Chapter 11 #2
He broadcast confidence, and Gweneth worked on presenting the same air of self-assurance. As the beam enclosed and lifted them, he prayed this idea worked.
Tension gripped Ellard’s chest, a tight band of steel restricting his breathing as they whooshed upward toward a ship hovering above the dome of the force field.
Sleek and long in shape, the hull bore a patchwork of paint, which told its age and pedigree.
An older ship of military origins sold for scrap.
Someone had patched her up and done a reasonable job, given the purring of her engines.
As they neared the open cargo hold, the urge to roar his frustration almost overwhelmed him.
Instead, he worked hard to channel his training and keep alert for escape possibilities.
Of course, one part of his plan might get them killed.
Gut instinct told him they’d wanted the young couple for their special abilities and knew of their existence.
If their captors decided he and Gweneth were surplus to requirements, nothing would stop them.
He might have led the woman he admired into a trap.
A trap that might end with them both dead.
No wonder he was having trouble breathing.
“Recognize the ship?” Gweneth murmured against his ear.
His respect for her rose another notch. Most women would’ve embraced full panic mode by now. Sheera continued to tremble and shudder between them, but not Gweneth.
He studied the black-and-gray ship again with no recognition. “Not yet.”
“They might kill us.”
Ah, that sharp brain of hers had already played the angles.
“At least we’ll be outside the dome.”
“There is that.”
A frisson speared him, the sense of someone brushing his fur the wrong way as the beam drew them through the force field without difficulty.
A mustard-colored cloud obscured the ship for an instant, the oily and sour stench making his breathing raspy.
A cough racked Sheera, her slight body twitching uncontrollably between them.
The cloud skittered away, and the hovering ship grew closer, bigger, and something about it pulled at his memory. Something familiar.
“If a debris storm didn’t do us in, I have no doubt we can get through this too,” Gweneth said.
“That’s my girl.”
Neither of them commented on the tremor in her fighting words.
She smiled and the warmth almost penetrated the anxiousness shadowing her green eyes. “Am I your girl?”
“Sheera, make yourself invisible. I want you to do something important for us. The instant we’re inside the ship and on solid footing, move away and try to find Leeam. Can you do that?”
The girl sniffed and swiped the back of her hand over her nose.
“Leeam is counting on us,” Gweneth said in a low voice.
The girl pushed back her shoulders at the reminder, gave a curt nod, and faded from sight. “Yes, I can do that.”
The beam guided them into the open hold, a cavernous space previously used to hold military supplies.
At present, the area stood empty. Ellard scowled.
A quick jaunt then. They wouldn’t have much time to effect an escape.
The cargo doors slid shut behind them, the protesting creaks continuing for some time before the ship became sealed again.
Without warning, the beam loosened its grip on them, and Ellard tensed, ready to fight.
Nothing to use as a weapon in this dingy hold.
The walls and floor bore evidence of rotations of service, the walls a military gray covered with dents and scratches and graffiti.
A door creaked open, as grumpy as the main hold door, and four bearded men strode through.
Ellard took one look at their swinging leather kilts and the assortment of weapons—swords and blasters—and groaned.
Bloody Scothage reivers. At one time, reivers had preyed on the few trade ships visiting Viros.
Lynx and Shiloh had seen them off, and he hadn’t heard of them traveling near Viros since.
“Where is she?” The man’s bushy black beard didn’t hide the knife scar on his cheek. His grease-streaked plaid shirt in checks of red and green also bore a chieftain’s badge. His black boots slapped the dusty floor as he strode toward them, his leather kilt swinging.
“I suppose this isn’t the best time to ask him what he’s wearing under his skirt,” Gweneth murmured.
Ellard barked out a laugh, the sound attracting attention.
“Where is the girl?”
“I’m here,” Gweneth said, lifting her hand in a friendly wave.
Ellard slid his hand behind his back and pinched Gweneth’s butt. She jumped, shot him an apologetic look, and buttoned her lips.
“I know him,” one of the other bearded men declared, his green-and-black-plaid shirt straining over his barrel chest. “That be Ellard, aye.” He approached and nodded. “Aye, he be the king’s bodyguard. The Virosian king. I heard he lost his arm.”
The chieftain halted in front of them, his fingers rubbing the hilt of a massive broadsword even as his gaze lingered on Gweneth. “Use the weapon. I want that woman contained and incarcerated with the other Incorporeal.”
