A Dawn of Onyx (The Sacred Stones, #1)(9)

None of the soldiers seemed at all bothered by the gruesome scene unfolding in the corner. Nothing like our Amber men, they made our soldiers look like little boys—which, in fairness, they were. These were menacing, brutal warriors who were never drafted to fight but rather trained their whole lives to kill and only to kill.

And what else was to be expected? The wicked King of Onyx was known for his cruelty, and his army was built in his likeness.

“What’s your name, girl?” asked the same soldier that spoke first. He was one of the men whose leather armor was adorned with small silver studs. He wore no helmet, had a square face, small eyes, and no discernable smile lines to be found.

I recognized this type of man instantly.

Not in appearance, but rather his snarl, his cold confidence. The rage that simmered behind his eyes.

I had grown up with him.

A shaky breath rushed out of me. “Arwen Valondale. And yours?”

The men tittered, spite and cruel pity rolling off them in waves. I shrunk in on myself without meaning to.

“You can call me Lieutenant Bert,” he said, lip curling. “How do you do?”

They laughed harder now, encouraged by their leader. I bit my tongue. There was something about them that I could not put into words. Power seemed to be rippling off them. I trembled, my knees knocking together in a discordant rhythm. It was no surprise that these monsters had killed Ryder’s convoy easily. I silently thanked the Stones that he had somehow made it out alive.

“Let me make this quick for you, which is more than you’d be offered from some of my comrades. We followed a young man back to this house. He stole a great amount of coin from us, and we’d like it back. You tell us where he is, we kill you swiftly. Sound fair?”

I pulled my knees together and choked back a gasp.

“I don’t know the man who lives here.” I swallowed hard, racking my brain for any damning evidence that might be in the home and could link me to Ryder. “I was just coming by to borrow milk. I saw they had a cow.”

Bert’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The seconds ticked by while he debated his next move. I knew he knew I was lying. I was a terrible liar. My heart spun inside my chest.

He gave me a smile with dead eyes, then nodded to the scarred man who still had my braid wrapped around his fist. “Kill her, then. She’s no use to us.”

The soldier behind me hesitated briefly, but dragged me back toward the front door.

“Wait!” I pleaded.

The soldier stopped short, looking down at me. Nothing but cruelty danced in his dark brown eyes.

I had to think very, very fast.

“Your man there,” I said directly to Bert, “is going to die within minutes if he doesn’t get help.”

Bert barked out a wet cackle. “Whatever gave you that idea? Perhaps his intestines hanging out?”

“I’m a healer,” I said, mustering false courage. “They’re packing his wound all wrong. He’s going to go into sepsis.” It was true. The man was convulsing, rivers of red dribbling from his abdomen and soaking into the wood of my home.

Bert shook his head. “I don’t think he can be saved even by the likes of you.”

But he was wrong. “Let me fix him in return for my life.”

Bert chewed the inside of his cheek. I prayed to all the Stones that this broad, doughy, dying man was of some value.

Minutes passed.

Lifetimes.

“Everyone out,” Bert finally barked at the rest of the men.

I let out a long slow breath, and the hold on my hair released. I rubbed at the back of my head, which felt bruised and tender. It was the least of my concerns.

The soldiers lumbered out one by one. Even the two who were tending to the injured man stood without question and filed through the door, faces expressionless, leaving me, Bert, and the patient on the floor all alone. The lieutenant hauled his feet off the table and stood with a sigh. He cracked his neck, seemingly exhausted by this turn of events, then nodded me over to the dying man.

My legs moved like lead in water until I knelt beside him, and Bert hovered behind me.

“It would have been a real shame, anyway,” Bert said, closer to my face than I would have liked. “Such a sweet, soft girl. Dead so quickly. Before anyone had used her well.” He smelled like ale and I recoiled, which only delighted Bert all the more. “Fix him, and we’ll see how generous I’m feeling.”

I turned to the wounded man, his face a mask of dread.

I could relate. “It’s all right, sir.”

Two of his ribs had been shattered at an awkward angle and the flesh of his chest cavity was shredded and pulpy as if something had ripped right through him. This was neither a sword nor arrow wound, and there were no burns to imply a cannon or explosion.

“What happened?” I breathed, without really thinking.

Broad Man tried to speak—a gruesome croak—but Bert cut him off. “There are grislier things out there than me, girl. Things you couldn’t imagine.”

I hated his voice, like the rattle of an empty gin bottle, and the way his eyes crawled over my body, eyeing my chest with no shame.

“I need alcohol and clean fabric. Can I walk around the house? See what I can find?”

Bert shook his head with a gleam in his eye. “Do you take me for a fool?” He pulled out a flask from his boot and handed it to me. “Here’s your alcohol. You can use your tunic. Looks very clean to me.”