by Unknown
Two guards ran toward her. One thrust out his arm as he approached her, hitting her across the chest. The woman fell back, disappearing behind some tall plants. The boy continued to run, struggling when the second guard caught him and threw him over his shoulder. The woman's red tunic appeared again as the guard yanked her from the ground and dragged her toward the village.
"I should've known," Gren muttered. He had discussed ambush tactics like this with dozens of employers, including Allon, who had liked the idea of trapping prey from every angle. And if he's using what I taught him, this may partially be my fault.
A grey cloud crept into his line of sight. As he focused, he recognized what the sickening dark grey against the blue sky meant.
"Fire!" he shouted, sliding and jumping down. Without waiting for Willar, he forced his legs to move as fast as they could. They had no time to get the other fighters.
Scrambling down the hill and running through the fields into the village, the scent of smoke clung to the air, driving him to move faster. Winding through the outer buildings, he ran toward the screams sounding from within several homes. Sobs leaked from the windows, crying out for an end to the crashing sounds.
A babe's shrill wail pulled him to a stop. Creeping close to the window of Elia's tiny house, Gren peered through the dingy glass. Four guards in black armour hurried through, whipping her belongings across the room. One man raided the pantry while another stood in the doorway of her bedroom, a thin gold chain tangled around his gloved fingers. The other two men overturned tables and pitched chairs.
In the middle, Elia stood clutching her child to her shoulder and screaming.
Childhood memories surfaced in Gren's mind. This would not happen again.
Pulling forth his sword, Gren smashed the window open with the hilt before sheathing it again. Wood splintered around the pane, the glass shattering and skittering across the floor. "You're not welcome here!" he shouted as he crawled through the broken window.
Before the surprised guards could react, Gren barreled towards the one, shoving him into the unlit hearth.
"Stop!" Elia screamed. "Don't!"
Past her screams, Gren recognized the sound of splitting wood. Before he could turn around to look at Elia or ask about the wood, he heard the boots of a second guard scuff the floor, approaching him from behind. Gren jumped back and twisted his body, his elbow landing in the guard's jaw. Reaching behind, he gripped the man's neck. Leaning forward and pushing back, he yanked, flipping the guard over his head. The man slammed to the ground, his boots kicking ashes up from the hearth.
Turning, Gren prepared to be attacked by another man. He froze. The third guard was dragging Elia out of the doorway ... and the fourth held a torch to the wall. When his gaze met Gren's, the guard laughed and threw the torch down. He disappeared out the door and around the corner as the torch rolled across the floor.
Gren stared at the door. Already, flames gnawed their way up the threshold and crawled through the walls.
He glanced at Elia, staggering as the man pulled her through the dirt by the arm. Her hands still gripped her infant. Past them, flames threatened to devour other homes, the smoke billowing upwards into the ash-ridden sky. "Elia!" he yelled, rushing out the door.
An arm slammed into his throat as he stepped outside. Gren fell, his back hitting the ground. Looking up, he recognized the fourth guard, angered by the grin on the man's face. Yes, you're so clever, making me think you left just so you could attack me.
Fighting to stand and escape the heat of the flames, Gren drew his sword and pointed it at the guard. "You're wasting my time."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Were you actually expecting to go after her?" The guard sneered and raised his hand, the metal of his sword scraping against Gren's.
"Why are you even here?" Gren yelled, backing towards the path between Elia's house and the next.
The guard followed. "Right now? I'm supposed to be stopping you from interfering." The guard lunged as Gren stopped moving.
Their swords clanged as Gren deflected the low strike and countered with a higher thrust. The guard met the blow with equal force, driving Gren to fight harder. Circling in the path, they exchanged quickening blows.
The guard lunged and Gren's sword caught his, holding it in place. "Go back to the idiot who sent you," Gren muttered through clenched teeth. Growling, he pushed the man back and ducked as he struck with a blow meant to catch Gren's neck.
