His vision grew red and his head swam.
"Give him a chance to speak."
The water stopped. Cam sputtered and retched, gasping for air.
"Nothing to say? Pity." The water started once more. Cam jerked hard enough he felt his shoulder dislocate. His heart was racing and his lungs burned as if he'd swallowed coals.
Every nerve seemed to be on fire, every sense screaming for air. Ruggs punched him hard in the stomach and Cam lurched forward, taking in a full mouthful of water. He began to shake uncontrollably. The water stopped again.
"What does Donelan know?"
Cam groaned. Someone yanked the sodden gag from his mouth. "Abyss take you," he managed.
The water began again. Cam jerked against the ropes hard enough that blood started down his wrists. The shaking turned to spasms as his body fought for life. The freezing water poured over him, choking and smothering him as it filled his nose and mouth. Ruggs landed another blow to his gut and a second to his side. Cam lifted off the table straining against the ropes, enough that water filled his lungs, squeezing out air. He opened his mouth to gasp for breath and water filled it, too. This time, the water did not stop until light and darkness seemed to blend together, as if consciousness were a flickering candle. Cam's heart hammered, blood pounding in his ears.
Ruggs bent down near his ear. "Give me a number. Just a number. I'll make it stop. Tell me how many of us Donelan thinks there are."
"Four, hundred." Cam's voice was a hoarse whisper. Drops fell from the sluice and Cam flinched.
Ruggs straightened. "There. He can be reasonable." "Should I start the water again?" Cam waited to die. "Not today."
Ruggs jerked away the rags. Soldiers turned the table roughly on its side. Cam puked water and blood, violently expelling both from his nose and mouth. It was another minute until the shaking stopped. The soldiers cut him down, and Cam tumbled to the floor, falling hard on his broken leg. He lay still in a pool of vomit. Ruggs's boots came into view. "You may not be as expendable as I first thought. Funny about the water cure. After the first time, it goes much faster."
Soldiers jerked Cam to his knees, barely managing to drag him across the floor. He lost consciousness as they descended a rough stone staircase into the lower level of the mill. When he awoke, his sodden shirt was stuck to his skin and he was shivering with cold in the darkness. The floor was made of stone, and no light filtered in. The air was colder here, and the stench of pig dung heavy. Cam sucked in great gulps of air despite the stink. I broke. No matter that I lied. They broke me. And if they do it again, I won't be able to hold out.
"Good to know you're alive. It's been a while since they threw you in here," a voice said.
"Thought they tossed in a corpse."
"They nearly did." Cam's voice was rough, strange to his own ears. "Where am I?" "Near as I can tell, we're in what used to be one of the dung pools. It's a round stone room with one door that's locked." "Who are you?"
"I was unlucky enough to be squatting here when the brigands came. They threw me in here and forgot to kill me, I guess. Or perhaps they meant to let me starve. It's been two days and no food. There's a trickle of water comes down that wall-it's probably all we'll get." The voice was quiet. "Caught a glimpse of you when they threw you in here. From the way they worked you over, I'm guessing you're a bit more important than a squatter." "Just a soldier in the wrong place at the wrong time." I wasn't important before I knew their plan. Now, they can't afford to let me go. Donelan's spy in Margolan is a traitor. Kiara's in grave danger. Curane's behind it all. And I'm the only one who knows.
DAY 2
Chapter Eight
"I'm not certain I understand you, Lord Vahanian." The village elder stood. "We have lived in peace with our vayash moru neighbors for generations. Why should we fear now?" Jonmarc took a deep breath. "There's a small group of vayash moru-led by Malesh of Tremont, one of Lord Uri's brood-who have broken the Truce. They want to provoke a war. They've already destroyed Westormere and Crombey. Our best guess is that your village is next."
"How can we stand against vayash moru?" The speaker was a man a dozen years or so older than Jonmarc, a merchant by his clothing.
"The other two villages weren't prepared. They had no idea they'd be attacked. I have a force of vayash moru and vyrkin who want to defeat the rogues and preserve the Truce. They can't move until sundown-and neither can Malesh. We'll just need to defend ourselves until Lord Gabriel and the Dark Haven guard can arrive." "How is that possible?"
Laisren was right. This is crazy. I'm supposed to be the defender of vayash moru, not showing mortals how to destroy them. What choice is there? I'm also sworn to defend Dark Haven's mortals.
"You don't have to fight them. All we have to do is hold them off. At most, it will be a matter of minutes before Lord Gabriel and my guard can get here. But in those minutes, Malesh's brood could wipe out a village the size of yours-if you aren't prepared." Jonmarc paced as the council deliberated. Mead's Ferry was a tiny village, notable as a target only because it was the closest grouping of more than a few families. They were herders and farmers, with a few merchants who scratched out a living selling to the traders and travelers who passed by on the road. The sun was already low in the sky. There was barely enough time to prepare, even if the council ruled in his favor. Gabriel told me I was wasting my time. I should have slept longer, saved my strength for the battle tonight. But I had to try.
"Lord Vahanian." The village elder walked toward him. "We've reached a decision. We'll prepare as you advise."
"We don't have much time. Let's get started."
Jonmarc knew too well what kind of weapons the villagers might have. Mead's Ferry was
much like the village where he had grown up. Knives and slings, handy for hunting game, were plentiful, but of limited use against this enemy. Few men owned swords, and none were trained to use them. Bows, torches and bonfires were the only weapons sure to keep Malesh and his brood at bay, but fire posed as great a threat to the villagers as it offered protection.
The villagers set a ring of bonfires around the green in the center of the town. Inside the ring, Jonmarc and the villagers stacked as many torches and arrows as they could find. Women and children tipped the arrows with cloth or soaked new reed torches in oil. Jonmarc kept an eye on the sun. He carried a crossbow, and had a full quiver of quarrels on his back. On his left arm was a single arrow in a hand-made launcher, his close-range, last- chance weapon. "Light the fires," he ordered.
The winter evening quickly became warm as summer as the bonfires caught and blazed into light. The bonfires formed a burning fence around the perimeter of the green, quickly melting the snow. "That should keep Malesh's crew from getting in on the ground," Jonmarc said. He signaled the archers. "Watch the sky. We can't make the flames high enough to keep out the vayash moru without roasting ourselves."
From the woods came a distant cry, more chilling than a wolf and wilder than a loon. Outside the bonfires, shadows began to move. Every villager old enough to hold a bow was armed, arrows drawn, ready to shoot. In the center of the green, the children clustered, whimpering with fear. Clouds moved across the moon, but fleeting dark shapes moved more quickly, and Jonmarc brought down his arm to signal the archers. "Fire!"
Bows twanged as arrows flew. Most disappeared into the night, but one of the shadows fell, plummeting into the fire. A blazing figure stood among the flames, screaming. Flames burned away flesh and clothing like paper, and the rest seemed to melt as if made from wax. "Again!"