The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,88

trust you to keep quiet? No screaming.”

I nod. He moves us down the passage, his arm tight around my neck.

“Why are you doing this? What do you want?” My voice is raspy.

“No questions.”

“But–”

“Shut it, or I’m gagging you. You’ll figure things out soon enough.”

He pushes me along in front of me. I can barely focus through my panic. I’d forgotten how long this passage is, but finally I smell fresh air. We must be near the opening. Moray ties my hands behind me with what feels like a thin but strong piece of rope.

“Please, you don’t need to do this,” I whisper.

“Yeah, I do, actually. Orders. You’re banished for colluding with the enemy, or something like that. Tell you the truth, I wasn’t listening all that close.” He jerks the knot tight.

“Orders? Whose orders?”

“Who gives all the orders around here? The Three. Now, hold still and keep quiet. Fight me, and I promise I won’t be any kind of a gentleman about this.”

He pushes me back on the ground, my hands pinned under me. I’m even more confused—for about a second. He kisses me, his lips covering my mouth like slabs of meat. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and I gag. When his hands rove down from my chest to my abdomen, I do the only thing I can think of. I bite down. Hard.

Moray roars and rears back. I turn my face away, expecting the blow, but his fist lands in my stomach instead. Tears leap to my eyes.

He paces around, cursing me, but he can’t really form the words. I try very hard not to cry. He leans over me, a revolting mixture of blood and spit dribbling across my face. Then he slaps me.

“You blind bith. I don’t want Bear’s theconds anyway.”

I would laugh if I didn’t think he might kill me. He yanks me to my feet and I turn to face him. My next move will be a knee between his legs.

I don’t get the chance. Moray pushes me backward out of the cave. Then he spins me around, and herds me into the trees. Branches whip my face and arms, but I don’t make a sound, and he sure doesn’t stop.

Suddenly the ground drops out from under me. I don’t fall far, but there’s a sickening pop in my ankle when I hit, and blinding pain. The lower part of my leg shakes with it. I grit my teeth and hold in a moan. I don’t want Moray to know how much it hurt. Something falls next to me.

“Thu bad you don’t have any food or wather in there.” It must be my pack. “Poor Bear, he’th worried about where hith intended got to. But maybe ith better thith way conthidering who you were with, looking for the Wathers.” He spits, hitting my bowed back. “Good luck, traither.” His footsteps retreat.

I lie on my side, stunned from the blows to my stomach, face, and ankle—not to mention the sudden change in my circumstances. I take slow, deep breaths, controlling the urge to vomit. I don’t want to be stuck with a pile of stinking sickness.

When the nausea subsides I try to crawl, hoping to figure out where "here" is. My ankle throbs as I creep around. It’s obviously some kind of hole in the ground, roughly circular, and a little more than a man’s height in each direction. The floor beneath me is hard-packed dirt. I know I’m not near our clearing, or the Lofty walkways, given where the tunnel we traveled lets out. This is an uninhabited part of the forest.

I stand with effort, keeping most of my weight on my good ankle, and turn my face up to the surface. It’s pretty much night now; only a weak, watery light trickles in. I run my bound hands around the smooth sides of the pit. I can’t find any rocks, roots, or other signs of vegetation. From what I can tell, the top of the hole is no more than a few feet over my head, but even with two healthy ankles and unbound wrists this probably wouldn’t be an easy climb. The pit seems man-made. Was it dug just for me?

I slump back down, minding my aching ankle. How long can I last in here, without food or water, and with no hope of rescue? I’m already thirsty and hungry from walking all day. A dullness steals through my mind and panic scrabbles in my chest, making it hard to breathe