Jumping up, Gren intercepted the next blow from underneath and twisted his wrist, forcing the man's sword away. Spinning quickly on his heel as the guard turned aside, Gren rammed his sword down into his leg. The man yelled and fell to his knee, his hand clutching the bleeding wound.
"I told you to leave," Gren murmured. With a quick move, he jammed the sword through the man's neck. Barely listening to the sounds of the dying man, Gren yanked the sword out and kicked him over. He hurried away without looking back. Even if he had failed Elia, he had to find Tracel before someone decided to drag her away, too.
Voices cried out from the middle of the village, almost as one. Squeezing through the alley between the tavern and the forge, Gren ran into the road. As the voices continued to roar, he joined the villagers crowded around the clearing just beyond the carts. They clung to each other, gaping at the scene in the clearing.
Gren followed their gazes to see a familiar face: Allon, son of the dead Tract Steward and the candidate who had lost the election. He had cut his blond hair short and soot clung to his sweaty face, but Gren recognized him. He had worked for Allon once, arranging the death of a man who had threatened to attack and kill Allon. Given Allon's quick temper and questionable sense of respect, Gren understood why people wanted him dead.
Kind of like right now. Gren watched Allon teeter on his heels, the knife in his hand grazing the neck of the boy in his grasp. Droplets of blood formed beads on the boy's skin, making the crowd gasp.
"I'll kill him if anyone comes any closer!" Allon yelled, shaking the struggling youth by the neck.
Gren glanced at the guards standing around Allon, counting two dozen. Each man held at least one person; a few clutched children, one in each arm. Straining his eyes, he could see Elia leaning into one guard. There were too many for him to fight by himself, but if he could find the rest of the fighters… Peering through the open spaces between bodies, he noticed Willar and two others in the front of the crowd, their jaws hanging open.
"What do you want?" a man shouted.
"I want what you stole from me and gave to my sister. That role is rightfully mine!" Allon's lips twisted into a snarl. "She's not a leader. She has no right to Tract Steward. I'm the eldest. I'm the best. I trained all my life for it, and you stupid bastards gave it to her?"
Pulling back, he shoved the boy to the ground. When he kicked dirt in the boy's face, the crowd cried out their disapproval. "I've come to get what's mine, which is all of you and everything you own." Allon smiled, twisting the knife between his fingers, the tip spinning on his palm. "And have a little fun. Since I'm not Tract Steward, I'm afraid I don't have anything to do."
He flicked his hand. One of the guards behind Allon stepped forward, dragging a woman behind him. She put up a fight, pulling the guard back. When he slapped her, she stopped squirming and followed him to Allon's side.
Gren's skin prickled. "Tracel," he whispered. His fingers numbed, grip loosening, and he almost dropped his sword before he trapped the hilt in his palm.
The guard gripped Tracel's hair as he thrust her into Allon's arms. Anger burned in Gren's gut, exploding into a raging fire when Allon snatched a kiss. Tracel fought him, pounding her fists on his chest. Laughing, Allon spun her to face the crowd, her dirty clothes and the drying blood trickling down her cheek visible.
The fear in her eyes spurned Gren to push to the front of the crowd. Tracel's gaze moved to him, her eyes widening as Allon pulled her close, burying his nose in her neck. He licked her throat and breathed her in, wrapping strands of her hair
around his fingers.
When Allon gripped her stomach and clamped her hip to his groin, Gren was consumed by an inferno of rage. Growling and ready to kill, he charged forward.
"No!" Tracel shouted "Stay there!"
Gren stopped, sword still in the air.
Allon's head snapped up, his surprise turning to laughter. "You! Oh, this is great. It's becoming a party now. How's the work these days?" He grinned, caressing Tracel's hair before tugging. "This one's yours, I take it?"
Gren took another step. The guard hovering beside Allon drew his sword and rushed forward.
"Stop!" Tracel yelled, her voice carrying over the crowd's cry.
Allon whistled and the guard halted his advance. "Sorry, what was that?" Allon asked. His lips brushed her jaw.
