Bueren jerked her chin at the woman on her knees. “What about her? You’re not going to just leave her there, are you?”
Sir Egil shrugged. He strolled past the prisoner, kicking her absently. The dark-haired boy did the same, though kicking with more enthusiasm. Red-beard grabbed the woman by the rope binding her hands and dragged her to her feet. He shoved her ahead of him to a small table near the bar and tied her by the hobbles to the chair. His eyes were small and mean, like a pig’s, when he narrowed them meaningfully at Bueren Rose.
“She don’t get nothing, that Kagonesti bitch. No water, no food. I won her, and she bit and cut me in the fight, so now I get to say. Ain’t no one goes near her, hear?”
The younger Knight wiped his drooling mouth with the back of his hand. Kerian’s belly shivered in disgust as he turned his gaze upon her.
Bueren poked her sharply. “You. Didn’t you hear? They want food.”
Kerian stared, Bueren gave her an impatient shove toward the kitchen. “Go on. Tell my father we have customers out here. Three plates, piled high.”
Kerian nearly stumbled over Bueren’s father as she went through the swinging door into the kitchen. She knew Jale as well as his daughter—a little deaf Jale claimed to be, but he heard most of what went on in his tavern. His face slick with sweat from laboring over the steam pots, spits and baking ovens, he handed her a laden tray.
“Out with you. Go feed them before there’s trouble,” he said in a low voice.
Kerian balanced the tray on her hands and turned back to the door.
“Wait!” Jale slipped her knife out of her belt, and threw a food-stained white towel over her shoulder—in all lands, dragon-held or free, the badge of a tavern waitress.
As she had seen Bueren do many times, Kerian managed the door with her hip, kept the burdened tray level, and returned to serve in the tavern. She put a plate of food before each of the Knights. Already boisterous with drink, the Knights filled the tavern with their shouted oaths and rough curses. Kerian bore the jostling and lewd comments. She managed to keep her temper when the red-beard’s arms encircled her waist, his hands sliding swiftly up. Eyes low, she wrenched away, hoping he would think her cheeks colored with embarrassment rather than anger.
The one called Sir Egil rocked his chair back on two legs, picking his teeth with his dagger. The dark-haired young man licked his lips.
“Come here, girl.” Red-bearded Barg’s eyes grew colder.
The boy snickered, rattling dice in the pouch. Spittle glistened on his lips, and he licked it away. Sir Egil yawned.
“Don’t,” groaned the prisoner.
Kerian turned.
Barg shouted, “Shut up, you!” in the instant before an empty pewter wine pitcher hit the floor with a clanging thud.
Swift as a rabbit out of the snare, Kerian leaped to retrieve the pitcher. Her fingers closed round the handle, and Stanach held up his right hand, showing broken fingers in the firelight.
“Damn thing just fell out of my hand,” the dwarf said, snorting in disgust. He glanced at two gravy-stained napkins piled on the table. His voice louder, his tone suddenly irritated, he said, “Clear this mess off the table, will you, girl?”
Kerian picked up the napkins, nearly dropped the long-bladed knife tucked between them. With wide eyes she made what she hoped were convincing apologies for neglecting the dwarf and his companions. “If I can bring you anything else—”
Stanach just turned away as though she weren’t there. Haugh leaned across the table to say something to him about how he was tired and would be going upstairs.
Kerian didn’t hear the rest and didn’t try to. In her hands now she held a weapon, at the back of the kitchen, she knew, was a door that promised escape. In their furtive way, the dwarf and his companions had told her they were with her, whatever happened next. Pitcher in hand, knife hidden, she now passed the prisoner, the bruised Kagonesti woman. She glanced at Bueren Rose. Her friend’s eyes widened slightly.
Like petals falling from her hand, Kerian let one of the napkins drop. She bent to retrieve it, and her cheek was right beside the prisoner’s knee. “Be still. Follow.”
Kerian grabbed the prisoner by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.
“Hey!” shouted Barg.
The woman’s knees went out from under her. Kerian pulled her up again as Sir Egil cursed and the dark-haired boy howled high, like a wolf. “Hey! Barg! Get ’em!”
Steel flashed, silver glints and red, and chairs clattered, tumbling over as the Knights jumped to their feet.
Gripping the prisoner’s wrist, Kerian bolted for the side door. She sidestepped Nayla, a dog, and a startled Bueren Rose. A hand grabbed Kerian’s shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises. Barg pulled her back, a long knife in his hand. Flashing, his blade came up, ripping the sleeve of her blouse as she jerked away, scoring the flesh of her right arm.
The Knight growled low in his throat and grabbed at her again. Hard around the waist he held her, his mailed arm digging into her flesh. She smelled blood, her and his, and the crimsoned blade pressed against her throat.
Bueren screamed. Her father, entering the room, shouted, and the youngest of the Knights darted in close. “She’s mine! Give her over!”
Barg laughed. Kerian kept perfectly still. Against her throat pressed a blade with the taste of her blood still on it. In her hands, unseen and covered by gravy-stained napkins, she gripped another. Without moving, she tried to see the Kagonesti prisoner, spotted her sagging on the floor, looking worse than she had when she’d come in. Long elf eyes met, flashing. The woman had been beaten, surely worse, but she remained undaunted.
Kerian’s blood sparked. Swiftly she squirmed in the Knight’s grip, flung back and jammed her knee into his crotch.
Barg howled. In the same moment, Kerian pulled away. She grabbed the prisoner by the wrist, yanked her hard. The woman came up groaning, but she came up. On her feet, she stumbled, and Kerian pushed her toward the side door leading out to the privy.
A mailed hand dug into Kerian’s shoulder. She felt breath hot on her cheek as Barg dragged her back, a long knife in his hand.
“No!” the prisoner cried.
Kerian ducked and turned, trying to free herself. The Knight’s grip dug into her flesh.
Blood ran down her arm. Roaring her pain, Kerian leaped toward her captor, her knife suddenly alive and glinting bright sparks. She lifted, she plunged, and she saw shock turn Barg’s eyes glassy.
The steel slid softly into muscle, slipped between ribs. The blade scraped bone. Barg’s eyes went wide, and he dropped away. The tavern swelled with voices as Knights swore and cried murder.
Kerian shot for the door, hot blood on her hands, and grabbing the gaping prisoner.
Chapter Seven
The woman’s name was Ayensha, “Of Eagle Flight,” she said, gasping the information as they ran out into the yard.
Ayensha pointed up the hill. “The forest.”
Kerian cursed under her breath. In moments she was lost, blind in the night and falling over rocks. Ayensha slipped ahead of her, still groaning to breathe. Behind, the night filled with outraged shouts, with torchlight and the sound of horses stamping and bridles ringing.
“North!” cried the dark-haired boy, his voice high with skittery laughter.
“No, south!” shouted Sir Egil.
Kerian tripped. Ayensha of Eagle Flight pulled her up. Over their shoulders, down the hill, they saw torches like little red stars. Furious voices carried up the hill.
“Keep running!” Ayensha pushed Kerian ahead. “Use your hands, use your eyes.” Her voice dropped low. She pulled her torn shirt together, shivering in the chill breeze.
They ran the climbing forest in darkness. Kerian tripped over stones. Often she stumbled into trees; brush snared her, and tangling roots. Cold air stung her cuts and scratches. Her right arm stiffened, throbbing with the pain of a knife cut. Behind them and below, the lights of torches ran along the road, swift in the night. Sir Egil and his men searched south, then turned to search north.