“You leave at dawn. Melkin goes with you.” The Commander is next to me, his sword still grasped in his hand. “I suggest you hurry. I doubt even a young man like Logan can withstand the hospitality of my dungeon for long.”
For one brief, glorious moment, I imagine turning, thrusting my knife through the Commander’s crisp blue military uniform, and watching with pleasure as he learns just how vulnerable a flesh-and-bone man really is.
But I’d never get to Logan before the guards deliver the death sentence I would’ve caused. I let the moment pass and turn to stare straight into the Commander’s dark eyes as I silently promise myself I’ll retrieve the package, secure Logan’s freedom, and deliver justice before the Commander realizes the girl whose loyalty he purchased in blood will be his final undoing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LOGAN
Rachel is alone. I’ve failed her. Bitter regret swamps me, a twin to my awful grief over Oliver, but I can’t give in to it. I have to pay attention and figure out how to get out of this.
The dungeon is a dank, smelly pit carved out of the stone foundation of the Commander’s compound. Individual cells are simply hollowed-out husks within the stone. The walls are slimy with moisture, iron bars block the doorways, and a few half-hearted torches burn along the aisle between cells.
I’m dragged past five cells before the guards reach the one set aside for me. Two of the cells I pass are empty. One holds a gaunt man in filthy clothing huddled on a thin straw palette. One holds a younger man shackled to the back wall. The cell across from mine holds a young pregnant woman wrapped in a coarse brown blanket. She doesn’t look at me.
I wonder which of them is the spy planted here to gain my trust.
After pulling me into my cell, the guards fasten heavy iron cuffs around my wrists, and take my sword, the dagger in my left boot, and my scabbard. While one guard pats me down, looking for additional blades, the other yanks on the heavy, rusted chains attached to the cuffs at my wrists, testing them for weakness. The chains loop through iron circles welded onto the back wall of the cell and restrict my ability to go more than halfway toward the doorway. I ignore them in favor of scanning the ceiling for surveillance devices. I can’t find any, but decide the smartest move is to act like I’m being watched at all times.
If I’m going to escape, I can’t afford a single misstep.
Satisfied I’m weaponless, the guards take my cloak and toss it just out of my reach, leaving me to the mercy of the dungeon’s chill. They laugh as they slam my cage door shut and leave.
Lucky for me, they’re too shortsighted to understand a man’s true weapon isn’t something that slides into a scabbard.
A few strong pulls assure me my chains aren’t coming out of the wall without help. Which means I can’t reach my cloak. Which limits my options.
Fear for Rachel is a constant hum in the background of my thoughts, but I can’t give in to it. The only way I can be useful to her now is to keep a clear head and apply logic to my current circumstances.
I have my boots. My belt buckle. My empty knife sheath. Not enough to stage an escape attempt. I need my cloak, but I refuse to reach for it. I refuse to even glance at it. If I’m being watched, the fastest way to ensure I never see my cloak again is to look like I want it.
My cell has a thin, water-stained palette lying on the stone floor, and a half-rotted wooden bucket shoved into the corner closest to me. Neither seems particularly useful in an escape effort, but you never know what might come in handy.
The shackles bite into my wrists as I stand and slowly pace the back wall, counting the measurements and feeling for drafts so I can calculate how close I am to the outside wall of the dungeon.
Heavy footsteps sound at the main entrance, and I look up to see two guards, blazing torches in hand, precede the Commander into the miserable space.
I move closer to the bucket, putting enough space between me and the door of my cell that he’ll have to come all the way inside if he wants to hurt me.
He doesn’t come to my cell, though. He stops in front of the cell containing the pregnant woman huddled in a blanket.
“Warm enough, Eloise?” he asks without a hint of concern in his voice.
She doesn’t respond.
“I thought you should know your husband has agreed to the terms I set before him.” He looks across at me. “Once he understood your life and the life of his unborn child were at stake, Melkin was quite willing to do everything I asked.”
I keep my expression neutral as a tight band wraps around my chest. Melkin is the only tracker still in the city. Rachel is leaving to hunt down the missing package. It isn’t hard to reach the conclusion that Melkin will be Rachel’s escort in my place.
Why would the Commander need to threaten the lives of Melkin’s family to get him to do his job?
I put the fact that Melkin is being asked to do something he was originally unwilling to do together with the fact that the Commander wants me to know about it, and the band around my chest tightens further.
Rachel. It has something to do with Rachel. Nothing else makes sense. I don’t need the specifics of his plan to know she’s in danger.
Melkin’s wife doesn’t look up at the Commander as she pulls her thin blanket closer to her body, but it doesn’t matter. He never expected a response. This show was for me alone.
His laugh is an ugly thing filling up the space between us as he crosses the aisle and gestures for the guards to open the door to my cell.
