Shattered Throne (Book 1 of The Shattered Throne Series)

by Cate Dean

  “Damn it. We need to check the cages again. Quickly, before the slaves are moved.”

  He ran outside, Xander on his heels. And nearly slammed into a handful of slavers.

  “No civilians past this point.” The scarred, muscle bound slaver closest to Damian lifted his whip. “Sales are done for the day.”

  “We were looking for a particular type of slave, and I was told there would be one on sale. A Westerner.”

  The slaver’s thick eyebrows lifted so high they disappeared under his hair. “We sell Westerners for two reason around here—digging up rock, or as pleasure slaves. Missed your chance there, Delta.” He leered, and Damian used every bit of control he had to keep from punching the bastard.

  Xander laid a hand on his arm. After a few deep breaths, Damian nodded, and turned away from the cages.

  “This way,” he said, his voice low enough for only Xander to hear. “There has to be another way in, not visible to bidders, where they lead in the slaves.”

  They skirted around the building, and found the back entrance—along with a row of empty cages.

  “Damn it.” Damian kept cursing, in every language he knew, as he stalked the length of the cages. There was no sign, no hint that Liam had even been here. His head pounded, the pain fierce and harder to ignore with every passing moment. He spun, and almost ran into Xander. “Why are you standing here? We need to find—”

  “While you were expanding my vocabulary, I was busy checking each cage. There’s nothing, Damian. If he was here, he’s long gone.”

  Damian closed his eyes, pushed the ugly scenarios out of his head. “We keep looking. If we find nothing by tomorrow, we will head for the quarry. It is the only other place he would have been taken.”

  And if he was there, they had little chance of freeing him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Damian and Xander searched all night, meeting every couple of hours to exchange information.

  When the sun lightened the horizon, Damian finally admitted defeat.

  Head bowed, he stood outside the small building that served as the local public house, his head pounding from exhaustion and pain, and angry at himself. If he had not waited to leave Palamar, if he had come alone, he might have—

  “Delta!”

  The feminine voice brought his head up. He hunted for the owner—and stilled when he saw the pale blonde hair flying around the girl who ran toward him. Her eyes widened, and she skidded to a halt.

  Damian took a step toward her. Deltas were not unheard of here, but one so young, and obviously on her own—

  “Who are—”

  “T’Alon.” She spit out his name, which told him that his sins had not been forgiven, and had spread beyond the confines of his father’s stronghold. “You are the Delta looking for Li—” She cut herself off, and hesitated before she stepped closer, as if he were contaminated. In some ways, she was right. “If you’re looking for the Westerner, he was taken out of here last night. The bastards locked me up, otherwise I would have gone after him. Or found you.”

  Hope eased out the despair.

  “Tell me where.”

  She crossed her arms, looking for all the world like she just tasted something disgusting.

  “Only if you take me with you.”

  “Why.” He kept his voice low, but the anger still resonated. To her credit, she didn’t back away.

  “He was hurt, by one of the slavers.”

  “How badly?”

  She spun at Xander’s harsh whisper, and some of that bravado faltered. “He was whipped. Barrick went after him because he protected a female slave.” She twisted her hands together, and Damian sensed they had not heard the worst of it. “And because he had the nickname Silver Tongue, Barrick used the whip on his throat.”

  “How is it you know all this?”

  She lifted her chin, and the wind tangled hair fell away from her left cheek. Damian fought his reaction when he saw the crosshatch of scars. She had been shunned, and marked for it.

  Her eyes narrowed when she realized what he focused on. “I am a healer, T’Alon, not a worthless noble. I was brought in to tend him, and I recognized him, from the portrait in the stronghold at Black Water.”

  Mention of his home twisted grief and pain through Damian. He swallowed, forced them back into the shadows, where they always waited.

  “Give me one reason to take you, girl.”

  “I know where Joran will cross the desert.”

  The name shocked him more than seeing a Delta girl here. “Joran has him?”

