Page 51 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

twenty-five

Enya

I f the Thronelands had seen the spring rains, the boiling sun overhead had already done a fine job of drying them out.

Even with the scarf Oryn had brought back from one of his supply stops wrapped around her nose and mouth, Enya was back to cursing the dust as they meandered south at a pace meant for Colm and Aiden to catch up.

Sun Day had not yet officially marked the start of summer, but if this was spring in the Thronelands, she would hate to see the South.

Sweat dampened her shirt, but when she rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, she regretted the sunburn that would follow.

Anything she didn’t cover seared. She eyed the silly looking wide brimmed hats some of the merchants and wagon drivers wore with envy.

Her companions seemed impervious to the weather and that only made their blasted grace and good looks more irksome.

Oryn’s hovering had intensified after the demondread and as much as she disliked his looming, she started to find strange comfort in her ever-present shadow.

She only hoped his proximity and elven senses didn’t let him pick up how her traitorous heart started leaping about when he brushed too close or when she thought of those torturous moments his arm had been draped around her.

She was thinking about asking Oryn to get her one of those hats when a strange pulse suddenly rippled through the air.

It made Enya’s heart squeeze and stutter as she sucked in a sharp breath.

Arawelo tossed her head and danced to the side, looking for the source.

Cle reared under a cursing Bade. Kiawa alone stayed his course, his eyes rolling wildly.

“What was that?” She spluttered.

Bade got a handle on Cle and spun the gelding back toward Midbury. The ripple came a second time and he heeled the horse to a gallop without a word.

“Colm,” Oryn said, scanning the landscape. He pointed to a small copse of trees that stood to the east. “Wait there.”

“I-”

“No time. Wait for us there. Watch the road and be ready to run.”

“I-”

With a glare that brokered no argument, he turned Kiawa and galloped after Bade.

Enya sat slack-jawed, watching them shrink and disappear in a cloud of dust. For weeks, she’d been lorded over, and now…

She fiddled with her reins. She could run.

But where would she go? Her father was back the way they’d come, if he was still alive.

That would mean running by Oryn, and fast as Arawelo was, she wouldn’t outrun Kiawa.

The road was full of fighting men like Sir Westerton, flocking toward Misthol, eager for their ten thousand marks, one way or another.

She pressed her lips together, studying the dust trails in the distance that marked other travelers.

“Men,” she huffed. Arawelo snorted in agreement. With a shake of her head, Enya turned the mare toward the little stand of trees. She let her pick her way unhurriedly through the grasses that would soon be parched, tearing up mouthfuls as they went.

The shade beneath the branches was a welcome reprieve from the glare of the sun, even if doing as Oryn said felt strangely like some kind of self-sabotage.

She could begrudgingly admit they had saved her in Trowbridge.

And Windcross Wells. And whatever gods forsaken village the inn had been in.

Oryn was teaching her to fight and take her to sanctuary.

But she still wasn’t…free. Not exactly. A comfortable cage was still a cage, wasn’t it?

She turned Arawelo to watch the road and wait. Something that felt very much like self-loathing crept into her middle. Waiting for him felt like giving in. Worse were the little talons of fear that clawed at her insides. He bloody left me. For the first time in weeks, she was alone on the road.

A twig snapped behind her, deeper in the copse, and Enya’s breath caught. Slowly, she turned, scanning the trees. That fear took root, slithering down her spine, drumming up an echo that reminded her of the brigands and her flight through Greenridge Forest.

You’re jumping at shadows.

With a long breath and no sign of movement, Enya turned back to watch the road. Distantly, a cart lumbered from Midbury, but Oryn’s trail had disappeared. Arawelo raised her head at the crack of another twig, ears swiveling. Enya reached for her bow, but a voice stopped her cold.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, lass. No sudden moves now.”

She raised her hands slowly to show she bore no weapon and turned her head.

She found herself staring down the shaft of a nocked arrow.

Her blood ran cold. It suddenly was very much like Greenridge.

Though instead of a crossbow aimed at her heart, a wiry man had the fletching drawn to his cheek, poised to bury it in her back.

Curse you and your orders, Oryn Brydove. She should have run when she had the chance.

