Songbird's Cage

Chapter 18

A cry caught in her throat as she found Rory crouching over her, a finger raised to his lips. She nodded, terrified, and he lifted his hand.

"There are people walking towards us," he hissed. "I don't know how many."

She was silent, but heard nothing but the wind in the treetops.

It was sunrise, and Lark realized that he had never woken her up to take her shift. Hitting him on the arm, she gave him a stern look.

"You haven't slept!" she whispered.

An expression of surprise crossed his face, as though he hadn't expected her to notice or care.

"It's not important right now," he said. "You need to be ready to run. Get your horse ready and get back to the road."

Lark got to her feet, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She was shaking, her stomach in knots from fear. Before she could do as Rory ordered, he caught her by the arm.

"Lark," he said, his voice never rising above a murmur. "Whatever happens, go back to the border. The western post isn't far, maybe a day's ride. Go back to the palace and never come out here again."

"You're not coming with me?"

"We're far enough off the road that we can't be seen. Whoever is out there knows where we are, and I can only assume that they know who we are. I can buy you some time, but I don't know how much. So get on the damn horse!"

His words were ridiculous. She wasn't going to leave him after she had gone through so much to find him again. She would argue with him until he had no choice but to let her stay. 

But she saw the determination in his eyes, and knew that arguing wasn't an option, no matter how wrong it felt or how much it hurt to leave him. She couldn't face the nightmare that was the idea of his death.

Lark hurried toward Flyte, her fingers racing across the straps of the saddle. Now she could hear the footsteps of many people moving through the forest. Everything felt jarring and rushed as she put a foot in the stirrup, pulling herself up onto her horse. She looked back as Rory drew his blade. The finely made bastard sword seemed to belong in his hands, his movements with it graceful and practiced. Tears rose to sting her eyes at the thought of leaving him to fend for himself, but she had no weapon to fight with. She had no other choice.

Lark pushed Flyte as fast as she could through the trees. The road wasn't far. She glanced over her shoulder, back in the direction of the camp, in the direction of Rory.

There was a flash out of the corner of her eye, and Flyte reared, throwing her from the saddle.

Pain shot through her as she hit the ground, and she could only lie there, stunned and out of breath. Her head felt like a nail had been driven through it.

Through unfocused eyes, she watched a figure stand over her that was familiar somehow, and dread was like a stone within her. Her arms were seized and she was hauled upright before the man. Lark managed to gather herself together enough to look at him, at his long brown hair, at the scar along his jaw, at the missing tip of the fourth finger of his left hand.

The man from the tavern, when she'd first arrived in the Wilds, the man who'd watched her from across the room, was standing before her.

He stepped forward, grabbing her by the jaw, forcing her face to the side as he studied her features.

"It's her," he grunted. She wrenched away from him, biting down hard on his hand, catching a finger that had strayed too close to her mouth. He yelped, pulling away, but not without losing several bits of skin. She almost regretted it a moment later when he struck her hard across the face.

"Bitch!" he snarled, holding his hand. There was blood, and satisfaction surged through her.

"Find whoever she was with!" the man shouted, and four more men emerged from the shadows of the trees. "I don't want any word of this getting back to those tyrants in the palace, not before it's time!"

Lark was dragged backwards fast enough to keep her off her feet and scrambling for balance. She tried to pull away, but the man on her left twisted her arm agonizingly far back, nearly dislocating it. Anger flared through her as Flyte shied away from one of the soldiers who seized her reigns, but she didn't dare speak. They pulled her through the trees at a steady pace until a scream ripped through the forest. The sounds of a fight broke through the still morning air. Horror flooded Lark's mind, images of Rory being hurt a thousand different ways rushing forth. She suddenly couldn't breathe.

The sound of metal against metal grew deafening to her, ringing in her head as the man with the missing fingertip pushed her to the ground, kicking her sharply in the side as she cried out at the sight before her and tried to rise.

There was a man dying in front of her, clutching at his chest as red poured from in between his fingers.

She didn't care. It wasn't Rory.

Her real fear came from the four men that surrounded her guard, and the six others approaching through the trees.

Rory threw up his blade, blocking a blow that cut towards his head, but it left his side exposed, and he had to lurch backwards to protect himself. 

A man held her down. A gloved hand was over her mouth. She could only watch as Rory stumbled and fell, losing his grip on his sword, the weapon sliding out of his reach. One of his attackers had a long dirk, and stepped towards Rory while he rolled the hilt in his hand.

"You lasted longer than most Esarian soldiers," he grunted.

The dirk seemed like slow lightning to Lark, deadly and bright as it fell towards Rory's chest.

He twisted, dragging himself away from the blow.

But it wasn't enough.

The long knife plunged into his leg. Rory screamed through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into the dirt. A surge of adrenaline went through her, and she tore away from who was holding her, running towards Rory, blind to the countless armed men that surrounded them. All she could see was the blood soaking through Rory's clothes. It was seeping from his shoulder and ribs, but most of all, from his right leg, pouring from the deep wound. She pressed her hands over his as he clutched his thigh, gritting his teeth to muffle his groans.

"Bind the princess," ordered the man with the missing fingertip, hardly looking at the scene. "And finish off the guard."

The warrior weilding the dirk raised it once more.

"No!" Lark sobbed, throwing herself over Rory, putting her body between him and the knife. "Please!"

The man raised his hand. "Wait."

The warrior's eyes narrowed. "Have you gone soft?"

"Arodal, it's not your place to question me. Anyone the princess will risk herself to protect is someone Caradoc will want. Do as I said."

Arodal, the man with the dirk, shoved her off of Rory, who screamed again as her weight shifted away. Arodal shook his head as her guard reached once more for his sword, despite his crippling injury.

"Persistent bastard," Arodal muttered, then stepped on Rory's blade, pinning it to the ground. He seized her guard's shirt, pulling him upwards before slamming the pommel of the dirk into his head.

Rory crumpled.

Lark sank to her knees, yielding to the men who bound her hands behind her back. Arodal strode up to her next, drawing back the knife again.

She saw nothing else.