Captive
Chapter Eleven
The Chosen
I do not go willingly. The moment he releases me, I drive my elbow hard into the void beneath his hood and hear bone crunch.
I had been testing him before—testing my skill against his—but now I fight in earnest. He seizes both of my arms and drags me flush against him. I tilt my face up toward the hollow where his face should be beneath that ungodly cloak and spit.
He goes utterly still. Then he raises his hand.
I flinch, bracing for the strike I am certain is coming, but instead his fingers slip into the void as though wiping my spittle away. The next second, he shoves me so forcefully I crash onto my backside.
“If you wish to behave like a vile beastling,” he says coldly, “I will treat you like one.”
He removes his gloves and gauntlets one by one as he approaches, letting them fall heavily at his feet before seizing the edge of my cloak and yanking me toward him.
The fabric tears beneath his grip and comes away in his hand.
He deflects every hit I try to land until I’m flipped unceremoniously to my front.
Then he wrenches my wrists behind me and, using the material, cinches the binding so tight around them that the material bites into my skin and begins to numb my hands.
Another strip is torn and another.
He works quickly and without hesitation. One long strip binds my ankles. Another, he winds tight around my legs until my knees grind together painfully.
The last strip is for my mouth. He forces my lips apart with thick fingers and shoves a wad of cloth inside. I gag at the foul taste and texture, but he ignores it and secures another strip tightly around my head to hold the gag in place.
Then I am lifted without ceremony and thrown over his shoulder.
His hand grips high on my thigh as he carries me toward his demon horse.
I squirm at the contact, but he does not loosen his hold.
The world tilts and spins before I am dumped across the saddle.
A saddle that had not been there before, high-backed and larger than any I have seen.
It’s bluish-grey with silver accents and symbols that mirror his cloak and armor.
The horse has changed once again too. She stands now in full regalia. A bit and reins of bright silver that gleam in the sunlight. A white cloak rests beneath the saddle and spills over her flanks, trailing off in ghostly smoke that drifts and dissipates into the air.
She turns her head to regard me, and her eyes burn with supernatural blue fire, unmistakably stating that she is not of this world—nor meant for it.
A light silver plating protects her face, a silver guard running down the length of her nose.
Like in many of my nightmares, she presents as the same otherworldly beast who breached this plane the day the Horseman arrived.
And it would appear she is not only bound to him but also loyal to her master.
The Horseman makes an unspoken command—a sharp clicking sound followed by words in the language I have heard them use before.
No. Not heard.
A language I have dreamed of.
They have spoken it in the sparring dreams I’ve conjured.
The black horse immediately snaps to attention and falls into stride beside the white. The Horseman vaults smoothly into his saddle behind me and reaches over my bound form to take the reins.
I twist as much as I can to look at him. When I meet his stare, the ominous pitch-black void where his face should be is all I see. There’s no shadow hinting at bone or skin beneath. Yet, somehow, I know he is staring directly back at me through that emptiness.
“This will be unpleasant,” he says evenly. “But since you managed to get as far as you did, that cannot be helped. Brace yourself, little dove.”
He makes another clicking sound and speaks a single word—“Unosh,” or something close to it.
His heavy hand settles at the center of my back as the white horse begins to trot. Another command, and she surges forward.
What had been merely uncomfortable becomes punishing.
The gallop jars through my spine and rattles my bones.
Bound as I am, I cannot brace myself against it or adjust to become more comfortable.
My body bounces with each powerful stride, breath forced from my lungs in sharp bursts.
It feels like what I imagine those ancient contraptions—roller coasters—must have been like in the world before.
The misery of the ride stretches longer than I expect.
Eventually, the forest thickens, and the dead trees give way to lush life.
A while later, we reach the outskirts of the city.
As we near the walls, a ripple moves through the beast beneath me.
Her coloring fades. The armor dissolves.
The silver regalia vanishes as if it never existed.
The ghostly cloak evaporates into nothing.
Even the saddle shifts beneath me—its structure softening, its scent turning to simple leather and worn oil.
When I turn to look at him, the transformation is complete.
A man sits where the haunting figure sat moments before.
