A door slams open, voices echoing through the space. Alyna jumps, bending over her work. Loran curses the lost moment.

  Then he listens to the voices and fear creeps into his heart.

  “The Lady doesn’t want the cargo damaged, Dexil,” a smooth voice argues, tension audible.

  “But it ain’t the Lady ultimately givin’ the orders, is it, Shadow?” another voice questions, a dangerous note in it. This one, Loran recognises. As does Alyna – Loran sees her tremble and duck her head even lower. There’s a long silence, broken only by the sound of a single pair of footsteps. “What, didn’ think I’d realise that?” Dexil scoffs. “I did some digging – made contact with the big guy. A man who pays for results – not excuses.”

  “This is a mistake.” The clipped voice is dangerous. The assassin Alyna mentioned.

  Dexil steps into the dim cellar light, his companion staying back. Half his face glows in shadowed malice, enough to make Loran shiver. Of all his regrets, getting involved with this man tops the list.

  The mountain of a man shrugs.

  “It’s just orders. Anyway, it’ll be nothin’ a healer can’t fix. He don’t want me to start killin’ – yet.” He turns to face the captives fully. “Now, which one shall I take?”

  Take? Loran wonders, turning over the pieces – not enough yet to form a picture.

  Dexil’s eyes skim over the cages, landing briefly on the huddled figure next to Artemis’.

  “Who…? Oh. Alyna.”

  “Yes, Boss,” Alyna answers, her voice thin and frightened. “I-I’m just ch-checkin’ the runes. A-As ye ordered.”

  “Right, right,” Dexil mutters. “Ye’ve spent more time with ‘em. Who d’ye think I should take?”

  “T-take…? Fer what?” Alyna stutters.

  “Employer wants to send a message to their master.” Dexil smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “A painful one. Wants to remind him o’ the consequences if he don’t obey, like.”

  Loran swallows, his throat even drier than it was a moment ago.

  He understands, though he wishes he didn’t. One of them is going to be taken and hurt. He’s never taken part in a kidnapping, but he knows the method – kidnappers take a finger, or a hand, or worse. Sometimes, screams are caught on sound-crystals and sent as reminders to hesitant loved ones instead – or master in this case.

  Nothing healers can’t fix…. That still leaves a huge amount that can be done.

  His first instinct is to huddle against the pole and lower his head – try to pretend he’s not there. Let someone with more faith in their master suffer for him. Gods, River might even be glad to do so.

  And yet…something inside him revolts against throwing them under the bus. He knows them now, after days where conversations through the Bond were the only things that kept them sane. They remind him of his younger siblings, in those lean years when he was the only one keeping them alive – before they learned to disapprove of where the money that fed them came from.

  “Take me.”

  The words ring loudly around the room. Loran swallows again – had he said that? But all eyes are on him so he must have. Even Alyna has twisted to stare at him, her expression incredulous.

  Loran? What are you doing? Catches-leaves demands, his clicks and rumbles echoing off the boxes around them. Dexil, taking no notice of the noise, starts walking towards him.

  What I have to, Loran tells them, resigned to it. He’s afraid, very afraid of what might happen but…pain is no stranger to him. Nor is torture. At least this time it’s his choice. And it’s for a better end than having half his skin whipped off his back because he accidentally dug up the wrong flowers in the garden. He’s protecting people he’s come to…like. It won’t make the pain easier to bear, but at least it gives the pain meaning.

  I should go! River argues.

  You’re pregnant, Loran points out. And you guys will be more useful in the escape, anyway. He knows he’s one of the weakest of the group – even the Tier one raptorcats, who are the others hit hardest by the lack of food and water, have their claws and teeth to use. Loran himself will be lucky if he’s just able to keep up with the rest of the gang, even uninjured. He’s failed to get them out of here – he might as well be their shield.

  As Dexil comes to a stop in front of him, Loran pulls his mind away from the flurry of rebuttals from his companions so he can focus on the man. When he ran with the gang, he learned that not giving your full attention to the Boss was foolish – and often fatal. He doubts that much has changed.

