“You’re going to open the gate for me. And you’re going to open it now!”
Rickert and the rest of the manhunt had left hours ago. Sick with worry, she couldn’t possibly wait any longer. Petra’s brother had died, and she feared others would die, too. After failing to convince Rickert to take her along, even when she reminded him of her Protection abilities, she resigned herself to staying in Crestenfahl. But she’d waited long enough.
“My father will use a bollock vise on me if I don’t obey orders.”
She had no idea what that was and didn’t care to know. “What if I made you open it?”
“Let me talk to Mr. Asher first.”
She let out a sound of exasperation. “He smoked some prath for the pain when they stitched him up, so he’s resting and can’t be disturbed. Please, you must open the gate.”
“I…I can’t.”
Fine. Closing her eyes to calm herself, she focused inward and the little hairs on her arms prickled. Hopefully the kid hadn’t experienced what it felt like to be surrounded by a ring of protection. From her understanding, it took a little getting used to. Energy rippled off her skin and charged the air around her. When she concentrated it in his direction, he yelped.
“Hellfire!” the boy exclaimed, shaking his arms like a ragdoll and stepping sideways. She moved the shield with him. “All right. I’ll open the bloody gates.”
* * *
The moon illuminated the thick cloud cover, making it glow an ominous grey-green in the night sky. Exhausted by the breakneck speed of her ride, Neyla reined the gelding to a walk.
Shouldn’t she have come to that turnoff by now? She craned her head around. The stable boy had said to veer left at a charred ogappa tree, but she hadn’t seen one. Had she galloped past it in the dark? Although he didn’t seem devious enough, the thought did cross her mind that the young man had given her bogus directions on where Rickert and his men were headed.
An odd smell hung in the air and she sniffed more deeply. Something was burning, but it wasn’t the now-familiar scent of dried cedar and applewood stoking a cooking fire. She urged the gelding forward. Up ahead, an orange light flickered through the trees. When they rounded the corner, she saw Rosamund’s cottage—its roof in flames.
Adrenaline shot through her, expelling her fatigue. Leaping off the horse, she ran through the garden gate. The heat was unbearable when she got to the porch. The crackling of the wooden structure was deafening and she backed away. Although she couldn’t be permanently injured by fire, it would still hurt.
Please let there be no one inside.
Taking a calming breath, she tried to settle herself again. But when she stretched out her protection ring, she didn’t feel any live bodies. Had Rosamund and her daughters gotten out in time?
She thought she saw a shadow moving in the barn. Rosamund? She was about to call out when the woman appeared in the window, her finger to her lips. Neyla didn’t understand. What was—?
Something familiar pricked at her senses.
“Trihorn?” a voice called out from behind her. “Is that you?”
Her heartbeat thundered like a thousand hooves behind her eardrums as she spun around.
Gravich and six other soldiers on horseback stood at the edge of the forest.
“Captain!” she managed to gasp, though her mouth was now bone dry.
The men wore a strange assortment of clothes, probably obtained from the warriors’ trunks on this side of the portal. She recognized the horses as coming from Rosamund’s barn.
“What happened?” Gravich asked, his ever-present scowl darkening his features. “Were you captured?”
“I…uh…yes.”
All of the men, including the Captain, held the reins awkwardly in each hand, hunching their backs in an attempt to protect their balls from the saddle. One of the horses kept tossing its head and she noticed the bridle had been put on backward. It was clear that none of them were familiar with riding.
“And you escaped,” he said. “I honestly didn’t know you had it in you, Trihorn. Good job. I’ll have to recommend you for the extraction team next time. You’re clearly ready for it.”
“Extraction team?” She’d never heard of such a group. Just what were they planning to…?
It was then that she noticed several of the horses had small metal boxes the size of cat carriers tied behind the saddles, and a terrible knot began to form in her stomach.
Those boxes were the perfect size to hold a baby.
An intense anger heated her veins and burned her cheeks, as if she were on fire like the cottage behind her.
Gravich and his men were planning to steal Cascadian infants. And Petra’s brother had died the Iron Death by carrying their guns and these metal cages through the portal. A vital young man—gone.
For the first time since joining the army, she didn’t try to stem the hate she felt for this horrible man and his soldiers. Before coming through the Iron Portal, she’d suppressed those feelings, thinking her reaction was wrong because they had such a noble mission…and because, for once, her father had been proud of her.
But no more. Thunder rolled in the distance, as if echoing her indignation, and a few thick raindrops landed on her head.
“As soon as we get back to the other side,” Gravich was saying, “I’ll recommend you for the program.”
She was about to give them a big fat hell, no, when she saw one of the soldiers looking toward the barn. Oh God, he hadn’t seen Rosamund, had he?
Her gaze darted sideways. She had to act fast.
Think. Think.
She could extend a ring of protection around the woman and her daughters. No, that wouldn’t prevent Gravich from grabbing Neyla and removing her from the scene. The shield worked best the closer she was to the subjects. And once she was gone, the women would be vulnerable.
Okay, scratch that idea.
So she did the only other thing she could think of. Grabbing her gelding’s reins, she swung into the saddle.
