“Given the strain and the danger that this bilge rat girl has put you through, there is only one reward that is appropriate under the circumstances.” His tone has changed and my smile fades away. I’ve seen that look on his face before, malicious and absolute, full of hard lines and blazing eyes.
“You, Lieutenant Jones, shall carry out the punishment on the prisoner.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sadie
Gard’s asleep when we bring the prisoners, but snaps awake in an instant when we rouse him. In the scant light, the dark parts of his eyes are huge, just thin circles of white surrounding them.
He orders us to take the prisoners to an empty, rarely used tent. The prison tent. During a few of the battles with the Soakers growing up, one or two of the enemy would be captured, rather than killed. According to Mother, it wasn’t our first preference, but it still happened.
We used to hear their cries light up the night as they were tortured for information on the Soakers’ future plans.
We push the prisoners inside the empty tent, their arms tied tightly behind them. We’ve lashed their feet together, too, so they can only take small half-steps. For good measure they’re tethered to each other. If they try to escape they’ll be dead in an instant.
The inside of the tent is bare, save for a thick pole running up the middle, connecting with thinner poles that arc down the sides and provide the enclosure’s structure. The center pole will be the prisoners’ home while in the camp. While another Rider and I hold a sword to each of their throats, two other Riders cinch them to the pole. They’re still tied to each other. They don’t complain, just stare at us. The one calling himself Feve meets my narrow eyes with a glare, while Dazz’s, the pale-skinned one from ice country, eyes are softer, more curious.
Gard storms in, Remy in tow.
Although the war leader’s giant form has to be intimidating to the two foreigners, they don’t show it, just watch him with what appears to be a mix of anger and interest.
I meet Remy’s eyes. Well done, he mouths. I respond with a nod.
While we stand at attention and watch, Gard paces back and forth in front of the prisoners, his boots stomping the dirt floor, his black robe swirling around his feet, making him appear even larger.
The one called Feve—who I can see, in the light of the torches planted inside the tent, has strange dark markings curling from inside his shirt and around his neck—furrows his brows deeper with each of Gard’s stomps. Dazz’s hands are clenched tightly in his lap, his knuckles white and blotched with red. Why have they come? They look poised to fight, but if that were the case, why would they surrender themselves?
Stopping suddenly, Gard says, “You killed two of our guards.” His thick brows are like caterpillars over his eyes, casting them in shadow.
“They tried to kill us first,” Feve says.
“You snuck up on them.”
Dazz shakes his head. “Maybe we should’ve done things somewhat differently, but we approached directly. We never raised our weapons.” Right away, I notice a significant contrast in the way these two speak. Feve’s words are rounder, everything slightly longer. Dazz’s speech is tighter and sharper.
“So you don’t deny it?” Gard says.
“Deny that we defended ourselves?” Feve says, mockery in his tone. “Oh no, we did that all right. Pretty searin’ well, I’d say.” A question pops into my mind: Could one of these men have killed my mother? A slash of anger scathes across my chest.
Echoing my temper, Gard moves forward, surprisingly quick for such a large man, and clamps his meaty fist around Feve’s neck, lifting him from the floor. Because they’re connected, one of Dazz’s arms gets pulled up the pole to follow Feve.
The Marked one’s face turns red as he chokes, but he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to stop Gard from killing him.
Ten heartbeats pass. Twenty. Feve’s skin is sky-red.
Thirty heartbeats. Gard throws him to the floor where he grabs at his throat, wheezing, coughing, and finally hocking a clump of spit in the dirt.
Gard waits patiently while he composes himself. “Did you both participate in the killing?” he asks once Feve is sitting up again. Did you kill my mother? I want to ask.
“Just me,” Feve says. “I’m sure Dazz here would’ve, but I was too quick. I killed them both before he could even draw his…fists.”
When Dazz fires a glare in Feve’s direction, Feve smirks, the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile from either of them.
“There is only one punishment for murder in our country,” Gard says. “Death.”
“You kill him and you’ll have to kill me too,” Dazz says, his voice filled with tiny daggers.
Feve’s head turns toward his companion, and I swear I see a look of surprise flash across his face.
“Gladly,” I mutter under my breath, but nobody hears me.
“Now why would you say that?” Gard asks.
“Because he’s my brother.” Feve’s eyes widen and there’s no doubt this time that he’s as shocked as the rest of us. Silence fills the tent, expanding from the prisoners at the center and pushing outward in waves until I swear the tent is bulging with it.
They sure don’t look like brothers, I think. Clearly, Gard is surprised by the statement too, his eyes flicking from Feve to Dazz with narrow eyebrows.
“You don’t look like brothers,” he says.
“Well, we’re just the same.”
“As much as I’d like to kill you both,” Gard says, “our law only requires the death of he who committed the crime. But I’ll gladly let you watch.”
“Now hold on just one minute,” Dazz says, his voice rising. “Your men attacked us. We did nothing wrong.”
“You trespassed on our lands and killed two men. Someone must pay.”
Dazz cringes. Feve says, “What if I were to tell you that we have you surrounded by a hundred men, pointers nocked and ready to fly at the first sign of our lives being in danger?”
I gasp and hold it, picturing men, some brown, some pale, creeping through the forest, weapons in hand. We’ve always feared our enemies on the sea, but what if we should’ve been focused in the other direction?
As the need to breathe again grows stronger, there’s a commotion outside the tent. “Touch me agin and I’ll smack that grin right offa yer face quicker’n you can say prickler casserole!” a high-pitched voice shouts. It’s round and long, similar to Feve’s, but different still, more raw and pronounced.
The tent flap flutters and a brown-skinned face appears, wearing a scowl deeper than a well. A girl’s face.
There’s a guard on either side, forcing her to walk in a straight line as she does everything in her power to wrench away from them, despite how skinny she is. She only stops when she sees our other prisoners. “Uh, oops,” she says.
“What happened?” Dazz says, his mouth hanging open. Next to him, Feve rolls his eyes.
“We kinda sorta mighta got caught,” she says.
Behind her, another brown-skinned girl is pushed inside. She looks older, her jaw hardened, her frame slightly larger, her muscles more defined. Other than that, they could be sisters. “We’re ’ere to rescue the lot of you,” she announces, bashing a shoulder into the guard on her left side, who flinches, pain flashing across his face.
I gawk at the two girls, blinking hard in wonder. Because…they remind me so much of myself, except…brasher, less polished. Tough but a little unpredictable. More mouthy for sure.
But that’s not the end of it. Two more souls stumble inside, flanked by at least five more guards. There’s another guy who must be from ice country, his skin every bit as white as Dazz’s. He’s thicker and shorter than Dazz, but softer, like the difference between an apple and peach, and wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, so out of place for the situation.
The fourth new prisoner is another brown-skinned guy, but with no markings. His demeanor breathes calmness and control, his face unreadable, his steps sure and unforced despite the sword at his back.