CHAPTER 54 Wren
Wren
‘A poisoner requires neither strength nor numbers – only patience and an underestimated hand’
– Elixirs and Toxins: A Comprehensive Guide
WREN.
She woke to the sound of her name in the distance and the sharp, bitter aroma of her own smelling salts.
The scent stung her nasal passage, and she jerked back, only to hit the hard bars of a steel cage.
The metal was cold, even through her shirt, which she realized was still soaked through from the storm.
That’s why I’m shivering. Her teeth were rattling, which didn’t help the throbbing of her head.
Gingerly, she reached up to touch her hair, the manacles around her wrists jangling as her fingertips met the matted mass at the back of her head. Her hands came away bloody.
‘She’s awake!’ someone called loudly, making her wince as the sudden sound aggravated the pain.
Slowly, she blinked the world back into focus.
It wasn’t her imagination. She was in a cage. A cage meant for livestock, if the smell was anything to go by . . . and beyond its bars, three members of the People’s Vanguard stared at her.
‘It’s her, alright,’ one of them said. ‘Silas is going to be pleased. But what are you doing here, storm girl? Did your army abandon you after all your lies?’
‘Something like that . . .’ Wren muttered, trying not to grimace as the metal dug into her back. She figured the cage was probably the safest place for her, at least for the moment.
‘She’s not as pretty as the drawings,’ another man cut in. ‘Maybe if she smiled?’
The cage rattled as someone clapped their palm atop it. ‘Go on then, give us a smile,’ the third man jeered.
Wren blinked up at them. ‘You’ve taken me prisoner, chased off my only allies, and you’re telling me to smile—’
‘Donovan, get over here!’ one of the commanders shouted from nearby. ‘Have you secured the perimeter yet?’
‘Just about to!’ Donovan called back before glancing again at Wren. ‘Guess you’ll have to smile for me later.’
Wren watched him go, her skin crawling. ‘I guess so.’
From her crate, she watched as the People’s Vanguard conformed to surprisingly regimented priorities. They secured the perimeter and gathered the maps Kipp had left behind, took inventory of the weapons and armour, and assigned guards to strategic points all around the site.
After a time, a new trio of guards was assigned to watch her, and with them came a captain. He looked at her suspiciously.
‘Why in the midrealms would they leave you behind?’ he demanded.
‘They didn’t mean to,’ Wren croaked.
‘It’s true,’ one of the men chimed in. ‘They were fleeing as we approached.’
The commander’s eyes narrowed as he studied Wren. ‘Why should we believe you?’
Wren shrank back against the bars. ‘I don’t care what you believe.’
He crouched before her, gripping her cage. ‘How many in the force that left you behind?’
‘In my immediate party? There was me and two others,’ she told him truthfully. ‘But before that? Three hundred? Four hundred? I don’t know. They don’t share the logistics with us women.’
‘And you expect me to believe that they left all this behind willingly?’ he barked.
Wren drew a trembling breath. ‘I don’t expect anything.But they were worried about the dark alchemy your forces use.’ She shook her manacles for emphasis. ‘They seemed to think that the Warswords in their company wouldn’t be able to withstand it.’
The commander huffed. ‘Well, that’s true enough at least.’ He straightened and addressed his underlings.
‘I want you to search the tents for any form of correspondence. I want weapons, armour and siege equipment loaded up. If there’s any preserved goods, medicine – even livestock – I want it all.
Take whatever personal items you want for yourselves. We’ll be on their tail soon enough.’
Wren drew her knees up to her chest. They’d taken her belt of potions and the dagger sheathed around her thigh, and she felt naked without them. She hadn’t realized what a comfort the dagger had become to her, how her Warsword’s iron will was with her always.
But she stopped herself from reaching for him through the bond. It was best the Bear Slayer didn’t know how their plan had unfolded until after.
Through the bars of her cage, Wren watched the commander send scouts after Cal and Kipp as he redistributed useful supplies among his own troops and examined the food stores.
‘Are we holding the position or pursuing, Commander?’ one of the men asked, his gaze lingering on the barrels of wine nearby.
‘I’m waiting on reports from the scouts,’ the commander said.
The soldier gestured to the empty wine goblets and tankards Wren had scattered throughout the camp. ‘They know how to have a good time at least.’
The commander clicked his tongue in frustration. ‘Quit your griping,’ he snapped. ‘And if you’re going to drink that, at least test it on the prisoner first. Who knows what they might have laced this stuff with?’
The man who approached her with a fresh goblet was the same bastard who’d told her to smile. Wine splashed over the sides as he shoved it between the bars. ‘Drink this,’ he commanded.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said lightly.
‘I didn’t ask if you were fine. I told you to fucking drink it.’
There was nowhere for Wren to go as he forced the cup to her lips and tipped it back, spilling most of it down her chin but managing to get a mouthful or two down her throat.
