Chapter 3 Fcking Fetch #2
Gault looked up from where he’d been scratching at a stain on his tunic. His eyes were gleaming, and his half-smile had an edge that made the hair on my neck stand up.
“The great warrior and General, Melek Handras, admits there is something he cannot do? How can it be?” he drawled. “The legends are clear, Melek: You regularly achieve the impossible. Or… haven’t you heard?”
I didn’t back down. These dark moods hit Gault every so often, and the Fetch’s taunts had no doubt landed a lot harder than he’d let on. So I swallowed back the curse and shrugged.
“I’ve told you how dangerous it is to listen to rumor, Gault,” I said with a wry smile.
The man snorted and flapped one hand. “Figure it out, Melek. Do what needs to be done.”
“I would just like your permission—”
“I said, figure it out. And bathe her while you’re at it. She reeks. If I’m to question her again or be in her presence, she needs to be clean.”
“Yes, Sire,” I said through my teeth, bowing to the King, and forcing the Fetch to her knees in front of him, before turning and pulling her out of his presence, my head spinning both with the knowledge she’d provided that needed further exploration, and with the problem of what the fuck was I supposed to do with her?
I was about to step out of the tent when I realized that while she was pale, there was new color in the high points of her cheeks, and we were about to cross the tent city.
I couldn’t risk losing her. And I didn’t want her dead—yet. Which meant I couldn’t risk her taunting any of the others who would leap into a rage at the smallest excuse.
I turned back to Gault, and cleared my throat.
“What?”
“You said anything… Can I make use of one of your ball gags?”
Gault’s head snapped up, his brows high—then he broke into a throaty laugh. “Melek Handras, Purveyor of the Impossible, and Pervert. Please, be my guest.”
He nodded towards one of the chests in the corner and I dragged her in that direction, ignoring the look of horror on her face as I used one hand to flip the heavy lid of the chest open and stir the contents within until I found what I was looking for—a ball-gag the size of a small apple on a pair of leather straps.
Her eyes went wide as I turned her around and shoved the ball into her mouth—or tried to. At first she fought me like a horse resisting the bit—teeth clenched and lips pressed tightly down.
“Take it, Fetch,” I growled. “It’s this, or death. There are no alternatives.”
Her brow furrowed, but a moment later she let go of her breath and reluctantly opened her mouth so that the ball slipped in behind her teeth, but over her tongue—keeping her jaw open but her mouth full. Even if she tried to speak, nothing would be discernable.
“Good girl,” I purred, just to piss her off as I turned her to tie the leather straps behind her head, tugging them tight.
A low, angry noise started in her throat that reminded me of a cat.
But I ignored it. Nodding my thanks to Gault one final time, I pulled her hands behind her back and clamped both of her wrists in one hand, while I took a fistful of her hair and the gag-ties in the other and steered her for the door, snapping at the guards outside that we were coming out.
The guards—both those assigned to the royal tent, and the others that we’d sent to circle the perimeter—snapped to attention as I shoved her through the tent flap and out into the camp and we were bathed in the watery sunlight of the Dragtharn plains.
A fist of my men surrounded me the moment we were clear of the King’s guards, all of them surprised and curious when they saw my prisoner, but there wasn’t time to explain.
I marched forward, growling at them to keep eyes out for more intruders, then kept my own gaze peeled for any sign of her comrades that I had no doubt were watching, even if from a distance.
Fucking Fetch.
The sky overhead was mostly gray, matching the rugged boulders and craggy rock formations that pushed out of the dirt here like pimples on the ass of a giant. Formations that became more plentiful, and larger, the closer we got to the hills.
As near as we could measure it, our camp was at the southernmost border where the plains of Dragtharn became rolling forests and met Zaryndar. Our shelters sprawled at the base of a cluster of hills that shielded us from sight on the Zaryndar side.
The battlefront was half a day away and north—beyond Noctharrow Haven, the Dark City.
Positioned at the intersection of the borders of three lands and populated mostly by thieves, it was a haven for refugees, merchants and travelers.
But few within its fortress walls were willing to put their lives on the line for someone else’s nation.
Even the Mercenaries went to Noctharrow to rest and relax.
Most were more concerned with saving their own skins, and as long as they were offered safe passage, wouldn’t fight unless they were being paid coin.
So, we’d taken the city almost effortlessly.
And yet, an hour’s march beyond that, where Zaryndar shared a border with Tuskarria and the plains turned to low mountains surrounded by swampland, we’d finally been forced to slow our advance.
When they weren’t fighting, our soldiers were camped a mile inside the front. But the strategic minds and the King couldn’t be within reach of the front in case we were turned back.
So, I placed the war camp here because the gnarled forest, rocky hills, and strange, scarred land allowed us to place watchers on high ground and in trees, and made the position difficult to approach unseen. At least, by creatures who walked with their feet on the ground.
The camp sprawled in a bowl of land that lay at the foot of the largest rock formations in this area. However, the strategic position for scouts and patrols left daily life wallowing in the mud of the hollow.
