Page 213 of Sword & Shadow
As he spurred his horse away, Evylin settled her head against the bars. Her gaze held Deckard’s steadily. Her leg pressed against his in acknowledgment.
They studied one another in the ensuing silence, taking clear stock of each other’s safety. The cloth gag was so tight it caused her hair to bow around her cheeks, but the angry welt was her only sign of harm. Her breathing steadied, and he could have sworn she was trying to tell him something.
Ropes digging into his chest, arms, and wrists, Deckard tried to adjust his seating. It did little good. Evylin’s foot pushed against his thigh. By the occasional glance through the bars, he knew they’d left the rolling hills of Vaura Reach behind, heading through a mountain pass. The presence of pines and moss-covered stones provided a monotonous background totheir journey. Shafts of light melted past the clouds, catching in Evylin’s amber eyes as they locked with his.
The corner of her mouth lifted.
Deckard furrowed his brow.
Despite her gag, Evylin managed to smirk. Then he felt the toe of her boot slip under his thigh.
Deckard scoffed in amusement. Here they were, captured and on the way to be put to death, and the woman was flirting with him. Blatantly and unabashedly flirting.
Understanding the intention behind her affection, knowing she was attempting to convey her apology for leaving him, Deckard let out a long breath, allowing himself to relax. He softened his expression, resting his boot gently against her leg.
“I know,”his stare told her.
The rider returned then. He passed along the message that Caustin had ordered them to keep a cautious eye on Evylin but not to worry about her escape. With a name for the leader, Deckard peered through the bars, trying to perceive which rider he was, but it was impossible to see much from the wagon. He wondered at this Caustin’s temperament. He ran an efficient, obedient crew; that much was certain. But through what means? Was he a harsh, violent man who ruled through fear? Or was he reasonable and practical, the sort of man you could reason with?
Periodically throughout the day, the guard took a bucket from a hook on the bars beside them and ladled water over their gags, one by one. It was an effective, if demoralizing, way of slaking their thirst. Once, he’d forced a vial of milky-white liquid down Auden and Ilain’s throats. More viastasis, Deckard assumed.
When the sun hung low in the dusky sky, the wagon finally came to a halt, pulling off the road. Nothing had changed in the terrain. They were still moving through the mountain pass, the rock face towering high above them. Deckard had determined bythe sun’s trajectory as the day passed that they were moving east toward the border between Vaura Reach and Wauld.
Mouth dried out from the gag and his body aching, Deckard watched the men mill about, setting up their camp. The smoke of a campfire singed his nose first, the mouthwatering scent of seasoned meat following shortly after. Only one tent was erected.
A group of men clustered around the wagon as one approached the door. He unlocked it and stepped in. “Time for vittles,” he said in a clipped Waulden accent.
The five Ephrians perked up while the Calders remained motionless. The guard stood. “Which one first?” he asked.
Deckard and Evylin shared a look. “First” suggested that their meals would be taken separately. There would be no conversation, no moment to take comfort together.
“Back to front,” the man said, then gestured to Deckard.
Together, the men worked their way to the back of the wagon. The newcomer crouched down in front of Deckard. “Here’s how this is going to work,” he said, reaching for the bindings around his chest. “One at a time, I’m going to let you out. You’ll have one minute to relieve yourself, then you’ll be given a meal. You have five minutes to eat it. Once that time is up, you’ll be brought back here and tied again, and we’ll move on down the line. No negotiations, no questions, no fights. Got it?”
The final knot came free. Deckard straightened his shoulders, arching his back away from the bars. He glanced at the Relic, relieved that it remained disguised.
At Deckard’s nod of understanding, the guard and his compatriot hauled Deckard up. After the Keep’s exertion and no rest since, he stumbled as they guided him out of the wagon. His head spun even with the solid ground beneath him. He looked back at Evylin as they untied his hands and slipped off his gag.
Deckard worked his jaw, his lips raw and chapped.
“No talking,” the man ordered, then clamped a hand around Deckard’s arm, pulling him toward a small stand of trees.
The man stood resolutely to the side, allowing Deckard to turn his back to relieve himself. He hated to think of how Evylin would be handled when her turn came. Would they give her a semblance of privacy?
Taking the moment given to him, Deckard unbuttoned his coat and slipped the Night Relic beneath his shirt. He only refastened a handful of the buttons to make it appear that he’d wanted to get more comfortable rather than hide the necklace.
Once his minute was up, his guard led him to a large campfire near the wagon. Dozens of men stood guard around the fire. Two stools awaited, one already taken up by a broad-chested man. His light brown hair was streaked with gray, and his square jaw bore a long, vicious scar. Cold, calculating eyes watched Deckard’s every move. He wore the dark purple, military style coat that marked him as a liege officer.
This was the leader: Caustin.
Guided to the empty stool across from the burly man, Deckard took a seat. He kept his expression neutral and his demeanor unthreatening. These men were smart and thorough. Escape was a narrow enough possibility. Signs of defiance would tighten their already restrictive bonds.
“My name is Caustin,” the leader said, his accent thick around his gravelly voice. “I run this outfit. I’ve had my men build this fire close to your wagon so your comrades can hear me when I give my rules.”
Deckard accepted the bowl of broth, with the barest flakes of meat and sinew floating in the liquid, handed to him. A crust of bread was tossed to him next. “I’m sure they’re listening eagerly,” he replied, voice scratchy and thick from disuse. “As am I.”
Caustin’s gaze narrowed. “As you’re the first out, I’ll grant you a pardon. First rule: No talking. Not to me, not to my men, and not to one another. Second, no running. We may not be permitted to kill you, but we won’t hesitate to sever your hamstring.”