“So where are you headed?” she asked, urging the animal straight toward the man who’d been looking at the barn. His horse swung its hip around in response and pinned his ears.
“Jesus Christ,” the man bellowed, grasping the saddle with both hands to keep from falling off. The others laughed.
She needed to distract them, get them away from Rosamund’s place, and then she’d worry about what to do next. As soon as she knew the woman and her daughters were safe, she’d be able to think more clearly and figure out how to get away to warn Rickert.
Gravich was still talking. “So how did you get through the portal? We knew you were here, but couldn’t figure out how you did it.”
Dread sucked at her insides like a vacuum. How the hell had they known she was here?
“I don’t understand. How’d you find me? I thought I was...on my own.”
Gravich laughed. “You’re chipped, Trihorn—all the Talents are. The scar on your upper arm? It’s a subcutaneous location device. We just followed the signal.”
A wave of nausea rose into her throat and she leaned heavily on her horse’s withers. So she had led the enemy here. She was responsible for what happened to Petra’s brother. And to Rosamund’s home.
Her fingers tracked up her arm to the raised bit of thickened skin—there it was, just under the surface. She’d been told it was a scar from a vaccine. It took all her willpower not to gouge the thing out with her nails. She should’ve guessed as much. They microchipped all the canines. Why not the Talents, too?
* * *
“What in the hell were you thinking, Rickert? Or is that the point? You weren’t?” Big Thom pulled his horse too close to Duag. The stallion would’ve bit the man or the horse, but Rickert reined him away.
“It’s not possible. Neyla is not helping the Pacificans.” She wouldn’t have betrayed him.
“Are you calling me a liar? There’s no doubt what I saw. She was riding with at least half a dozen of them, leading the
m in the direction of Crestenfahl. They were talking and their leader kept referring to her as Agent Trihorn. I was hiding out in one of the buried mud huts on the side of the river and heard them plain as day. And yes, they do have guns.”
Rickert scrubbed a hand through his hair. He’d given the oldest stable boy strict orders not to let Neyla out beyond the castle walls. She had argued vehemently to go with Rickert, saying she could protect him and his men, but he wouldn’t allow it. What had happened? If only Asher hadn’t been so incapacitated. “They were riding? Where did they get the horses?”
“The chestnut gelding she rode is from the Crestenfahl livery,” Big Thom answered. “I’m not sure about the others. One of them had the markings of a horse I’ve seen at the Guthrie farm.”
He drew in a ragged breath. The invaders had been to Rosamund’s place. Were the three women still alive? He ground his teeth in an effort to stave off memories of what had been done to his sister’s village.
Big Thom continued. “You let your dick get the best of you this time, and now we’ll all suffer.”
He wanted to beat the bloody hell out of the bastard. “I don’t care what you saw. Neyla is not a traitor.” She cared deeply for him and his people and would never do anything to jeopardize their safety. He knew that with every fiber of his being. “Willem, get to your father’s team and tell him to send someone to the Guthrie farm, then meet us back at Crestenfahl.”
Without waiting for the others, he spurred Duag into a gallop.
Chapter Ten
Although Neyla was completely turned around and could never have found her way back to Crestenfahl, Gravich knew its rough coordinates based on information they’d recorded from her tracking device. She made them stop a few times, saying her horse had picked up a stone in its hoof, but that hadn’t stalled them for long. At dawn they emerged from the forest. The closed gates of the town loomed ahead at the top of the hill.
“Trihorn, you may want to give us a few minutes inside before you bring up the rear.” A couple of the soldiers laughed, but when she glared at them to see what was so funny, they refused to meet her gaze.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say we have some man-stuff to take care of before we look for anything else.”
“You’re going to...?” The innocent faces of the people she’d lived with these past few weeks flashed before her eyes. “No. You can’t.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” someone said.
“Petroff, goddammit,” Gravich barked from the back of his horse. “Give Trihorn the reins, then get your ass over here and start lighting these torches.”
“But I’m—”
“Do it now or I’ll volunteer you to bring all the iron back through the portal like I did with that barbarian.”
Several of the men laughed.
“His name was Fallon,” she said angrily. No one seemed to have heard her.
“Decker, Branson, you too.” Gravich turned in the saddle. “Trihorn, do you know any other ways in or out of the city? Not sure how effective we’ll be setting fire to that gate in this rain, although maybe we can scale it with the equipment we smuggled through the portal.”
She shook her head numbly and took the reins from Petroff and the other men. Rickert’s acceptance and love for who she was instead of who others claimed she should be, contrasted with these ruthless, depraved soldiers, made her realize that she’d allowed the opinions of others to dictate how she lived her life.
But no longer.
More than likely, she’d been stolen as a baby from her home and carried through a portal by men like these. Men who had probably killed her birth parents. Glancing at the small metal boxes that would be used to transport infants, she knew exactly what she needed do.
“It’s now or never,” she mumbled to herself as she dismounted. With a few slaps, she turned the horses loose and they galloped into the gloom.
“What the hell? What are you doing?” Petroff’s high-pitched voice cracked, a lit torch clutched in his hand.