“What do we have here?” The bowman asked with a toothy smile.

Despite the heat, Enya sat frozen. She felt a bead of sweat slide between her shoulder blades. “I mean you no harm.” He was the one poised to shoot her, after all.

“What’s a girl doing out here all alone?”

“Just in search of some shade while my companions catch up,” she said with all the serenity she could muster.

He peered around her toward the road. “Don’t see none.”

“They were held up in the village. They’ll be along.” Please hurry, Oryn.

“Aye, Kolvar! Have a look at this.”

Footsteps crunched through the underbrush and a grizzled man with a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once appeared through the trees.

He wore patched, travel-stained britches and scuffed high boots.

A sword hung on one hip, a knife with a wickedly curved blade on the other.

“What’s this?” He asked harshly.

“A girl stumbled in off the road,” the bowman said with a grin. “A girl all alone.”

Enya worked moisture back into her mouth. “My companions are just behind me.”

“Are they?” The man called Kolvar asked, a slow smile spreading across his face. Gold glinted on the fingers stroking his goatee, matching a hoop through one ear. Something about gold on a man covered in patches made her unease boil. “Well, why don’t you wait for them in our camp?”

“My apologies for disturbing you. We did not realize anyone was camping here. I think I will just wait for them on the road,” she said, but the man’s bow creaked, keeping her rooted to the spot.

“I’d like to know what a girl is doing out here alone.”

“I’m not alone,” she said levelly.

Kolvar chuckled. “Big men are they? The whole lot of them?”

Anger caught like dry brush. “Bigger than you.”

“And I bet better with a sword too,” he smirked.

“Blademasters, actually.”

Kolvar chuckled. “Get off your horse.”

Enya was rather tired of men and their orders.

She thought of telling him exactly what he could do with them when a sharp crack across the back of her head stole her breath and set her swaying.

She raised a hand to her scalp on instinct, her fingers coming away wet.

She was staring at the blood, dazed, as Kolvar strode forward and shoved her roughly, toppling her from her saddle.

She cried out when she landed awkwardly on her shoulder.

The air was driven from her lungs as a sickening crunch filled her ears.

Stars exploded in her vision as she rolled onto her back, unable to move her arm.

A round man who looked like a wine barrel on legs came to tower over her, twirling a slingshot in a meaty hand.

Her mind worked slowly, jumbled by the impact of what had surely been a stone against her skull.

“Search her.”

Enya fumbled for her belt knife but the bulky man drove a boot into her hand and kicked it away. This was so much worse than the brigands or Trowbridge and the tangle of panic and rage that came spilling out threatened to strangle her.

“Don’t be difficult, lass.” He squatted next to her with more dexterity than a man of his conformation should have, and his hands reached for the bow still slung around her back.

She tried to shove him away, but another man grabbed her wrists and twisted her arms behind her.

A surge of pain in her shoulder ripped a scream from her lungs.

She tried to kick and thrash, but the barrel of a man sat on her knees, leaving her to do little but drum her heels against the earth like a child throwing a tantrum.

“I do like a girl with a bit of fight,” he chuckled .

Revulsion curdled her insides. “Let me go!” She screamed.

His hands roved over her hips, turning out her pockets as Kolvar and the wiry man emptied her saddle bags onto the ground.

When those hands roamed over her backside, Enya spat.

The barrel shaped man wiped it away and backhanded her with so much force, she saw stars again.

The one holding her arms twisted harder, setting her shoulder afire.

She went rigid and couldn’t find a protest as thick fingers caught on the cord of the signet ring hanging between her breasts.

She could hardly find the air to keep breathing.

He ripped the cord free and held it up to the light. “What’s this? A suitor’s claim?”

Kolvar’s laugh cut off her answer as he held up the jar of powdered dye she used to darken her hair.

Shit.

“Donnal, bring me her waterskin.”

Enya jerked feebly as the wiry bowman hurried toward her.

The quiver her father had given her was slung over his back.

She eyed it and the carving that lay in the dirt at her side, so close, yet out of reach.

The things that kept her anchored were suddenly gone.

She threw her head back into the man who held her, but he twisted her arm so hard, Enya collapsed into his chest, tears rolling down her cheeks.