Tracel snarled. "Let him go. I'll go willingly if you just let him go. You won't have to drag me. I'll walk to your estate myself."
Allon giggled into her hair. "Aren't you sweet? Any other offers you're willing to make?"
"Yeah." Tracel looked to Elia. "Leave the baby. He'll drive you insane just on the way home and then annoy the tar out of you." She smiled, turning her face towards his. Her voice was light, almost a laugh. "And letting her keep him is just too nice. If you want to make your point, I suggest leaving him here and taking her. Being kind to her is hardly useful."
The crowd gasped, whispering their confusion. Even Elia stared at Tracel, horrified. If only they knew her as well as he did, Gren thought, they would have not been surprised. Regret flashed across her face before she batted her lashes. Her sweet tone cloaked her sarcasm and her smile hid a snarl. She took no joy in her words.
Allon lifted one brow. "And what's to make me consider doing that?"
"I'll make it even easier to get what you want." Tracel glanced apologetically at Gren.
Gren gripped his sword tighter. He hated what she was saying. He hated what she hinted. He hated everything.
"Fine," Allon agreed, his voice jolting Gren's focus. Waving his guard back, Allon stared at Gren. "You heard her."
Elia screamed as the guard approached her and struggled against the man holding her back. The guard pulled the swaddled infant from her arms. Returning to Allon's side, he laid the child on the ground, looking away from the small fists protruding from the folded blankets. Elia wailed and the infant began to cry, filling the air with despair.
Ignoring the baby, Allon looked at Gren, pointing a finger. "Now you stay put. I'll keep my men off. You live, I get her. Win, win."
Pushing Tracel into the guard at his side, Allon withdrew a scroll from his belt and threw it to the ground past the infant's head. "Consider this a message you can take to your precious new leader! Let's see how well she serves you."
Before anyone could collect the scroll, he whistled and pulled Tracel toward the horses waiting by the trees. His guards followed, stopping to tie the hands of their hostages before shoving them into a barred cart.
Allon's horse disappeared into the distance, taking Tracel with him… and Gren had let him.
TWO
Why had he just stood there? Why had he listened to her?
Squatting, Gren drew his fingers through the soot and rubble. Even if Elia survived, her home no longer existed, reduced to charred wood and soiled possessions. Too little, too late. When his gaze settled on the fragments of an overturned cradle, the metal legs sticking up from out of the ruins, he frowned. At least the child lives, he reminded himself, having witnessed one of the village women take the infant away to safety.
Gren sniffed his fingers and his muscles pulled taut from the stench. He rolled his shoulders back against the resistance in his muscles, his spine cracking. The twinge of pain from the strain did not compete with the war in his head. Memories attacked his thoughts, ignited by the raw scent of soot. The images threatened to destroy the wall between his emotions and his reality, creeping in between his need to follow Allon and his growing fear for Tracel.
"It's not the first time siblings couldn't keep their hands to themselves," Gren murmured.
Punching the ground, he let the memories slink forward. He still recalled the faces of the family that had taught him about the cruelty of the world. It had taken one dead mother and two feuding brothers to burn a dozen villages to the ground and shatter families, leaving broken bodies behind. They taught Gren more than he had learned from anyone else in his first ten years, making him thankful to be an only child. Even more, they'd given him lust for a fight.
Watching your mother get dragged off has that effect, especially when your father's rotting in the ground. Images of corpses burst behind his eyes and his stomach lurched. Blinking them away, Gren stood, picking up an iron pot by the handle. The pot wavered. His hands were trembling, he realized, and he could barely feel the hot metal scorching his dry palm. If only I'd have been there sooner. If only I'd never left. He'd have none of them. He'd not have Tracel.
A shiver shook his shoulders and surged down his back, leaving a numbing trail of heat. Yelling, Gren whipped the pot across the ruins. The metal landed and rolled, a dark cloud tumbling in its wake. This was why he made rules. This was why he could never return to the blind devotion he'd had as a child. Allegiance and attachment led to nothing but pain. There was no point to loyalty or having preferences because change was inevitable and unpredictable. He lived for himself, always going for the best offer for the least cost. There was no one else—there could be no one else. When there was someone, there were emotions and emotions were senseless, dangerous, and nothing but trouble.
