Chapter 6

There was more red than she remembered. Her hands were covered in velvety red gloves. Glancing up, she saw a small mound in the middle of her family’s field. Walking up to it, she suddenly felt exhausted and lay down atop the mound, which was deliciously soft but somehow wet. Slowly, heap that cushioned her began to shift, until a piece tumbled lazily down the slope. She couldn’t make out what it was, eyes straining against the breaking dawn. She stood, tripping over herself as she approached the foggy shape. Reaching down, she started as the form changed, growing five gangly fingers until it was a hand she picked up. She whirled around, breath hitched in her stomach and pounding her lungs in short, ragged bursts. The small knoll had become a mountain of severed hands, the red trailing towards her in rivulets, forming a pool of putrid blood about her feet. The velvet gloves melted down her finger tips, and then her fingers themselves melted, and as she held her arms up she stared at two rotten stumps, soaked bandages still clinging to her pallid skin, and she heard the inhuman shrieks of her father, growling and pleading, snarling and laughing. He was laughing.

Laughter. Keira’s eyes snapped open, but she held back the sob that invaded her throat. The sun had yet to rise, but a white mist lay about the orchard that made the night seem brighter. Who was still laughing?

Sitting up noiselessly, she saw Roan crouched beside their fire, stamping it out with his leather boots.

“What" “

He hushed her, nodding towards the direction of the laughter. Torches had joined the clatter, and a whole group of men were shuffling towards their camp. From this angle, she and Roan were likely hidden from view within the thick apple trees.

Roan leaned towards her, lips grazing her ear as her whispered, “I heard them talking. Highwaymen saw our fire. They’ll kill us and take the horses.”

Keira’s hands shook slightly as she pulled out the slingshot Mrs. Tates had given her before leaving. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but just holding it calmed her nerves.

Struck by a sudden flash of ingenuity, Keira slowly picked up a small stone. Placing it within the pocket of her slingshot, she pulled the elastic back hard, aiming high. She let go. The stone flew across the tops of the apple trees, hundreds of feet past the highwaymen. The stone stuck a dead tree, the hollowed trunk thrumming loudly in the night’s silence. A lucky hit.

“Over there, one of them must have hit his head waking up. What a couple of unlucky travelers, eh?” a man’s squeaking voice babbled.

A deeper, gravelly voice answered. “Shhhhh, Montag, we don’t want to give the little girl bad dreams.”

The highwaymen had been following them since daylight and had marked her as a target. Quivering in fear, Keira whipped around, dropping her slingshot. Roan and the horses were gone. Somehow, he must have slipped away while she distracted the brigands.

She had to get out of there. Keira hurriedly gathered up the slingshot, her night-sack, and what food remained after their weeks of traveling. Nearly ready to slip away, she reached for her boots. But they weren’t her boots. And someone was still wearing them. With a yelp, Keira flung herself back, palms landing in the still burning embers of the campfire. She started to scamper away, only to be grabbed by the ankle and lifted from her hands and knees.

The world started to turn as Keira felt the strong hand pulling her up by the ankle. Her skin ached, squeezed tight by the highwayman’s rough palm.

A gruff, heavily accented voice called to his companions, “I’ve got the little wretch here.”

She heard a rustling in the orchard trees, and watched as a dozen armed men stomped towards her. The accent was vaguely familiar, and unaccountably threatening.

An impressively large man approached, whispering in anger, “Beyar, you dolt you’ve let the horses escape! What do I want with a scrawny little servant girl? ” The man leaned over, turning upside down to face her. “She hasn’t even grown into her ears yet.” The whole party guffawed at that.

The pain that had once wrecked havoc on her ankle faded in comparison to her head, which began to throb insufferably as Beyar continued to hang her by the ankle.

Knowing only that her head would burst if she was upside down another minute, Keira spoke. “I’mmm… sorry to have caused you boys trouble. Since my companion’s stolen our horses, I’d best be on my way and leave you all alone.” Keira began to shake her leg, causing the ruffian’s grip to loosen round her ankle.

“Not so fast, child. We don’t leave witnesses.”

Her ankle was suddenly released, and she was sent careening onto the ground. At that moment, she recognized the highwaymen’s accent: they were Velkens, an island people renowned for their cruelty and shocking methods of torture. Terror seeped through her ankles, up her legs, and all the way into her pounding heart.

“Well, I’m a servant, like you said. No one believes gossipy maids.” She started backing up, scanning the ground for a weapon, an escape route, anything to give her an advantage. She’d just have to keep them talking.

The clan’s leader grinned sharply, “Naw, but we’ve got a reputation to upkeep. We can’t be showing mercy to every twitty little girl that asks us. What makes you worth sparing?”

No weapons, no escape, and no mercy. Keira held her hands together to keep them from shaking, brushing her finger slowly across her ring. An answer burst from her lips. “Well I’m a healer. A damned good one! I was the top of my class at the capitol’s academy. Even without the Pyre.”

The highwayman raised his hand, palm outstretched, and Keira flinched. But he merely clapped his hand around the back of her neck, patting her and laughing. “Well, pluck out my eyes and feed them to my mother! We nearly killed a healer, boys!” The caravan echoed his rumbling laugh, and Keira began to chuckle herself, hands still shaking so badly that her arms swung at her sides.“Come on, sweetheart let’s give you a drink! You look close to death!”

And with that, Keira was pulled into the midst of the Velken highwaymen, who began passing around a tankard of ale and singing ballads of their own victories. She drank liberally.