  She nodded, some of the animosity fading. “You didn’t know? He brought Li—Silver Tongue here, bought him from a slaver, at the smaller quarry market.”

  “Why didn’t he bargain with the man?”

  “He was gagged. From the state of his mouth when I treated him, he had been so for some time. You need me, and you know it.”

  Damian turned away, leaned his aching head against the weathered wood. She was right. It had been years since he crossed the desert; and if Joran carried his own water supply, he would not have to stick to the established trails.

  With a deep breath, he pushed off the wall and faced her. “You will lead us, girl. But,” he held up his hand before she could argue. “I am the leader here, and I will be obeyed.” She huffed, but he saw the gleam of triumph in her green eyes. “What is your name?”

  “Alina.”

  “You already know who I am. This is Xander, royal guard to the Duke of Palamar. I suggest you not cross him.”

  She stared up at Xander, eyes wide. “You came all this way for him.”

  “Yes, milady.” Xander bowed, winking at her when he straightened. It earned him a laugh. “He is my lord, and a good man. I won’t stop until I can bring him home.”

  “I want to help.” Her gaze moved to Damian, whatever she thought of him gone. “He doesn’t deserve what was done to him, or where he’s headed.”

  “I agree.” Damian stepped to her, waiting for her to retreat. To her credit, she kept eye contact. After dealing with slavers, his presence would certainly seem less threatening. “We will need supplies, and a horse for you.”

  “I can gather what you need. I have my own horse. Yours are at the stable?” He nodded. “Meet me there in an hour. Leave without me, T’Alon, and you’ll wish you never met me.”

  She took off, darting through the vendors headed for the market.

  “Courageous bit of a girl. She seems to know you.” Xander raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at Damian.

  “My reputation at home has moved beyond my family.” Shrugging it off, again, he headed for the market. “I want to gather some of our own supplies. It will be a rough journey, especially if we are following a caravan instead of a few horses.”

  Xander nodded. “They won’t need to water as often. Or at all.” He followed Damian, and cleared his throat before they reached the edge of the market. Damian halted, knowing Xander would keep from speaking past this point. “Who is Joran? You looked like you’d heard a demon’s name when she spoke it.”

  Damian swallowed, looking at Xander. “Joran is from the Khah Oasis. He runs the Arena’s gladiator training school.”

  Xander cursed under his breath. “I say we find a way to beat this Joran there, and take Silver Tongue before he receives any of that training.”

  For the first time in hours, the pain in Damian’s head lessened, and the weight on his heart eased. “You have a plan.”

  “My friend,” Xander clapped him on the shoulder. “I was born making plans.”

  Twenty Nine

  Joseph surprised Micah by heading for his workshop.

  He could hear Raine behind him, the gag not quite muffling her gasp every time the guard on her left moved her injured arm. Not guards—traitors. He had to think of them as his enemy, because when he got out of this, there would be an accounting, starting with Joseph—

  Movement caught his eye—and Thomas burst out of a side passage.

  Wit
h a startled cry, Joseph hid behind them, like the coward he had proved himself to be. “Kill him!”

  One of the guards holding Raine pulled a knife off his belt. Micah screamed through his gag, trying to warn Thomas. The knife slammed into Thomas’ chest.

  He faltered, and with a roar he kept coming at them.

  Thomas—no—

  The guard tackled him, driving the knife deeper into his chest. Thomas let out an agonized cry that tore through Micah, and collapsed.

  Tears stung his eyes as he searched for signs of life. Before he found anything the guards hauled him forward. He looked over his shoulder—and met Thomas’ eyes. He nodded, one hand clutching the knife hilt. Micah’s captors dragged him out of sight. He closed his eyes, let the tears slide down his face.

  Father had loved Thomas like a brother, trusted him completely. He was a fixture in Micah’s life, and as much as Micah harassed him, he trusted Thomas as well. If he died because of Joseph…

  His mind blanked when they hauled him into his workshop.