  Dexil’s huge hand grips Loran’s hair and jerks his head around, the lantern’s glare stinging eyes too long used to dark. The boss stinks of old sweat – enough to cut through Loran’s own strong odor.

  “Huh,” the man grunts, releasing Loran’s hair and shifting to stand up fully again. Loran doesn’t dare move, not even to rub at his smarting scalp. He does try to blink away the spot in his vision, though. “Now there’s a face I didn’t think I’d see again. What are the chances we meet here and now, Loral?”

  “Loran,” he corrects, feeling a sudden wave of indignant anger – here is the guy who forced him to join their gang and steal for them, then left him high and dry when he was caught on a job. And he can’t even be bothered to remember his name?

  “Did ye say somethin’, Lodal?” Dexil asks mildly. Loran gulps, the burning wave of anger abruptly doused. How has he forgotten just how intimidating this man is?

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “No, sir,” he replies, dropping his eyes to the ground.

  “That’s what I thought,” Dexil replies, a hint of smugness that makes Loran grit his teeth again. This time, he doesn’t give in to his urges. “Though I think ye said somethin’ earlier, didn’t ye? Take me, or some such?”

  “Yes, sir.” Loran agrees submissively. Much like the various masters he has had, he’ll get much further if Dexil feels entirely in control of the situation. If he can only ensure that he is the one chosen for whatever the man has planned that won’t be anything a healer can’t fix, then he’ll consider it a victory. Sort of.

  “Now, why would ye offer that? A little rous usually runs and hides – he don’t crawl out and beg the boot to crush him.”

  Loran swallows again, his mind searching for a way to convince the man. He could say he’s the least valuable of the hostages…but then Dexil might decide that his ‘message’ won’t be strong enough and choose someone else.

  “The-the others aren’t human,” he points out. Dexil makes a contemptuous noise.

  “And?”

  “And…it’ll be easier for you to go too far. You-you said you don’t want to kill us. You know humans – you know how far we can be pushed until we…break. The others, you don’t. And…they’re animals.” He silently apologises to the others. “They don’t feel pain like we do. Your message will…it’ll be clearer if you use me.”

  “Hm, though mebbe the senseless screams of an animal are even more motivatin’ than those of a man,” Dexil muses. Loran’s heart is in his mouth. “Anyway,” Dexil continues, his focus snapping back to Loran. “Those are reasons for me to take ye – not reasons for why yer offerin’ yerself.”

  “I…I…fear my master’s wrath if I let his companions be hurt more than I fear whatever you have planned,” Loran admits, absently noting his accent has switched back – his subconscious seeking something to protect him from the man who reminds him far too much of a sadistic master.

  It’s a bit of a gamble – Dexil might be angered at the implication that a ‘spoiled nob’ can be more fear-inducing than him. But it has the advantage of being at least partly true – knowing now that the Pathwalkers are pregnant, he genuinely fears his master’s fury if one of them is chosen instead of him and they lose the eggs. But, if he’s honest, it’s more of a justification for the course of action he’s already settled upon than the actual reason for it.

  He’s said as much as he thinks he should – now he just remains silent, staring at the ground. The bones have been cast. Now, he’s not sure if he’s more hopeful that Dexil will take him up on his offer, or if he won’t. As long as he doesn’t choose one of the Pathwalkers, Loran is hopeful that his master will see reason and won’t punish him for something he couldn’t change – not when he’s fought hard to be the one chosen. If he’s as fair as the stories have painted him, that is.

  Finally, Dexil grunts.

  “Fine. It makes no difference to me.” He slips his hand into his pocket and it comes out with a key. He first unlocks the padlock dangling from the ring in the pillar where the chain from the manacles at Loran’s wrists is fixed. Then he does the same to the chain from Loran’s collar. Gathering both chains in one meaty hand, he hauls Loran to his feet, yanking painfully at his neck and wrists.

