Gild (The Plated Prisoner, #1)(57)
“What are they going to do to us?” I ask, noting the pirates as they continue to work. A couple of them are watching over us, making sure we stay put, but aside from crying and whispering, none of the saddles dare to move.
A few people down the line from me, I can see Rissa speaking in low tones to the girl beside her. She’s one of the newer and youngest saddles here, and I still haven’t learned her name. She’s small and waiflike, with silky black hair and almond-shaped eyes, and right now, she looks petrified. Rissa catches my gaze, but her expression is grim despite the way she holds the girl’s hand, offering comfort.
Next to me, Polly gives a bitter laugh. “What do you think?” she answers. “They’re pirates. The Red Raids are known for being savage and brutal. No one else could survive out here in the Barrens. They’re going to use us up and then sell us off just like everything else they steal. And that’s if we’re lucky.”
My whole body trembles, and my hand comes up to grip my scar. I was terrified that night with King Fulke. But this? This is an entirely new level of fear. This is a different form of captivity.
One look at these pirates, and I’m certain that none of us want to be brought onto those ships.
But with the savage fire claws behind us and the vicious pirates all around, there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. A leering voice inside of me tells me that this is my fault. That I should never have wished to leave the safety of my cage.
I’m a fool.
The bleakness of our reality slowly sinks in. Sinks deep as we stand there, shuddering in the cold. The snowfall hasn’t stopped and continues to drop in a slow, delicate descent, the flakes landing on shaking shoulders. Another burden to carry on our backs.
I’m not sure how long we stand there.
The pirates work to strip down every single item we possessed. Then piles are distributed, pieces picked out, and one by one, everything is hauled onto the ships, down to the last piece of dry, salted meat.
The near-naked guards still kneeling in the snow grow weary, and two of them collapse, unable to hold themselves up any longer. The other guards try to nudge and rally them, try to encourage them to get back up. One does.
The other doesn’t.
Sail’s teeth started chattering a while ago, and even from several feet away, I can see that his lips have turned blue. His thin pants soaked through where he’s been forced to kneel.
Frost has collected on brows and temples where nervous sweat dripped down. Despite the waves of heat coming from the fire claws at our backs, the bitter chill saps our strength, leaches our spirit.
But through it all, Sail keeps looking at me, gaze steady and unyielding. When my body shivers, he holds his in. When my lips tremble, he pulls his up into a sad smile. When a tear falls against my cold cheek, he nods, still speaking to me, even without words.
You’re okay, you’re okay.
He protects me, bolsters me, there in those kind blue eyes.
So I don’t look away from him when another one of our guards crumples to the ground. I don’t look away when a fire claw growls, so close that I swear it’s about to slash a line down my back. I don’t look away when one of the women wails and begs. Her cries like a shatter through brittle ice.
I don’t look away.
And then, someone descends. From a ramp lowered on the largest ship, heavy boots sound against the white wood. Each step scares a heartbeat to skip, and only when I hear him right behind me do I finally let my eyes tear away from Sail’s face.
The Red Raids go still as the man stops at the foot of the ramp, every single pirate stopping to face him. My eyes hover at the side, taking him in, noting the white fur on his body and the red band around his face, same as the rest—but I also note the grisly pirate hat sitting proudly on his head, the color like rusted crimson, as if the leather was soaked in blood. A single black feather sits at its plume, like a mark of death, and it’s this that tells me exactly who I’m looking at.
The captain of the Red Raids.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The pirate captain is met by a man at the bottom of the ramp. “How’d we do, Quarter?”
“Best haul we’ve had, Cap’n. The gold on this lot? You were right—it’s Midas’s.” Even with the red cloth over his face, I can hear every word, can see the excited glint in the man’s—Quarter’s—eyes.
“Hmm,” the captain replies, his gaze sweeping over the snow. It lands on the guards kneeling, and he walks over to them, a black brow cocking up. “Stripped them down already?”
Quarter chuckles as he walks up from behind him. “Their armor was plated gold. Even their boots were tipped with it.”
The captain rubs his hands together, but it’s not to keep them warm. It’s the satisfied friction of a crook. “Excellent.”
“The horses are good stock, too. Already loaded ’em on the ship,” Quarter continues.
The captain nods and then turns, his eyes finally deigning to land on us. “This many women?”
“Whores, by the looks of ’em.”
This news piques the captain’s interest. He walks over to survey our line, his boots crunching in the sodden snow, his intense eyes taking in every inch of us.
“Hmm, not just whores,” he murmurs, fingering the dress of one of the women. She trembles, her gaze down, eyes buried in the snow. “They’re dressed far too fine for common whores.” He turns to Quarter, and even though his face is still covered, somehow, I know he’s grinning. “These are Midas’s royal saddles.”