Hundreds of soldiers tents and campfires lay in an ever-widening spiral around the central, critical structures: The stables that housed our animals—a tent so large it was practically a pavilion and the only place we erected temporary fences—the segmented tents and bivouacs for medical aid, cook tents, blacksmiths, weaponry masters, hounds and handlers, and the countless other resources and people that were needed to keep an army alive and winning.
And of course, the Royal marquee just south and west of center, because I’d urged Gault to make use of the rise of the land to position himself in a place even harder to be reached by enemies, and protected on every side by every able-bodied warrior in camp.
Or so I’d thought.
Here I was, shoving not just an enemy, but a fucking female ahead of me through camp.
When we reached the intersection of main paths—scattered with hay every couple of days in an attempt to keep the mud from actually sucking off our boots—I hesitated, considering which route was best to take her to my tent.
We were already drawing attention. Neph walking the paths or working alongside them, stopped to look and point at the prisoner. Surprised and curious, they called to their brothers to come see me marching a Fetch by her hair.
Between the scent and sight of a fresh woman, the stories would precede me to dinner tonight. Gritting my teeth, I chose the path that wove between the soldier’s tents and the stables. It would take longer, but we would meet fewer Neph and be less likely to incite a frenzy.
Leaning closer to the guard at my right—a young but strong male with amber eyes—I looked around to make sure there was no one else close enough to hear.
“Go see the Handlers. I need an empty hound cage brought to my tent immediately—in full working order. If they ask why, or try to delay, tell them the order comes directly from the King.”
“Yes, Sir!” His surprise was plain, but he didn’t question me, sprinting off in the direction of the stable-tents as I steered the Fetch, ignoring the shocked and amused looks of the men we passed.
I tipped my head at the next guard following at my heels and eyed her so he’d know not to speak openly in front of her.
“Has Jann been advised that I’m back in camp?” I asked quickly.
“Who, sir?” the young man asked nervously. I had to fight not to grind my teeth.
“Find a messenger and tell them that General Handras is personally sending for Jannus the Halfling—I need him in my tent as quickly as possible, delaying only if it affects our efforts in battle.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Another young man dispatched, another short tug of war with the Fetch who was trying to turn to meet my eye over her shoulder, but I wouldn’t allow it.
Somehow I needed to bathe her. And to delay our arrival at my tent so that the cage would already be in place.
And then I needed Jann’s eagle eye on the entire picture—how the hell to make use of her, to test her insight and ensure it was true, and then to get to the battlefield myself to win this fucking thing when there were Aethereans involved.
Fucking fuck!
I inhaled deeply to calm myself, then regretted it immediately when I was drenched in the stench of mud and animal shit because we were close to the stable-tents. But as we rounded a corner on the trail and a handful of young guards cheered my name from behind me, a water trough caught my eye.
For the first time since I’d walked into the King’s tent, I smiled.
Two birds with one stone.
Sending a glance over my shoulder to the guards still following me, I warned them. “Stand back.”
They frowned, but slowed their pace as I wrapped an arm around her waist, lifted her to my shoulder, then took the two steps to the trough and dropped her into it, clothes and all.
Her muffled squeal was quickly silenced by the water. Taken by surprise and fully submerged in the narrow space, it took her a moment to realize her hands were free and she could grab the sides to lift herself out.
Every Neph in sight was laughing by the time she shoved herself up, displacing water in a noisy slosh that seemed too large for her small frame.
Waves splashed to join the puddles in the mud when she reared out of the water, grasping for the metal side of the trough and bending, slumping against it, her shaking hands grabbing for purchase on its lip to keep herself upright.
I waited for the deep, wheezing inhale through her nose since the ball gag likely kept her from breathing through her mouth, but there was nothing. Just a bedraggled Fetch, sagging over the side of the trough, strands of her hair plastered to her face, her shoulders heaving… yet no sound.
The others continued to laugh and jeer, the younger ones moving on with their day, unaware of what she was, probably assuming she was just a human slave who’d been captured and brought back for whatever use I would put her to.
Then one of her hands slid off the top of the trough, and she dropped awkwardly against its side, her feet sliding out so that she slipped back into the water and—
I cursed, catching her by her hair as she was about to slide under the surface again and yanking her up to a sitting position. Which was when I saw how wide her eyes were, and how pale her skin.
Her lips, which had been invitingly rosy and plump when she was taunting the King, were now stretched wide over that ball and as white as her cheeks.
I frowned as our eyes locked.
“Time for a bath,” I taunted her. Her chin dropped, and at first I thought she was just glaring at me…
but then she started scrambling for the gag, but it was as if her hands didn’t work properly—she batted at herself, jerking and pulling at the leather strap that had tangled with her wet hair, unable to get it loose.
I growled and reached for her again—she wasn’t supposed to take out the gag!—but then her head snapped up as I leaned over her and she grabbed me, shaking my arms, her chest heaving, but her eyes beginning to roll back…
Which was when it occurred to me that she still hadn’t breathed.