He now wears a black buttoned shirt beneath a fitted leather vest. Small daggers rest in diagonal slots across his chest. Though his hair is whiter than the ash scattered across this land, his brows are impossibly dark, as is the stubble shadowing his granite-cut jaw.
His eyes are both striking and disturbing—but restrained, controlled. They mirror his horse’s—blue and grey, ringed in a faint highlight around dark pupils.
A shiver slides down my spine.
The hidden tattoo at the base of my neck flares in warning, as though whispering, Tread carefully with this one.
I intend to. For now.
What I am not prepared for is the response we receive as we near the gates.
People stop. They gawk. They stare on in stunned silence and part without being told. Their gazes linger on us long after we pass, and some even follow in a sort of daze as though drawn by something they do not understand.
One man bows. Bows!
The vehemence I have kept simmering on low ignites once again beneath my skin. Righteous anger burns hot and bright. The hatred I have held in careful restraint for this immortal rekindles and spreads.
The deeper we ride into the heart of the city, the stronger it grows.
The Horseman, like the politicians in the historical texts I’ve studied, performs as though this is a role he’s rehearsed. He smiles and waves, nods graciously, and bends to shake hands as people approach.
When one man gestures toward me—because the rest seem entirely uninterested in the bound woman slung across his horse—the Horseman simply says, “Horse thief.”
It is not only odd how they react, but it’s beyond strange. They don’t pepper him with questions or prob for more of an explanation. They merely turn all at once and resume their business. Dozens of people moving in unison, their movements somewhat mechanical.
“Mmph! Wha'—wha' d'them?”
“What?” He asks.
When I try to mutter through the gag again, he grins as if the lack of ability to speak clearly amuses him greatly.
Reaching down, he pries the gag out of my mouth and moves it to my lower chin, then my neck.
“What are you doing to them?”
“Just encouraging them to go about their business.”
“By manipulating their minds.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“What else would I call it?”
“They accept it because I demand it so.”
I twist sharply and glare up at him. He is looking ahead, not at me. But those were his words, spoken not aloud, but in my mind.
I tell myself he spoke. That he did not enter my mind. It’s happened before, but I convinced myself it was only my imagination. A byproduct of my reality bending at times.
The same honeyed voice—heavy with his accent—slides through my thoughts again.
It is real, little one. You and I share a connection, it seems. What it is—and why—is what I intend to find out. Until I do, this is how you will remain.
“Your prisoner?” I ask tightly.
A sly grin curves his mouth, and his gaze flickers toward me.
“More like my pet, you could say.”
His devious smirk lingers as we turn left. He murmurs a single word, and the horse increases her pace. We enter a less populated stretch of back alley, and his horse navigates without guidance, clearly knowing the path to the stables.
What awaits me, I am not certain. But I am prepared for whatever outcome presents itself.
We reach the stables without spectacle. Stable hands rush forward the moment they see him.
He dismounts fluidly. Then I’m lifted from the saddle and slung back over his shoulder.
He leads the white horse toward her stall, issuing orders for her to be brushed down and given extra treats for her trouble.
“I can walk, you know,” I mutter, bracing a hand against his back to steady myself.
“I’m sure you can,” he replies evenly, not slowing his stride as he exits the stable, “but that does not mean I will allow it.”
“Why?” I twist slightly, testing his grip.
“What would stop you from running if I set you down? Hmm.”
“Would you believe me if I said I wouldn’t?”
“Should I?” His shifting tone lightens as he replies coolly. “You have given me no indication thus far that you are trustworthy. In fact, quite the opposite.”
His hand shifts—slides higher along my thigh, fingers spreading as if testing my reaction.
“Hey. Stop that.” I jerk against him.
“What?” He does it again, deliberately slower, even squeezes. “This?”
Through my clenched jaw, I answer, “Yes.”
“And why should I?”
“It’s— I just—don’t.” The words tangle in my mouth, far less composed than I’d like.
His steps slow.
Then he stops.
Without comment, he lowers me carefully from his shoulder until my boots touch the ground. His hands linger at my waist a moment longer than necessary before he releases me.
“Does my touching you make you uncomfortable?” His head tilts slightly, and he raises a brow.
“Uncomfortable, no.” It’s a complete lie. “Annoyed, yes.” I don’t want him to know how much it unsettles me. This could be something he can use in his favor.