Potent: Book 1

Chapter 32: Reaching a Pitch

Ber, Day 25 of Melia, Solar Eclipse, Year 602

Hare's Claw, Ingredient. See illustration. Rhizome with innate healing properties. May help relieve pain and especially inflammation. —Arcane Herbs and Their Uses, Vol. 1

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Moaning softly, Craix stirred.

She was cold. The ground beneath her was hard and cold. Her hands and feet were numb and cold. She attempted to move her arms but couldn't.

It was so dark—but she could hear a muffled din nearby that suggested daylight and duties. She listened. The clanging of a blacksmith's anvil. Children playing. The slosh of water being emptied from a bucket.

She opened her eyes all the way and was preparing to panic at the persistent blackness when she realized they'd put some sort of loose sack over her head. The fabric was thick, but she could just discern a little weak light from between the tightly woven fibers.

When she'd come to, her head had been squashed down into what felt like clay or hard-packed dirt.

Frustratingly, one of her legs had fallen asleep under her. She pushed and pulled her way to a seated position and felt around herself. The strangers had stacked her wrists on top of each other and lashed them together behind her back—there was little she could do about that. The shedding ropes were tight and bit into her skin. With her fingers, she reached down into the ground behind her but only succeeded in collecting a good deal of dirt under her fingernails.

There—lumber. Craix felt around behind herself until her arms ached. As far as she could tell, a large wall of large wooden timbers shot upward behind her. She moved to stand, intending to follow the wall and see how far it went. A sharp tug on her ankles tripped her, and the tightness she felt told her unmistakably that her feet had been bound by ropes as well.

She changed her tactic and turned herself around, falling back down into the dirt so she could feel at the ropes about her feet with her bound fingers.

Her breath came short and she felt the beginnings of fogged perspiration collecting inside the sack over her head.

Awkwardly following the thick, fibrous ropes, she determined that her ankles had each been secured to a large single timber buried in the dirt near her. It was too big in diameter for her to clutch in one hand and still retained some rough bark from when it had been felled, but more than that she could not tell.

The back of her head ached painfully, and she recalled with a sickened feeling her captors slamming something hard into the tender flesh there. She had no way to tell how badly she was actually injured. There was a nasty recurring twinge in her lower back as well.

Craix appeared to be alone at the moment. She didn't know how long that might last.

Moving feverishly, she felt about the pole where the ropes securing her ankles were. The knots were many, and very tight.

Her numb fingers closed around one or two and she began to pick at them with her fingernails.

"Leave off, boy," came a woman's low, dangerous voice, startling her.

Craix made the conscious decision not to jump and ignored her, continuing to pry at the tough ropes with her tightly bound fingers.

"Mind me," said the woman warningly.

"Fuck you," Craix told her through the cloth over her head.

Without warning, something icy-sharp bit into her fingers, and Craix screamed at the white-hot pain. She felt the trickle of warm blood well up and fill the gaps between each appendage as she clenched them together against further injury. I'll have to be extremely careful with this lot, she considered, her mind reeling with the shock of it. Her father's recommendation came flooding back to her then; Craix should obey anyone who's blade is faster than their mouth. Stay alive, that's most important.