Warlord's Mercy - Cynthia Sax Page 0,1

covert missions as she held about fending off attackers. “Daisun and his thugs guarded you and the other slaves too closely. You were never alone.”

The Palavian and his horrid males restrained the females, starved them, abused them. The worst was the gags. Their slaves weren’t permitted to speak. They were mute vessels for the males’ vile use.

“Every time I spotted you, you were thinner, your beautiful eyes were duller.” Lea traced the petals of a flower decorating her friend’s final garments. “And I couldn’t do anything to prevent that from happening to you.”

The misery and the wounds etched on Flor’s once flawless face had torn at her heart. It had frustrated Lea until she had wanted to scream.

If she’d had more skills, more experience, she might have been able to free her friend. She could have stopped that deterioration.

But it was too late now.

“You’re dead.” She gazed down at the soft leather.

There was no ability she could obtain to undo that. Her beautiful, rare flower of a friend had been killed, squashed under the heels of Daisun’s monstrous boots.

“I’m sorry, my friend.” Lea tucked Flor’s death garments into a crack in the rock. Har, her selling partner, would retrieve the chest and ass coverings.

No one knew of her agreement with him—how he supplied the rock vulture skins to her and then sold the items she crafted using them, splitting the credits with her.

“He’ll arrange for you to wear these.” Har would bribe the brutes assigned to bury Flor. He would ensure her friend was beautifully clothed when she was lowered into the sand.

It was the final thing she could do for Flor.

“I failed you in every other way.” Lea kissed the palm of her right hand and pressed it against the stone. “But I will see you are respected in death.”

She peered into the nook. Any creature or being could discover the garments. The likelihood of that happening was low, as there were many cracks and many rock facings, but it was possible. The relay point was only utilized for rush garments, for emergencies.

Like the death of a dear friend.

“You were loved, Flor.” Lea wiped the wetness from her face. “Never question that.” She straightened. “Find peace.”

Unable to linger longer, she turned and ran between the rocks, moving silently and swiftly, watching and listening for any indication she was no longer alone.

“You took a risk leaving that last gift for Flor,” she told herself. “You’re already on Daisun’s radar.”

It irked the Palavian that she had escaped him. And his supply of sex slaves was dwindling.

“With Flor gone, he’ll increase his efforts to capture you.”

Voices murmured in the distance.

Lea wedged her form between two rocks and waited, pressing her lips together to stop herself from talking. It was doubtful anyone would hear her, and it was a trial to keep quiet, but she wasn’t taking any more chances. She couldn’t be spotted. By anyone. Daisun’s spies were everywhere.

The sounds of chatter grew louder.

“…the market.” The voice belonged to Stench. That was the name she’d given to one of Daisun’s cruelest lackeys. He never cleaned his garments…or any other part of him. Her nose twitched. He smelled like something long dead. “I’m told that fabricator cunt Daisun is looking for sometimes appears there.”

Lea stiffened. There were only five garment fabricators in the area, and none of the others were female. She must be the cunt they were hunting.

“Will he let us fuck her after he’s done?” Her name for that male was Holes. His garments were in a constant state of disrepair. “She’s small. She’d be so tight.”

She silently gagged, the thought of him touching her unsettling her stomach.

“She’s too small.” Stench’s voice faded. “Once Daisun is done with the cunt, there’ll be nothing left of her. You’d be fucking chunks of…”

Lea couldn’t hear more, and she was grateful for that. She waited until she was certain they weren’t returning, and then she ran in the opposite direction, toward the tunnels she called home.

It was a long trek. Sweat dripped down her spine, underneath her garments. But she didn’t slow her pace. Solar cycles of surviving on her own, without a ship or any other means of transport, had supplied her with lean muscles and extra endurance.

“This land has formed me.” She brushed her fingers over the boulders as she passed them.

Varying shades of color delineated centuries of soil settlement and created intricate designs on its surface, designs she used in the garments she crafted.

“I’ll take these images when I go, and