“For God’s sake, Trihorn,” Gravich said. “Do you ever think? We need those packs. They have all of our supplies we need to scale these walls. Get those goddamn horses rounded up.”
She took a step backward toward the gate. “No.”
Gravich turned in his saddle and glared at her. “What do you mean, no? I gave you a direct order, Trihorn, and I expect you to carry it out.”
Neyla took a deep breath. “I’ve actually thought quite a lot over these past few weeks and have made some important realizations. I’ve put up with your lies, your brutality, for far too long. And for what? So you can come over here and steal children? Rape and murder the villagers? For God’s sake, how can you people live with yourselves? Captain, aren’t you married? Don’t you have children?”
Gravich pulled at the collar of his shirt and she took a few more steps backward. “Leave my personal life out of it. What I do here is of no concern to those on the other side.”
“It’s not? I’ll bet your family would think otherwise.” She pointed to everyone. “You all make me sick. You’re the barbarians, not them.”
She’d never attempted to protect a structure before, but she sure as hell was going to try. The pull of the thick mud made each step difficult as she ran toward the wall. Suddenly, Gravich was in front of her, his horse blocking the way, and she skidded to a halt. She tried to sidestep around the animal, but Gravich reached over and grabbed her.
“Trihorn, don’t be so foolish,” he said, dismounting without losing his grip on her. “It’s a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome. You should remember this from your training. It’s when prisoners develop an attachment to their captors. Now, come on. Help us with our mission and we’ll take you back to New Seattle where you belong.”
“You told me once I needed to be passionate about what I did in order to be successful.”
He was huffing and puffing, his round face red and sweaty. “Ah, so you were listening.”
Bastard. “Well, I’m passionate about the man I love… and I’m passionate about these people.”
Anger-fueled adrenaline surged in her veins. In a blinding fury, she twisted, thrashed and kicked. Something crunched and Gravich cursed.
“Stupid, high-maintenance Talent,” he said, falling to the ground. “All of you fucking Talents are.”
She didn’t look to see what she’d done to him. Instead, she sprinted toward the gatehouse, where she would stretch out a protection ring before someone else got to her. If she could stay away from them, she might be able to hang on until Rickert and his men returned.
In the pale light, she could just make out a few wide-eyed faces peeking out from above the wall. Even though Rickert’s second in command was hurt, maybe the powerful warrior could help keep the enemy at bay.
She started to call out for someone to get Asher, when something clamped around both her legs. She went down hard. A heavy body slumped over her, crushing her into the mud and knocking the breath from her lungs. She couldn’t move.
“Not fast enough,” Gravich snarled.
* * *
Rickert pulled up his horse at the edge of the forest, having left the rest of the group far behind. The southern wall of the city was dark—no flames, no smoke—but something to the right caught his attention. Several horses—fully saddled, packs loaded—grazed in the field opposite Crestenfahl. Two figures scrambled toward them.
His eyes narrowed with hate. Pacifican invaders.
But where the bloody hell was Neyla?
He’d never wanted their technologies before, but he found himself desperately wishing he could contact her through one of those cellular phones. To hear her voice. To know that she was all right. That she was far away from the danger and violence of this war between the realms.
But she wasn’t. Unless she’d escaped, she was still in the hands of the enemy.
The thought of her with those bastards drove him nearly mad as he spurred Duag forward.
> In the time they’d been together, she’d become an important part of his life. Like his arms. His legs. He couldn’t imagine what he would be like without her. That beautiful and spirited young woman had drawn him out of his endless darkness and into the light. It was hard to believe that he’d once considered her his enemy. Because of her, he had a reason to live his life again, not just exist.
Neyla. Lass, where are you?
As if in answer, an energizing heat shot up his forearms, into his torso, and settled in his belly the way it had back at the market.
Thank the Fates. She was nearby.
The road curved, and at the far corner of the walled city, two figures were struggling on the ground. A beast of a man, holding a lit torch, and—
Neyla.
Fury pinpointed Rickert’s focus, making the sensations in Greenway seem as mild as tepid bathwater. The woman he loved was in trouble at the hands of an enemy that had destroyed so much already. He urged Duag faster. The stallion’s hooves pounded loudly on the muddy road. He concentrated his anger on her attacker and the torch in Neyla’s face flared out. Then the bastard’s hair and clothes began to smoke before he flew backward as if struck by an invisible hand.
Leaping from Duag’s back, he sprinted toward her.
Neyla yelled something but the air snapped with electricity, drowning out her voice.
He hurled his body to cover hers as the sharp crack of gunfire echoed against the outside of the castle wall. Something thunked against his chest just as he reached her. A bullet? He waited for a burning pain to radiate outward, but all he felt was a dull sting above his heart, like a hit from a slingshot. The only thing that mattered was that Neyla was in his arms, safe and sound.
“Oh my God, are you okay, Rickert?” She grasped at his clothes. “Did Gravich shoot you?”
That was Gravich? Her captain? “Yes, but…your…your shield…it protected me.” He buried his face in her wet hair. More shots rang out, but he kept her tucked beneath him.
“Thank God I got it up in time. I didn’t see you, but I could feel you. They can’t hurt—”
Assassin's Touch, Iron Portal #1 Page 11
