Galen remained motionless as rough hands patted him down. A second, smaller figure did the same to Behn. Half a dozen more stood in the blue shadows of snow-clad trees, holding drawn bows, and he guessed there were as many again at his back. All wore thick layers of winter clothing, with scarves that obscured the lower part of their faces.
Above, those trapped in the nets swung silently, causing flurries of snow to fall in little swirls. They had been taken completely unawares and now had no choice but to surrender and pray that their captors proved merciful.
"Unarmed," the one inspected Galen concluded in an oddly soft voice.
"Same," the other concurred quietly, and stepped away from Behn to point up at the nets. "The others have weapons."
"They are not barrowlings."
"Obviously, they are not barrowlings. Thank you for the keen observation, Finvar."
The first speaker had a deep voice, while the second's was lighter.
"What do we do with them?" asked the first.
"Depends." The second drew a knife and tapped the side of the blade beneath Behn's ear and addressed Galen. "Who are you? Answer quietly."
Galen unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and sucked in a breath. The adrenaline coursing through him warmed his blood like fire, and yet a shiver shot down his spine.
"I am... Ga-Galen," he stammered. "We are... s-simple travelers."
"Whence do you travel, and to where and what for?"
"We come from Thryn," Galen breathed, "and seek passage to Sakkara. We are... I am... We..."
His mind locked up like a rusted hinge. The truth would not serve, and he literally could not invent a lie to save his life.
"We're taking Princess Trissandra to meet her betrothed!" Behn blurted. "That's right—you're dealing with royalty, scum! So you better not touch a hair on her head, or you'll have the Thrynian Guard to deal with!"
Galen groaned inwardly. Even bandits with half a brain between them would see through that one; not to mention the fact no one would ever be the wiser if these people chose to slaughter them.
"Royalty, is it?" The lighter-voiced figure looked up at those held aloft in the nets. "Strange road for royalty to take. There are less difficult, and less dangerous, ways into Sakkara. But it seems you have discovered the perils of this path already."
The figure looked down at Obi where he lay, pale and unconscious, and half covered in snow where Behn and Triss had inadvertently dropped the makeshift stretcher.
Seizing on this opening, Galen spoke, raising his voice a little to address the smaller figure, who seemed in control.
"Please—we were attacked by barrowlings and our friend is injured. He needs medicine, and—"
"Quiet!"
The figure at his back struck him a glancing blow, prompting loud protests from above. Then a hand grasped his hair and wrenched his head back, and a blade pressed against his throat hard enough to cut the skin and send a trickle of blood down his neck.
"I said QUIET! Or you will be silenced!"
In the wake of these words, which were bellowed despite the command they contained, a ringing silence descended beneath the trees. Galen stared up and saw Sev's pale face looking down at him, a trace of blue fire in his silvered eyes, and knew their lives balanced on a knife's edge—his own quite literally.
YOU ARE READING
Healer of Sakkara
Fantasy17-year-old Galen lives with his adoptive father in a small province called Thryn. He doesn't look like the other people there, and the only clue he has to his true origins is a silver pendant that belonged to his mother. One day, while gathering h...
