderer anywhere.
“Kian’s coming with reinforcements,” Saam said. “We need to get her down.”
“I’ve a knife in my boot,” Zarrah answered. “I’ll cut myself down.”
“And break your neck when you fall.” Daria made an aggrieved noise. “Saam, climb the tree and untie the rope.”
The rebel worked his way into the tree while Daria watched for Kian’s tribe. There was no
mistaking the noise of dozens of warriors racing up the hill, believing themselves repelling an incursion. If they were caught, they were dead.
Saam cursed as he made his way up the pine tree, the dense branches hindering him as he searched for where Flay had fastened the trap.
from tree to tree, searching for movement in the shadows, triumph filling her as she spotted two forms There was no time for this. She’d have to risk the fall.
Dropping her spear, Zarrah heaved herself up so that she could reach her boot, pulling free the small blade. She caught hold of the rope around her ankles, then immediately let go. “What the fuck is this rope made of?”