  Mother stood near the woodstove, as if—

  As if she were waiting for them.

  “Joseph, did you have to truss him up like this…” Her eyes narrowed as they moved past Micah. “What is she doing here?”

  “Leverage. It is the reason we kept her alive, my love.”

  Micah’s eyes widened—and all of the recent attention made perfect sense. His mother was not spending time with him because she wanted his company. She was testing him, gauging how much of the proposal he would accept, how much room they had to push. It looked as if they decided to push him all the way out.

  He watched Joseph walk over to his mother, kissing her with a familiarity that turned his stomach. How could he not know? Was he such a blind fool that all of this happened right under his nose?

  Her voice jerked him back to the moment. “Take him into the storage room.”

  He stared at her, certain he was hearing things. She knew—she knew about his fear. He never went into the storage room. It was small, and narrow, the ceiling so low he could touch it if he reached his hand up—

  When his captors moved toward the door, he fought every inch, every step. This was his nightmare brought to life again—bound, gagged, trapped in a small, dark space. She couldn’t mean for this to happen—she was his mother—he trusted her, believed in her, loved her…

  The next thought stilled him, and the men holding him dragged him through the doorway.

  If she was allied with Joseph, then she knew what happened to Liam.

  She was part of what happened to Liam.

  Joseph entered the cramped space, carrying a single candle. He set it in the far corner, then moved to Micah. “Remove the shackles.” Relief flared through him. It died a moment later. “There are ropes, hanging from the hooks near his waist. Tie him, as tightly as you can, and leave us.”

  They obeyed, following Joseph’s orders to the letter. The thick, fibrous rope cut into his wrists, pulling at his arms. His left shoulder burned from the pressure—the shoulder that had not hurt like this for months, since it was dislocated during his abduction.

  Joseph moved closer, his eyes glinting in the flickering light. “I am going to ask you a question, Micah. Give the answer I want, and you both will go free. I am afraid you will have to leave Palamar, but you will be alive. Perhaps you can join your brother.”

  Fury burned through the pain. Micah knew the question, and Joseph was not going to be happy with his answer.

  The hiss of metal on metal opened his eyes. He stilled when the hook blade came into view. Joseph studied him, offered an ugly smile.

  “No need to worry, my lord.” He used the title like a slur. “I am simply removing your gag, so you can answer me.” The sharp blade sliced through the cloth, nicking his left cheek. “Sorry about that. My hand slipped.” He chuckled as he pulled the gag out of Micah’s mouth. “Now, give yourself a moment or two. I know your tongue must be dry. Nod when you’re ready to continue.”

  Micah worked his jaw, tried to gather enough spit to swallow. When he finally did, he looked up at Joseph, and nodded.

  “Excellent. Now, here is the question, straight and simple. Will you accept our demands?”

  “If Thomas dies, your life is forfeit.”

  Joseph smiled, as if Micah had made a joke. “I doubt you will ever be in a position to cause me such grief. Now answer my question. Will you accept—”

  “No.”

  Joseph jerked back, as if Micah had struck him. “Do you understand what will happen, Micah? Your abduction was a taste of the nightmare that waits for you, and your precious half-blood, should you refuse me. I will give you one more chance. Will you—”

  “Never.”

  Joseph let out a roar and slapped him—so hard his head bounced off the stone wall.

  The door swung open, and Elena stepped inside. Never again would Micah think of her as his mother.

  “What is it, Joseph?”

  “Your fool of a son refuses to cooperate.”

  “Please.” She caressed his cheek, kissed him. “Let me try, my love.” When she turned around, she wore the look Micah knew all too well—slight disappointment, tempered with her version of love. “Micah. We spent so many hours together, looking over the proposal. You know how much good, how much potential is there. Please give Joseph the chance to bring it to fruition.”

  “No, Elena.”

