The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(59)

“What kind of answer is that, boy?” The solider sat up, knocking over a glass bottle and sending it skittering across the table. It hesitated when it reached the edge, then tumbled to the ground and continued its sad roll until it hit the wall. “Don’t you know how to address your betters?”

“Sorry,” Nok muttered, still plucking at the mint leaves, their sharp sweet scent now turning his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Omair had stopped stitching Soldier Lim.

“Sorry, sir,” the soldier corrected him with a sneer. “And look at me when I talk to you, boy.”

Nok raised his eyes to meet the soldier’s. Disappear. Disappear. Disappear, he willed himself. He could do it; drain the fear from his gaze. Make his dark eyes two black corridors leading nowhere.

“Insolent little shit, aren’t you?” Wailun demanded, sliding his bulk off the table. His feet hit the floor with a thud, the metal ornamentation on his boots rattling. Nok clutched the mint so hard he could feel its crushed leaves leaking wet inside his fist.

“Answer me when I speak to you.” The soldier drew up dangerously close. He was quick for such a big man; in a blink his arm struck out and grabbed Nok by the collar, lifting him clean off the chair and pinning him against the wall behind it. Nok’s feet scrabbled for purchase against the seat, but only the toes of his boots reached.

Disappear. Disappear. But his thoughts were laced with panic. He drew in a ragged breath and his whole world was drowned in the reek of Soldier Wailun’s hot, sour breath, and the mint, pulverized in his own fist.

The soldier laughed and slammed him against the wall. His head took the brunt of the blow and a shower of stars rained in Nok’s eyes. The big man’s fist was pressed even tighter against him now, crushing his windpipe.

“Sir!” Omair’s voice filtered in through the haze of his fear. “Please! He meant no disrespect. Please, sir! Soldier Lim needs calm and quiet while I sew his leg.”

High-pitched laughter echoed through the little room. Soldier Wailun’s head whipped around at the sound. His grip on Nok’s collar loosened enough that the boy could turn, too.

Soldier Lim was dissolving into giggles in his chair. “Sew my leg! I’m not a blanket,” he snorted convulsively. The poppy tears. Usually it just made patients sleepy, but sometimes . . .

Soldier Lim’s giggles continued, and Soldier Wailun joined in with a harsh belly laugh. “Calm and quiet, eh? I think old Lim’s doing just fine, aren’t you, Lim?”

Soldier Lim grinned and nodded, then nodded again, then again, and suddenly his head slumped down to his chest and he was snoring. Soldier Wailun snorted, then turned back to Nok, pressed his fist harder against his throat.

“See? My friend agrees with me. Everything’s good, isn’t it, boy?”

He seemed to want an answer, so Nok choked out a sound that he hoped read as affirmative.

Behind the soldier’s massive bulk, Omair was staring. The old man’s eyes read fear and guilt. Grief. Involuntary tears filled Nok’s own as he struggled to breathe.

Then, abruptly, the hand at Nok’s throat was gone. He tumbled down, his tailbone taking the brunt of the fall. A keening sound filled the room; it took Nok a moment to realize it was his own wheezing as he struggled to pull air back into his lungs.

When his vision stopped swimming, he saw Soldier Wailun standing over him, his massive bulk silhouetted by the overhead light. A memory came to him, and he could smell the stench of the labor camp’s sickroom, a soldier leaning in to wrench his sister away . . .

“Please,” Nok heard Omair try again. “He’s a good boy . . .”

Soldier Wailun grinned. “He’s a good boy, is he? He’s a weak boy. A pretty boy. Is that what you keep him around for, old man?” There was something new in his voice—some new, rabid thought that filled Nok with fresh dread.

The man’s enormous hand was on him again, dragging him up by the hair. Nok’s scalp screamed in pain. “Such a pretty boy. Such long eyelashes . . . and a mouth like a girl’s.”

“Sir!” Omair’s voice was close now. He must’ve put a hand on Soldier Wailun because there was a jerk of movement, and Omair went flying across the room into the kitchen table, herbs and bottles toppling to the floor in his wake.

Nok was pushed against the wall again, this time face forward, his cheek slamming against the wood hard enough to bruise. He heard Omair cry out behind him, and Soldier Wailun unhooking his belt buckle. The click seemed to echo, the moment dragging on for longer than it possibly could. Nok had heard of soldiers abusing villagers in this way, usually women and young children, but sometimes . . .

Disappear. Disappear. Feel nothing. The words hammered in his chest, quick and brutal.

Soldier Wailun’s grip on his shoulder went slack. Nok looked up and saw the arrow, like a black flower sprouting from the big man’s throat. A single, orderly drop of blood dangled from its point, gleaming bright as a ruby.

Nok scrambled to avoid the man’s body as it slumped against the wall. The arrow dragged through the wood, its head snapping clean off as Soldier Wailun crashed to the floor.

Behind where he had stood, the princess was still and languid as a panther, another arrow already nocked in her bow. Her copper eyes were flinty and cool as they tracked the fall of Solider Wailun’s body.

“Go. Now.” Omair’s voice broke the silence, followed by a ragged snore from the still-prone Soldier Lim. “You must go.”