So when had he started to feel again? Did it start when Allon pawed at Tracel and tasted her, or when Tracel had made him sound like a cad, almost like he used his rules as a façade to take advantage of her? Could it have been when he had felt sorry for leaving her to go to another client, or months before when he had sought Tracel's help, lingering in her home for much longer than expected?
Maybe Tracel had been right—maybe the invisible rope of commitment around his neck was twined by himself, a noose of his own making. Maybe it explained why he had felt guilty all day, not just about Allon's taking Tracel away, but about Maryn, their discussion in the market, and the strange way she could recount his rules and make him feel ashamed. After all, he'd returned to Oly Valley instead of wandering across Kattal seeking work. He'd returned to her without a word said between them.
And now she was in the hands of a man with a volatile temper and specific desires. A man who could kill her for not being the woman he expected.
Gren raked his hand through the gray strands of his hair. Locking his fingers behind his neck, he pushed his head down. He considered Tracel as woman as the rest of the women he knew. He had never questioned her adamant opposition to removing the parts of herself she considered wrong and offensive. He understood the risk; he understood her fears about dying over something she had forced herself to tolerate. She was more than a piece of flesh, and he told her so on several occasions.
But Allon would not understand. To him, she was all flesh. I can just imagine what he'll do when he finds out she's not what he's expecting.. Gren lowered his head further, grimacing when pressure released from the base of his neck with a loud crack. Images flashed through his mind, violent hands striking out, fingers gripping and leaving dark bruises. Allon would make his advances on Tracel and punish her for displeasing him, more than any other woman there.
Even if he did not, the idea that Allon would find opportunity in the challenge and enjoy Tracel made Gren feel sick. Turning the violence away, his mind filled with images of her. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, trying to imagine the stench away with the memory of her scent. Prodding the images deeper, he drew his thumbs up and down his neck. He wanted to remember the feel of her skin on his calloused fingertips, his palms curved around her small breasts, pulling her against his naked chest…
Allon would have his hands on her, touching her there. Allon would strip her bare, his indelicate touch assaulting her skin, h
is fingers treating her like a man. Treating her the way she hated to be treated.
Pain seared through his groin. Gren teetered back, his head snapping up. If she fulfilled Allon's wishes, she would no doubt survive longer than the alternative. She was a healer, not a fighter, and anything which allowed her to survive deserved rational thought—so why did he feel worse?
I have to get her out of there. Gren pulled his chilled fingers from his neck, stretching away their numbness. I can't stay here. Not like this. Walking to the edge of the rubble, he stared at the man lying face-down in the dirt. He was the guard Gren had fought, now only a corpse. Tracel would have wanted him to feel remorse; Gren felt nothing.
Stepping over the body, his heel scuffing the back of the guard's armour, Gren strolled along the twisted path left between the ruins and the remaining houses. More than half the village remained intact and few villagers had been killed. Yet the damage done warranted grieving. Passing by charred plots, Gren tried not to stare at the soot-soiled women kneeling at the edge of their ruined homes, sobbing and picking through the rubble. He could spare them nothing but a look of understanding.
Pausing at the blacksmith's forge, Gren touched the dark wood planks. The forge stood untouched except for the smoke caked onto the wood. Even the tavern remained. "It figures the drink would be spared," he muttered.
A man yelled. Voices shouted.
Another attack. Without thought, Gren rushed past the forge, jumping over the barrels in the alley. Reaching the road, he slid to a stop, gripping the dagger on his belt. Faces from the crowd gathered around the tavern turned to him, their annoyed glances looking away before he could react. He had rushed for nothing.
Another village meeting. Lovely. More talk, no action. Surveying the crowd, he crossed his arms when the villagers chanted for Willar, waving sticks above their heads.
