Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Sixteen - Pain of the Past

By the time Deòthas realised her mistake it was too late to rectify her predicament. Running off by herself had been rather foolish, especially considering just how many marionettes there'd been out and about the previous night. Six centuries of experience, and she'd reverted back to making rookie mistakes. She would be ashamed of herself, except she probably wouldn't live long enough to learn from her folly.

While she'd ensured Tor would be collected, she retained no vehicle, no back up, and when she found herself surrounded by puppets, she'd known she'd blown it. If her mate had been at her side she might have managed to take them on, even though there were ten of them, but alone? Alone she didn't have a hope in ifrinn.

"Alone again?" the Manipulator mocked her through the mouths of his walking corpses. "The mate didn't like the idea of being bound to a fey-born whore, did he not?"

For the third time in less than a week the Manipulator taunted her, insulting her in a manner that seemed personal, too personal.

"Do you have an issue with me, other than with me being a bana-ghaisgeach, I mean? Because seriously, it's beginning to sound like you have a specific problem."

Deòthas lashed out at one of the marionette's, her Taghadair blade taking off its head before the others charged as one. She fought, struggled, managed to take out two more as she tried to find a way out of the mess she'd gotten herself into. No good came of her rebellion. Iron blades pierced her flesh numerous times, sapping the strength from her body as her blood poured from various wounds. When her legs finally gave way and her knees crashed to the pavement, she no longer retained the ability to lift her blade.

Looking up, she tried to straighten, to die with dignity, honour. It wasn't to be. The Manipulator laughed at her through his marionettes' mouths as the puppets grabbed her, binding her wrists behind her back with iron cuffs.

"You aren't going to die. Not yet, at least. I think it's time we became reacquainted, fey-born."

Reacquainted? A chill swept into Deòthas's heart as the puppets pulled her back onto her feet and dragged forcibly towards a van. What did the Manipulator mean, reacquainted? Had Tancred been right after all? Was the puppeteer fey? Was their enemy someone she'd known before the sealing of the veil?

Dread caused her heart to thunder, even before the rear doors of the van opened and her captors tossed her unceremoniously into the cargo area, alongside a collection of body bags. She didn't need to feel the lumps and bumps of human forms to know the bags were occupied. Shuddering at the thought, she tried to wiggle her way to a clear area, somewhere to crouch without lying on top of the deceased.

The effort proved a pointless waste of her time, and as two of the surviving marionettes climbed into the cab and floored the accelerator, Deòthas fell forward, landing among the corpses again. Her captors sped through the street while she tumbled around the back of the van, unable to catch herself with her hands fastened so securely behind her back. The uncomfortable journey took a surprising amount of time. An hour, maybe? And by the time it came to an end, she was bruised, battered, and based the agony in her right leg, she suspected she'd broken her kneecap.

When the rear doors of the van opened again, yet more puppets dragged her from the vehicle. Only when she attempted to bear her own weight, her knee gave way. She hissed in pain as she fell, and the Manipulator's laugh rumbled again from the throats of his walking corpses. They didn't stop, didn't allow her a chance to try and rise. Instead the puppets dragged her across the gravel drive and towards a grand hall. Stones and grit dug into her legs and hip as the marionettes towed her across the ground, and by the time they bounced her up the steps of the building, her hands were bloodied from trying to protect her face and ribs from cracking against the risers.