Page 226 of Royal Rebel

He shoved to his feet and cupped her face between his palms, and kissed her.

Chapter 55

Wilf

Bloodseepedthroughtherope binding Wilf’s wrists and sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He’d only been given minimal food and water since his capture two days ago. The clan warriors had managed to subdue him in Danjuma, but instead of simply killing him, as he’d expected, they’d abducted him, along with everyone else they’d managed to capture at the inn. Their captors didn’t allow their prisoners to speak. When Wilf tried, he was struck. So, he listened and watched.

Unfortunately, the clansmen didn’t speak much, except amongst themselves and in hissing whispers. They spoke in a dialect he didn’t know, so he only caught a few Zennorian words. He knew they were distressed. Probably because the two men who had gone after Cardon and Serene had not returned. He assumed that meant Cardon and Serene had overcome their enemies, and that they were still alive. He had to believe they were safe. Cardon would give his life for Serene, and the princess was resourceful.

They would be fine.

Wilf and the other prisoners were bound tightly and forced to walk behind the clan horses as they traveled deeper into the jungle. More than a dozen warriors had attacked the inn, but they’d been joined by another dozen as they made their journey.

Wilf didn’t attempt to escape; he was watched too closely. As the largest in the group, he was clearly the biggest threat, and so the guards always hovered nearby. That couldn’t last forever, though. Their attention would slip at some point, and once he spied his chance to flee, he’d seize it.

They’d been traveling east, he thought, which was in the general direction of Zennor’s capital. They were much farther north, though, and deep in the jungle. He wasn’t aware of any villages in this area—he couldn’t possibly guess their destination. Questions and suspicions swirled in his head, but finally—after days of walking—Wilf began to get his answers.

His jaw tightened when he and the other captives were shoved into a large clearing. His empty stomach clenched as scores of men, women, and children came into view. Fences and buildings had been constructed from the trees that had been cut down to create the clearing. It was a compound, with long outbuildings, cook fires, tents, canopies, and what looked to be a large training yard.

The perimeter was guarded by armed clansmen, who seemed to hail from various tribes, judging by the different colors of their khalmin markings. Their armed presence made it clear this wasn’t a community.

It was a prison.

Wilf spotted Zennorians dressed in ragged clothing, hunched over as they carried burdens under the watchful eyes of the guards. There were many Devendrans as well, of all ages; some were caged behind guarded fences, while others skittered around camp, looking dirty and afraid.

The large clearing had to hold a thousand people—probably more.

He thought of Venn and Vera’s story; the Devendran refugees who had vanished along the southern border. And he remembered the disappearances in Zennor he’d heard about since arriving here.

Wilf had a horrible suspicion he’d just found the missing.

Tribesmen laughed and talked, eating an early dinner. They seemed completely ignorant of the pain and suffering around them. Children cried. Women worked to cook and serve the assorted clansmen. Most of the camp’s men were locked within the fenced areas. Despair hung heavy on the air.

Fates. What was this place?

The men who had captured him and the others from the inn reined in their horses and dismounted. One man held the rope secured to Wilf’s bound wrists, and he jerked Wilf forward. An unnecessary shove at his back propelled him further.

Wilf gritted his teeth and lengthened his stride, taking in every detail he could as they led him and the others to the center of the camp.

There was a brief discussion between one of their captors and one of the camp’s guards, though Wilf didn’t understand what was said. The guard eyed him, and the others. More rapid words were exchanged, then Wilf was pulled toward a fenced area on his left, filled with large men. Other men from the inn were forced along with him, while the women and children were diverted in another direction. Husbands separated from their wives and children cried out, but were struck and hauled back into place.

Wilf’s heart beat a little faster. They’d been sorted. But for what?

An angry shout split the air.

Wilf’s attention whipped to the sound, just in time to see a large Zennorian leap to his feet, shaking out his wet arms. The khalmin on his skin marked him a tribesman—but so did the weapon sheathed at his hip. He was cursing a pregnant woman, who clutched a large bucket she clearly struggled to lift. Water sloshed over the sides, and it was obvious she’d spilled water on the man.

The woman was Zennorian, her skin darker than Imara’s. She looked to be in her twenties, and judging from the roundness of her belly, she was due to give birth any moment. Her long dark hair was in a messy knot at the nape of her neck, her dress torn and muddy. Her cheeks were gaunt; she had clearly been a prisoner for a long time. She steadied the bucket and apologized.

The man seethed, shouted at her again, then backhanded her.

Every muscle in Wilf’s body hardened as the woman stumbled. One hand flashed to cradle her protruding belly while the other went to her red cheek. The bucket crashed to the ground, drenching the bottom of her dress and the man’s legs.

The tribesman cursed again, kicking the bucket as he drew back his hand to strike her once more.

Wilf elbowed the man behind him, knocking him back with a pained gasp. At the same time, he yanked his bound wrists, jerking the rope from the fist of the man who led him.

Men shouted in alarm, but Wilf was more or less free. With hands still tied and a rope dragging on the ground, Wilf charged the tribesman.

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