Liam had never forgotten those words. They had been burned into his permanent memory, and since that day, he'd never laid a finger on the old man.
Until now.
Liam caught sight of a broken pickaxe leaning against the wall of the shed, and he made a lunge for it. Douglas saw him move, and swung down with his powerful fist. But Liam was too fast, and he spun away, grabbing the pick and avoiding the blow as he sidestepped the slower, burly old man.
The move had saved Liam from a painful sock in the gut, but it had humiliated his father, adding insult to injury.
Douglas's face was now red, and he sneered at his son, his tremendous frame heaving with exertion as it blocked the path to the open door. "You're gonna get it, boy."
Liam lifted the broken tool.
"What's going on in here?" Samira appeared in the doorway. Her face was obscured by the sunlight behind her. Liam could only see the silhouette of her hand placed firmly on her slim hip. Her hair was tied on top of her head, exposing the long smooth curve of her neck, backlit by the sun's rays.
"Oof." Liam staggered back, slamming into the wall as his father's fist collided with his chin. He slid down the wall to the ground.
"Stop it!" shouted Samira. "Stop it right now." She pushed past Douglas to get to Liam's side.
"This doesn't concern you," said the old man, rubbing his knuckles.
Samira bent down and touched Liam's cheek. "You're bleeding."
Liam put his hand to his face. His father's punch had split his parched lip.
Douglas shuffled his feet. "Leave the little sissy be. He got what he deserves."
Samira spun on the old man. "Don't you have work to do?" she said. "You've done enough here already."
"Bah." Douglas sneered at Liam then turned and walked out the door. The opening no longer blocked, the sun beamed in from outside.
Liam pushed himself up on one arm and started to get up off the ground.
Samira grabbed him by the shoulder and helped him up. "Oh, be careful."
"I'm fine. I'm fine." He waved her off as he got to his feet. "I had it coming."
"What happened?" She tore off a piece of her skirt and dabbed at the blood on his face. "And what was all that with Captain Beetlestone?"
Liam touched his chin. It was sore and probably would be for a while. "That discussion is what got me this fat lip."
"Ah," Samira nodded. "A little fatherly advice."
Liam smirked. Ryder had started courting Samira when they were still just teenagers, but she had known their family for much longer. Though she had been kind and friendly toward Douglas, Liam had always thought she disapproved of the way he related to the rest of the family.
The doorway went dark again. "Liam of Duhlnarim," came a voice. Three men shuffled into the shed. All of them wore hardened leather armor, and each of them carried a long sword. "You have some explaining to do."
The speaker stepped forward, out of the backlit doorway and into the shadows where Liam could see him. He was tall with long black hair tied back in a ponytail. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale, making his face look sickly in the strange light of the shack.
"Montauk!" said Liam, recognizing immediately one of his fellow Crimson Awl. "You've heard about Ryder, then?"
Montauk nodded. "Yes, I did. And I also heard about your little visit with Lord Purdun. Seems you've gone over to the other side."
Liam raised his hands. "No. You don't understand. I turned him down. I told him to go to hell."
Montauk shrugged. "Tell it to the Council."
The two men flanking Montauk stepped forward and grabbed Liam by the arms.
Liam shook them off, shoving both away. "Let go."
Montauk pulled his sword.
Liam froze at the sound of the grinding metal. Samira's hand tightened around his arm.
"Don't make this any harder than it needs to be," said Montauk. "Come with us peacefully, and you'll get to tell your story."
Liam looked at the two men, then at Montauk. Until just a few moments ago, he had thought they were on his side. "Do I have a choice?"
Montauk shook his head.
"Then lead the way." Liam touched Samira's hand, then let himself be taken from the shack out into the afternoon sun.
Chapter 7
"I'll kill you-" Ryder woke up with a start. The nightmare of his failed ambush played over in his head, a persistent dream for nearly a month.
"Shh," said the bald man to his right. "You'll wake the taskmaster."
The realities of Ryder's situation came rushing back to him. It was very early morning. The sky had just begun to lighten, but the sun had yet to come up over the rise. He sat up straight and peered over the men in front of him. A few yards ahead of the chain gang, the taskmaster was hunched over his drums, still dead asleep.
They had stopped for the night, now over two tendays outside of Duhlnarim. The guards had made camp in a shallow valley, chaining the prisoners to a large oak tree. Ryder could see their fire about a hundred paces away. At least two of the guards were awake. He could hear their voices intermingling with the crackling of the fire.
Ryder lifted his hand to cradle his sore neck, but the chains connecting him to the bald man didn't reach that far. He was stiff, and his whole body hurt from sleeping on the hard-packed dirt.
"What'd they get you for?" whispered the bald man.
Ryder stopped moving. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
The bald man shook his head. "I wasn't asleep." He lifted his arm, putting some slack in the chain.
Ryder smiled. "Thanks." Then he reached back to rub the sore muscles in his neck.
"So," repeated the bald man, "what'd they get you for?"
Ryder shrugged. "I'm not sure. Conspiracy, I guess."
"Conspiracy? What, the baron caught you thinking impure thoughts?"
"That and ambushing one of his carriages."
The bald man smirked. "Sounds more like thievery to me."
"I guess you could look at it that way. But we weren't just stealing, we were trying to intercept a message from Lord Purdun."
The bald man raised an eyebrow. "A message? You don't approve of the baron's correspondences?"
Ryder nodded. "Well, to some extent, yes. This message was a letter of treaty bound for another barony. If it had gotten there, it would have meant more hardship for the folks of Duhlnarim and more trouble for the Crimson Awl."
The bald man's eyes narrowed. "A revolutionary, huh? Not much of a criminal then, are you?"
"Not really," admitted Ryder. "Does that lower your opinion of me?"
The man smiled, exposing a pair of golden front teeth.
"Anyone who puts a thorn in Purdun's ass is all right by me." The man offered Ryder his hand. "The name's Nazeem."
"Ryder." He shook the offered hand. "And what's your story?"
"Smuggling," said Nazeem. "Seems Purdun doesn't like the idea of anything coming into his barony without him getting his fair share of tax."
"Sounds about right-" Ryder froze, his comments cut short at the sound of the taskmaster snorting and rolling onto his side.
The large greasy man sat up and wiped a meaty palm across his face. Then, with a huge yawn and a stretch he got to his feet and began counting the prisoners. Ryder glanced once more at Nazeem, as if to say "we'll continue this later." He avoided eye contact with the taskmaster as the man's sausage-sized finger pointed to him, counting Ryder as number twenty-five.