Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) by J.C. Staudt Page A

like the one that
struck her in that moment. It was true, then; this hu-man who had seemed to like
her so much actually valued her very little. He despised her. She saw that now.
Neacal Griogan and all the other calaihn hated the ikzhehn so
much they had reduced them to mere prisoners and thralls. Neacal could tell her
again that this was about Sniverlik, but the cold zeal in his eyes said
otherwise.
    “I delivered your message,” Lizneth choked out, as the calaihn held her to the ground with knees and hands and elbows. “The Marauders will
never surrender while Sniverlik still lives. If you chase him into the
below-world, he’ll kill you all. If you wait here, you’ll rot in the heat and
never find him. Run back to your home and don’t ever come north again. He won’t
let you live next time.”
    Neacal gave her a broad, open-mouthed smile, full of venom.
“Welcome to my service, little one. You have the honor of being my first
prisoner of war.”
    Lizneth felt cold iron at her throat and ankles. The manacles
clinked shut, pinching fur and skin, and the calaihn hoisted her to her
feet. The familiar sound and weight of the chains dangling from her body made
her feel weaker and more powerless than ever. She was too numb to cry out, too
exhausted and wracked with despair to do anything but stand there, hunched and
defeated.
    “Now,” Neacal said, glowering down at her. “The first thing
you will do as my prisoner is to lead us to Sniverlik’s stronghold. Hold your
chains while you move, little one. If you make noise, you will be flogged. Go.”
    Lizneth didn’t go. She sat where she was and stared off into
the distant mountains, uncaring. She didn’t know where she’d summoned the
courage to do it. Perhaps she’d forgotten the bite of the scourge, or she’d
become suddenly aware that the thought of walking all that way again without a
wink of sleep made her want to die. I really do want to die , she
realized. But no, it was neither impudence nor tiredness which had given her
the strength to defy him. It was hope. Hope for something better, even if that
something was death. She knew then for a certainty that no amount of pain or
fear could break a heart filled with hope.
    Someone put a whip in Neacal’s hand. Lizneth could hear the
leather braid creaking as he stretched the coils. A crowd was gathering, the
warriors and porters and cooks and warlocks standing still and silent as death.
With the whip still coiled, Neacal landed a single firm slap on Lizneth’s
shoulder. He waited for her to stand.
    She didn’t move.
    He hit her harder, in the same place.
    This time the blow stung, but she didn’t let herself make a
sound.
    “Up,” he said. “On your feet.”
    Lizneth ignored him.
    He gave her a whack across the head, then dropped the coil
and let it dangle in front of her, making sure she could see it. He circled
around behind her. She heard him take two long backward strides. The whip
climbed, then broke the air like thunder.
    A slash of pain ran down Lizneth’s spine. Anguish surged
within her, sharpening to unbearable heights within the span of a few seconds.
She felt the wound open, felt a trickle of blood run down her back.
    Neacal was perplexed. “Are you so determined to be stubborn?
It would go better for you if—”
    A lookout shoved his way through the crowd and stood before
Neacal. “ Gisheino ,” the calai said, out of breath. “ Muirrhadi…
yarutrobaid .”
    The crowd erupted into a churning maelstrom. The hu-mans scattered,
and the battle call went up. “ Trobaid muirrhadi! Trobaid muirrhadi! ”
    Lizneth turned to the east, where the light-star had risen to
an orange ball of liquid fire above the mountains. Sniverlik had told her he
didn’t take advice from parikuahn . Yet he was attacking the calaihn in the blind-world in broad daylight. What was his aim, if not to take Neacal
by surprise? His Marauders would suffer in the heat, making any possible
victory a hard-fought one. Lizneth