‘Somebody needs to teach you some manners,’ he grunted as she wiped the wine from her face and grimaced. It tasted like warm vinegar, nothing like the wine Wilder bought from his friend Marise. But she didn’t spit it out. She made sure to swallow it, made sure they saw her drink it.
She had never been gladder to have taken Cal’s place. It was perfect that it was her in the cage.
‘Well?’ the commander prompted, glancing from his soldier to Wren’s wine-stained clothes.
‘Well, she hasn’t dropped down dead,’ the man said, sniffing the goblet.
‘Fine.’ The commander waved him off.
Stinking of wine and animal, Wren watched as the rest of the company discovered the liquor. They drank as they pilfered the camp, somewhere along the way forgetting to notice that their scouts had not returned from their pursuit of Cal and Kipp.
The campfires were relit, and soon curious glances began to linger on her. Wren knew it was only a matter of time. She’d met plenty of men like them before.
It was the one called Donovan who approached her, leering. ‘Perhaps we should let her out to play for a while . . .’
‘She’s to remain untouched,’ the commander snapped. ‘Un-spoiled.’
‘Bit late for that if she’s been with that Bear Slayer Warsword,’ someone called out from across the fires, a comment that was followed by raucous laughter.
Wren watched on as another hour passed. The nape of her neck prickled as the commander retired to one of the larger tents, and Donovan’s eyes found her again. Predictable. It was all so predictable.
He approached, dragging a stick along the bars of her cage. ‘What’s the matter, storm girl? You never seen a man before?’
‘I have,’ Wren allowed. ‘I just don’t see any here.’
Donovan lashed out, striking the cage with his stick, hard. Wren flinched. The sudden noise and movement made her head hurt all over.
‘I’d watch your mouth,’ Donovan hissed. ‘Might determine how you get treated in a place like this, if you get my meaning. I’d start putting in some effort if I were you.’
Thanks for the advice, Wren wanted to say, but this time she kept her mouth shut, her gaze drifting to the soldiers across the camp. They were already rowdy from the drink, slurring their words and calling for refills.
‘Are you pricks sloshed already?’ Donovan called from beside Wren’s cage. He was leaning on it rather heavily, Wren observed. She could have done without the close proximity. He stank worse than the cage.
The men around the campfires had indulged indeed. Some were stumbling, others drunkenly arguing over whose patrol was next . . . and some of their glassy-eyed gazes fell to her. They cleared their throats as they stood and started to stagger towards the cage.
They meant to make a game of her, that much was clear.
A part of her felt untethered from the whole situation, as though she were watching it unfold from a distance, disappointed to find that men of the midrealms were as despicable as ever.
Perhaps all that time with her Warsword had made her forget this foul side of mankind.
She could feel Donovan’s eager eyes on her, lingering on her wet shirt and form-fitting trousers.
‘Donovan’s got his eyes on the prize,’ someone leered.
She tensed at the attention, and the bastard Donovan noticed with a smug smirk. ‘Reckon you’ll smile for me now, storm girl?’
She said nothing.
In the distance, someone let out a disgusting, wet belch, which was followed by a howl of laughter.
‘Pigged out on the beef stew, did you, Higgins?’
‘And the wine, and the mead,’ came the satisfied reply. ‘And now . . . for dessert.’
Donovan’s knee was bouncing by Wren’s head, but when she turned to him, he cracked his stick against the cage once more. ‘Don’t look to me for help.’
‘That wasn’t what I was looking for,’ Wren muttered, low enough that her captor didn’t hear.
Across the camp, one of the men stood, swaying dramatically on his feet. His comrades called out names and jests about his inebriated state.
Their calls were cut short as the man fell to his knees, and then face-first into one of the fires.
The men launched themselves into action, running for their friend, shouting wildly. And at last, Wren met Donovan’s widening stare.
She let the corners of her mouth turn upwards in an unhinged grin. Donovan’s face drained of all colour, and his hands shot to his head, rubbing his temples hard, a vein bulging in his forehead. He coughed. He cleared his throat. Coughed again, spitting on the ground.
And Wren smiled. She smiled as all around her, the enemy bled from their eyes and noses, as they screamed until they could scream no more.
When at last silence fell across the camp, Wren slid her hairpin from her messy bun and fitted it to the lock of the manacles she’d designed, with a failsafe for Thea. The irons fell away from her wrists after a few flicks of her pin.
Next, she unlocked the livestock cage – the cage she had left behind on purpose. The door swung open, and she climbed out, stretching out the aches and pains from being hunched over for the past few hours, her joints stiff.
There were corpses everywhere, and Wren surveyed the damage with laughter on her lips. Dark satisfaction washed over her as she stepped over Donovan’s body.
She looked down at his swollen face, frozen in pain and fear, blood lining his eyes and nostrils.
‘You were right,’ she said. ‘I did smile for you after all.’