  She raised her hand, and he braced himself for another blow. “How dare you speak to me as if I were your equal. I am your mother!”

  “Never again will you hear me call you that. It is a sign of respect, of love.” Pain drove through Micah as he spoke. “You no longer deserve either.”

  “Ungrateful bastard!” She finally slapped him—not as hard as Joseph, but hers did more damage. He let out a cry as her rings gouged into his left cheek. “I gave up everything for you and your selfish father. When he died he left me nothing—not the title or the rule he promised me. Just a pathetic son, and a mule headed stepson. Palamar will be better off with both of you gone!”

  She snatched the hook blade out of Joseph’s hand, and before he could stop her she drove it into Micah’s right leg.

  Agony scorched him. Joseph muffled his scream with one hand, putting himself between Micah and the raving woman.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean for it to be this way.” Joseph’s voice was background noise as Micah focused on taking in each breath, on staying conscious. “Micah.” Long, cool fingers cupped his chin, lifted his head. “I meant to use a less violent method of persuasion, but your mother does have a temper. She will not wait long for the answer she wants, and I am afraid Raine will suffer for your refusal.”

  “Touch her—and you all—die.”

  “An admirable threat, but an empty one, given your current position.” He picked up the candle, and moved to the door. “You have one hour to change your mind. If you do not, Raine will die. Your mother has already started a rumor that Raine’s talents are not—natural.” Micah’s heart pounded. He understood exactly what Joseph was not saying. If Raine were accused as a witch, she would burn. “We will win, Micah. This defiance only creates needless suffering.” When Micah didn’t say another word, Joseph sighed. “One hour. I am going to give you the silence you obviously need to make the right decision.”

  He closed the door, and left Micah to the darkness.

  Agony overshadowed any panic. The blade shifted with every breath, digging its way deeper into his leg. This particular hook blade had no hilt guard, which meant it could work its way into his leg completely, without hindrance, causing the most damage possible.

  His father outlawed them years ago, soon after the first blades appeared in the city, with the influx of desert people. Micah had understood why, in an abstract sense. Now he understood exactly why Father banned them.

  “I have to find a way out,” he whispered. Too many lives depended on him, and he refused to let Joseph defeat him without a fight.
Raine’s life was in his hands. He refused to let any of them down.

  Forcing himself to focus, he assessed, making a list in his head.

  He was bound, one leg was useless, and he had an hour.

  He decided to start with his bonds. The sharp fiber of the braided rope left his wrists a bloody mess. Maybe he could…

  Jaw clenched, he shifted his weight to his left leg, and spent the next few minutes fighting to catch his breath. When he could see straight, he moved his right hand. The rope slid—just a little, but enough to keep him working at it.

  He compressed his hand as much as possible, tucking his fingers into his palm. His joints screamed in protest. He ignored them, tugging gently, then with more force.

  His hand stuck, then popped free—so fast he almost toppled forward. It took all the strength he had to keep himself upright, and he lost more precious minutes fighting the urge to pass out when his right leg slammed against the wall.

  Once he was able to think again, he started working his left hand free, ready for the sudden release this time. Since he never used this storage room, there was nothing in here he could use to support himself—not even an old box to sit on. There was no other way; he had to crawl.

  Using the wall, he lowered himself to the floor, biting the collar of his shirt to keep from screaming every time his leg moved. He was sweaty, shaking, and breathless when he finally made it down.

  Next goal—get himself to the door, before Joseph returned. Beyond that, he would take things a step at a time, like one of his experiments.

  His first attempt had him hugging the floor, his impaled leg on fire. The uneven stone pavers caught at the protruding hilt, and each movement tore at him.

  How am I going to get past anyone with my leg like this—

  Stop.

  He would figure it out when he needed to. Right now, he needed to get to the door, and remain conscious while doing it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Frustration sent Ari out of the council chamber and toward Liam’s office. Micah missed another meeting—his third in the last few days. It was time to create some kind of reminder system.