“Aye, laird,” one said and pulled a silver box from the waistband of his kilt. He strode to the door they’d entered through and fiddled with something on the box. He slowly circled, aiming the thing around the hold. When nothing happened, he frowned and exited the cargo area.
“So you be the king’s bodyguard. Have a score to settle with the Virosian people.” He continued to stroke the hilt of his weapon then grinned to display teeth unexpectedly white given his grubby appearance. “I be wondering how much they pay to get you back. Aye, hurtin’ their pockets be satisfyin’”
His gaze roamed Ellard before settling on Gweneth. Ellard bristled. His feline bristled, and he sensed an answering distaste from Gweneth. The man studied her as if she were a tasty morsel of food for consumption.
“Who be you, pretty bird?”
A scream sounded—feminine and rife with panic.
“Ah, we have the woman.” His voice radiated satisfaction of a job well done. “Take them to the lockup. All of them. I be feelin’ hungry. We break our fast while we decide our next move.”
Some of the tension faded from Ellard’s muscles. They had a chance of escape, and maybe now that they were outside the force field, the dragons would manage to track them.
The chieftain wandered from the hold toward the screams. As one, he and Gweneth bounded for the door but came face-to-face with two of the Scothage reivers. With weapons in hand, they smirked at Ellard, their features full of bring-it-on smugness.
Ellard pulled up, and Gweneth slid to a halt, holding her hands in front of her.
“Frisk ’em for weapons, aye,” the smaller of the two said, his wiry frame and braggart attitude bringing to mind one of Keira’s pouter-chicks—the birds she kept for eggs and meat.
Ellard held his hands out in the same manner as Gweneth as the beefy man neared.
Ellard drew in a breath and wrinkled his nose.
The Scothage needed to work on his personal hygiene.
None of the Virosian felines would ever let themselves drop into that state of stinky, no matter how poor their circumstances.
The male frisked him with brisk and knowledgeable efficiency. He took his time, his search more thorough with Gweneth. When he grabbed her breast, Ellard snarled but Gweneth acted quicker and smacked the reiver over the head.
“I have no weapons, you numbskull moron, and certainly none there. Stop trying to cop a feel.”
Ellard tensed, ready to spring if the stinky Scothage decided to belt Gweneth back.
Instead, Stinky chuckled, unabashed by her chastening. “She be right. No weapons. Soft, sweet-scented breasts.” He grabbed his crotch and did an offensive hip rock. “I be voting to keep her.”
“Darrack won’t agree if we be getting good currency in exchange for her safety,” Pouter-chick said. “Though she be a tasty wench.”
“I am not—”
Ellard elbowed her in the ribs, and she glowered, rubbing the spot. “Ow, that hurt.”
“Don’t you be beatin’ on her,” Pouter-chick warned. “We get top currency for her if she whole. Make someone a good rootin’ wench.”
“Ah…did you…” Gweneth trailed off, eyes wide and at a loss for once.
Despite the circumstances, Ellard bit back a grin. Gweneth’s splutters were very cute.
“To the cells with ye,” Stinky ordered. His long, single plait fell over his shoulder with the force of his gesture. “Ye be walkin’ in front. No skullduggery, aye, or there be consequences.”
“Consequences,” Pouter-chick taunted, his black beard bristling in silent laughter, the series of small braids holding his hair back jiggling. “That be fightin’ words.”
“Idjit,” came the reply.
Ellard witnessed the twinkle of the man’s eyes.
These men were a solid team and knew each other well, but then, so did he and Gweneth.
Somehow, they’d get out of this mess since the reivers obviously didn’t intend to kill them.
Opportunists, they wanted currency. He’d heard the Scothage race practiced thrift, which would work to their advantage in this case.
Arranging a ransom or selling them to the highest bidder would take time.
Ellard took in their surroundings and memorized their route through the ship. Scuffed gray and more gray.
Gweneth walked at his side, equally attentive, and pride suffused him. She might be young, but she acquitted herself well thanks to Ry and his crew.
A feminine scream rippled along the gray corridor.
At his side, Gweneth tensed.
“Who are you torturing?” Ellard asked, with a glance over his shoulder.
“The woman who came aboard with you,” Stinky said.
“What woman?” Gweneth asked, her footsteps slowing.
The two Scothage men exchanged a glance.
“We never be torturin’ valuable assets,” Stinky said.
Pouter-chick smirked. “Ooh with the big words.”
“Shutup, idjit.”
“Take the right fork,” Stinky ordered.
Ellard and Gweneth turned as instructed.
“Through the double doors.”