  Loran does his best to get his feet under him, but he’s been sitting and lying for too long – though they haven’t gone to sleep exactly, they’re weak under him and threaten to buckle. The continued pressure on his neck and wrists lets him know that if he falls, Dexil is more likely to drag him than to give him a moment to stand again.

  Showing no consideration for his captive, Dexil turns and strides towards the exit. Loran stumbles and almost falls behind him, as wobbly on his legs as a newborn lisan. The fear of just what he’s volunteered for doesn’t help, tugging his mind towards that space he has escaped to many times before. The space where his body feels almost disconnected from him, where words blur into background noise and time stretches like honey.

  He fights the disconnection for the moment. When the pain starts, he will eagerly seek it, but for now, maybe he can use the time to discover some useful information for their escape – or rescue.

  His surroundings move by him in snapshots. Alyna’s staring at him, wide-eyed expression. Artemis snarls and attacks the cage bars. Catches-leaves is fighting his chains and snapping his jaws together loudly. An angry cacophony of voices swells in his mind, their voices blending into an almost indecipherable murmur which urges him to fight, urges him not to fight, tells him he will be well, promises revenge on his behalf….

  A new lump comes to his throat. It’s been a long time since he felt this much obvious care extended towards him. And it just firms his resolution to bear this for them.

  I’ll be back, he promises the group, though he doesn’t pretend to be confident about his condition when he does. He knows Dexil well enough to know the man is a professional. If his employer has specified no killing, Loran will survive this. Though he might wish he hasn’t.

  As he steps through the line of boxes, a voice hisses from above – The Shadow.

  “You’re not taking him out of the cellar, are you?”

  “He’s manacled, ain’t he?” Dexil growls.

  “His Tamer may feel the Bond.”

  “That’s the point,” Dexil snaps, yanking the chains. “What good’s a message if it ain’t delivered?”

  “What good’s a message that leads him straight back here?” The Shadow hisses icily.

  “There’s wardin’ on the building,” Dexil retorts. “He won’t be gone long. By the time the nob catches wind, he’ll be back.” His grin is audible. “Might even think this one’s dead. Good motivation, eh?”

  “You don’t know what this one can do,” The Shadow warns. “What if you’re wrong?”

  Dexil turns toward the sound, smirking. “That’s why yer here – supervisin’.”

  “I’m no hired help,” The Shadow snaps, voice razor-thin.

  “No? Then think of it as protectin’ a mootual investment. If the nob comes sniffin’ around, use those daggers yer famous for.”

  A pause stretches.

  “You’ll regret this, Dexil.”

  He snorts. “If I do, we’ll regret it together.”

  Silence. Then his boots resume their steady march, and Loran stumbles after – grateful for the pause to recover, if nothing else.

  The part of his mind not already lost to terror runs through the exchange again, already searching for how it might help them escape.

  *****

  When his ordeal is over, Loran is returned to the cellar, his body a throbbing mass of pain. He groans as he’s dropped roughly on the cold flagstones, and doesn’t stir as he hears the chink and snick of his chains being locked back to the rings on the post.

  Everything hurts, everything. But at least the stone beneath him signals the end to his active torment.

  His mind, mostly occupied with the pain of his various injuries, struggles to take in the renewed dismay and impotent fury of his companions – they were a rock for him during the beating, but now they threaten to crush him. They sense that and draw back to a quiet murmur.

  The door to the cellar slams. Loran waits for long seconds, listening for the smallest sound that might indicate someone remains. They avoided his ears, at least, just as they avoided too much damage to vital organs – too difficult for the healer to manage.

  Not that the healer did more than close the wounds that were threatening to bleed out. He did nothing for the broken bones. Maybe someone will help him set them later. Maybe he’s not valuable enough for them to bother.

  But, if Luck is with them, they won’t be here long enough for that to matter.

  When Loran’s sure only allies remain, he turns his head and studies his crushed hand. The glint of hidden metal still winks between the swelling fingers.

  Despite the pain in his bruised face, he smiles.

  here!

  here!

  here!

  here