away from me,” the girl warned.
“Easy,” Teardrinker murmured. “You’ve no need of steel anymore, lass.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, if it please you,” she said, voice shaking.
Luka drifted to the girl’s flank, reaching out with a swift hand. But she turned quick as silver, kicked his knee and sent him to the sand. With a gasp, the Liisian found the lass behind him, her gladius poised above the join between his shoulder and neck. His cigarillo dangled from suddenly dust-dry lips.
She’s fast.
The girl’s eyes flashed as she snarled at Teardrinker.
“Stay away from me, or Four Daughters, I swear I’ll end him.”
“Dogger, ease off, there’s a lad,” Teardrinker commanded. “Graccus, put up your crossbow. Give the young dona some room.”
Teardrinker watched as her men obeyed, drifting back to let the girl exhale her panic. The woman took a slow step forward, empty hands up and out.
“We’ve no wish to hurt you, flower. I’m just a trader, and these are just my men. We’re traveling to the Hanging Gardens, we smelled the bodies, we came for a look-see. And that’s the truth of it. By Mother Trelene, I swear it.”
The girl watched the captain with wary eyes. Luka winced as her blade nicked his neck, blood beading on the steel.
“What happened here?” Teardrinker asked, already knowing the answer.
The girl shook her head, tears welling in her lashes.
“Slavers?” Teardrinker asked. “This is bad country for it.”
The girl’s lip trembled, she tightened her grip on her blade.
“Were you traveling with your family?”
“M-my father,” the girl replied.
Teardrinker sized the lass up. She was on the short side, thin, but fit and hard. She’d taken refuge under the wagons, torn down some canvas to shelter from the whisperwinds. Despite the stink, she’d stayed near the wreck where supplies were plentiful and she’d be easier to find, which meant she was smart. And though her hand trembled, she carried that steel like she knew how to swing it. Luka had dropped faster than a bride’s unmentionables on her wedding night.
“You’re no merchant’s daughter,” the captain declared.
“My father was a sellsword. He worked the trains out of Nuuvash.”
“Where’s your da now, Flower?”
“Over there,” the girl said, voice cracking. “With th-the others.”
Teardrinker looked to the fresh-dug graves. Maybe three feet deep. Dry sand. Desert heat. No wonder the place stank so bad.
“And the slavers?”
“I buried them, too.”
“And now you’re waiting out here for what?”
The girl glanced in the direction of Dustwalker’s ironsong. This far south, there wasn’t much risk of sand kraken. But ironsong meant wagons, and wagons meant succor, and staying here with the dead didn’t seem to be on her mind, buried da or no.
“I can offer you food,” Teardrinker said. “A ride to the Hanging Gardens. And no unwelcome advances from my men. But you’re going to have to put down that sword, Flower. Young Luka is our cook as well as a guardsman.” Teardrinker risked a small smile. “And as my husband would tell you if he were still among us, you don’t want me cooking your supper.”
The girl’s eyes welled with tears as she glanced to the graves again.
“We’ll carve him a stone before we leave,” Teardrinker promised softly.
The tears spilled then, the girl’s face crumpling as if someone had kicked it in. She let the sword drop, Luka snatching himself loose and rolling up out of the dirt. The girl hung there like a crooked portrait, curtains of blood-matted hair about her face.
The captain almost felt sorry for her.
She approached slowly across the gore-caked earth, shrouded by a halo of flies. And taking off her glove, she extended one callused hand.
“They call me Teardrinker,” she said. “Of the Seaspear clan.”
The girl reached out with trembling fingers. “M—”
Teardrinker seized the girl’s wrist, spun on the spot and flipped her clean over her shoulder. The lass shrieked, crashing onto the dirt. Teardrinker put the boot to her, medium style—just enough to knock what was left of her fight loose from her lungs.
“Dogger, set the irons, there’s a lad,” the captain said. “Hands and feet.”
The Itreyan unslung the manacles from about his waist, bolted them about the girl. She came to her senses, howling and thrashing as Dogger screwed the irons tighter, and Teardrinker drove a boot so hard into her belly she retched into the dirt. The captain let her have another for good measure, just shy of rib-cracking. The girl curled into a ball with a long, breathless moan.
“Get her on her feet,” the captain commanded.
Dogger and Graccus dragged the girl up. Teardrinker grabbed a fistful of hair, hauled the girl’s head back so she could look into her eyes.
“I promised no untoward advances from my men, and to that I hold. But keep fussing, and I’ll hurt you in ways you’ll find all manner of unwelcome. You hear me, Flower?”
The girl could only nod, long black hair tangled at the corners of her lips. Teardrinker nodded to Graccus, and the big man dragged the girl around the ruined wagon train, threw her onto the back of his growling camel. Dogger was already looting the wagons, rifling through the barrels and chests. Luka was checking the cut he’d been gifted, glancing at the girl’s gladius in the dust.
“You let a slip like that get the drop on you again,” Teardrinker warned, “I’ll leave you out here for the fucking dustwraiths, you hear me?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” he muttered, abashed.
“Help Dogger with the leavings. Bring all the water back to the train. Anything you can carry worth a looting, snag it. Burn the rest.”
Teardrinker spat into the dirt, brushed the flies from her good eye as she strode across the blood-caked sand and joined Graccus. She slung herself up onto her camel, and with a sharp kick, the pair were riding back to the wagon train.
Cesare was waiting in the driver’s seat, his pretty face sour. He brightened a little when he saw the girl, groaning and half-senseless over the hump of Graccus’s beast.
“For me?” he asked. “You shouldn’t have, Cap’n.”
“Slavers hit a merchant caravan, bit off more than they could chew.” Teardrinker nodded to the girl. “She’s