I back up until I have several lengths of loose chain at my disposal.
For one brief, glorious moment, I imagine turning, thrusting my knife through the Commander’s crisp blue military uniform, and watching with pleasure as he learns just how vulnerable a flesh-and-bone man really is.
But I’d never get to Logan before the guards deliver the death sentence I would’ve caused. I let the moment pass and turn to stare straight into the Commander’s dark eyes as I silently promise myself I’ll retrieve the package, secure Logan’s freedom, and deliver justice before the Commander realizes the girl whose loyalty he purchased in blood will be his final undoing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LOGAN
Rachel is alone. I’ve failed her. Bitter regret swamps me, a twin to my awful grief over Oliver, but I can’t give in to it. I have to pay attention and figure out how to get out of this.
The dungeon is a dank, smelly pit carved out of the stone foundation of the Commander’s compound. Individual cells are simply hollowed-out husks within the stone. The walls are slimy with moisture, iron bars block the doorways, and a few half-hearted torches burn along the aisle between cells.
I’m dragged past five cells before the guards reach the one set aside for me. Two of the cells I pass are empty. One holds a gaunt man in filthy clothing huddled on a thin straw palette. One holds a younger man shackled to the back wall. The cell across from mine holds a young pregnant woman wrapped in a coarse brown blanket. She doesn’t look at me.
I wonder which of them is the spy planted here to gain my trust.
After pulling me into my cell, the guards fasten heavy iron cuffs around my wrists, and take my sword, the dagger in my left boot, and my scabbard. While one guard pats me down, looking for additional blades, the other yanks on the heavy, rusted chains attached to the cuffs at my wrists, testing them for weakness. The chains loop through iron circles welded onto the back wall of the cell and restrict my ability to go more than halfway toward the doorway. I ignore them in favor of scanning the ceiling for surveillance devices. I can’t find any, but decide the smartest move is to act like I’m being watched at all times.
If I’m going to escape, I can’t afford a single misstep.
Satisfied I’m weaponless, the guards take my cloak and toss it just out of my reach, leaving me to the mercy of the dungeon’s chill. They laugh as they slam my cage door shut and leave.
Lucky for me, they’re too shortsighted to understand a man’s true weapon isn’t something that slides into a scabbard.
A few strong pulls assure me my chains aren’t coming out of the wall without help. Which means I can’t reach my cloak. Which limits my options.
Fear for Rachel is a constant hum in the background of my thoughts, but I can’t give in to it. The only way I can be useful to her now is to keep a clear head and apply logic to my current circumstances.
I have my boots. My belt buckle. My empty knife sheath. Not enough to stage an escape attempt. I need my cloak, but I refuse to reach for it. I refuse to even glance at it. If I’m being watched, the fastest way to ensure I never see my cloak again is to look like I want it.
My cell has a thin, water-stained palette lying on the stone floor, and a half-rotted wooden bucket shoved into the corner closest to me. Neither seems particularly useful in an escape effort, but you never know what might come in handy.
The shackles bite into my wrists as I stand and slowly pace the back wall, counting the measurements and feeling for drafts so I can calculate how close I am to the outside wall of the dungeon.
Heavy footsteps sound at the main entrance, and I look up to see two guards, blazing torches in hand, precede the Commander into the miserable space.
I move closer to the bucket, putting enough space between me and the door of my cell that he’ll have to come all the way inside if he wants to hurt me.
He doesn’t come to my cell, though. He stops in front of the cell containing the pregnant woman huddled in a blanket.
“Warm enough, Eloise?” he asks without a hint of concern in his voice.
She doesn’t respond.
“I thought you should know your husband has agreed to the terms I set before him.” He looks across at me. “Once he understood your life and the life of his unborn child were at stake, Melkin was quite willing to do everything I asked.”
I keep my expression neutral as a tight band wraps around my chest. Melkin is the only tracker still in the city. Rachel is leaving to hunt down the missing package. It isn’t hard to reach the conclusion that Melkin will be Rachel’s escort in my place.
Why would the Commander need to threaten the lives of Melkin’s family to get him to do his job?
I put the fact that Melkin is being asked to do something he was originally unwilling to do together with the fact that the Commander wants me to know about it, and the band around my chest tightens further.
Rachel. It has something to do with Rachel. Nothing else makes sense. I don’t need the specifics of his plan to know she’s in danger.
Melkin’s wife doesn’t look up at the Commander as she pulls her thin blanket closer to her body, but it doesn’t matter. He never expected a response. This show was for me alone.
His laugh is an ugly thing filling up the space between us as he crosses the aisle and gestures for the guards to open the door to my cell.
I back up until I have several lengths of loose chain at my disposal.
