CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

The day after his night watching over Andeal, the rebels gave Vermen a new definition of a rude awakening. They broke through the damaged door, thrust a bag over his head before he could even straighten up, then shoved him to the ground. Confused, his heart pumping, he tried to push himself back up but a boot stomped his right hand, straight on the bite mark. He retracted it with a cry of pain, bringing a smattering of chuckles from his assailant. They grabbed his wrists, tied them behind his back, and lifted him to his feet. Vermen took a moment to regain his balance, his breath short, his head already hot in the bag.

“I’m going to go ahead and guess Andeal’s not aware of this,” he said.

“Aye. Somebody wounded him so bad, we couldn’t wake him.”

Vermen gritted his teeth. This couldn’t end well for him. He’d known this might happen when he’d caught Andeal’s bloodied body, had accepted the risk, but the prospect of dying so soon formed a lump in his throat. He hadn’t even talked with Andeal one last time. They pressed a gun—a shotgun, from the feel of the barrel—to his back.

“Move.”

Another rebel pulled him along, out of the cell. He wouldn’t die in his room, then. That explained the bag over his head. As they marched him through the corridors, it occurred to Vermen this wasn’t how he’d expected it to go. The rebels’ treatment of him had been ridiculously considerate since he’d been dragged in by Seraphin. They’d granted him a comfortable cell and he’d had a companion to chat with every day—not that he’d made the most of the conversations—and he was well fed, at almost regular hours. Maniel had even let him stay out of his cell for the night. He’d thought…This should be Holt leading him to the block. Not a random rebel he’d never met. The Regarian was a cold-blooded murderer but not a coward.

“I’m guessing Seraphin’s not aware of this either.”

This time, an awkward silence followed his statement. He imagined them, glancing at each other, ill at ease. Vermen snickered.

“What a cute band of lawless killers. You can’t even wait for your leader’s approval.”

A baton crashed against his back, knocking him down. He fell forward and landed on his face. Vermen struggled not to scream despite the pain running up his spine and tried to slow his breathing. The bag gave him the impression he was slowly choking.

“Shut up,” they warned as they heaved him up and pushed forward.

Vermen obeyed, more because he had nothing to add than because he cared about what they wanted. They led him through the tunnels going up the mountain, the slope steeper with every minute. The waterfall’s background roar covered the sound of their footsteps, but Vermen thought he counted five rebels. The air in his tiny bag grew hot and stuffy. Sweat drenched his forehead as they progressed, and soon he couldn’t breathe properly. He swallowed, tried to calm his quickening heart. He’d suffocate in this bag long before they reached their destination.

A sudden draft of fresh air blew the thought away, piercing through the tissue’s mesh. Three steps later, strong gusts of wind blew from his left, pushing against his body. He could feel the sun’s warmth on his clothes and hands. They’d left the caverns. He’d die outside, somewhere on Mount Kairn’s slope. Better than buried under tons of rock.

The rebels led him up a tiny staircase then pushed him along uneven rocks. Wind buffeted him. He kept placing his foot where there was no flat surface and fell twice, each time bringing a string of chuckles. His elbows and knees hurt from the successive impacts but he clenched his jaw and held his protests in. Any kind of insult or plea would amuse them further. Instead he straightened himself back up, ignoring their jests at his expense.

“Look at him, so dignified. Stern would’ve had a blast.”

“He’s way cuter with that bag over his head.”

“Think he’ll fall again? You know what they say: third time’s the charm.”

He did not stumble a third time. He reached a large flat rock and stopped. The five rebels had a short whispered argument on whether or not they should remove the bag. Stern’s name came up more than once in the discussion. From what he overheard, at least one of them insisted he should stay standing, his head free. Judging from his voice, he was younger. He couldn’t convince the others.

Hans felt their return by the way their bodies blocked the wind. With the sunlight he could make out general shapes moving through the bag. They surrounded him. Not a good sign. You did not surround a man you were about to shoot, not from this close—you’d get your clothes bloodied. The one in front of him spoke.

“Do you remember Erika?”

Of course he remembered her. Curly brown hair, quick wits, multiple charges of thievery already registered against her. He’d caught her two years ago, sent her to prison. He turned his body to answer the voice. Before he could pronounce a single word, however, a bat crashed against his side. He flinched and jumped away. They pushed him back to the middle of the circle.

“And Justin. You remember Justin?”

The hit came from the front this time, crushing the air out of his lungs before he could recall this one. He’d say it was the young blond from Mikken they’d killed in a shootout, when they’d caught the rebels in Serenity. That boy was dead, at least, not just imprisoned. Vermen swallowed hard. Were they going to name every rebel he’d put in jail and call it murder? How long did they intend to keep this up? Perhaps he could speed it up for them.

“You’re missing Desmond and Lei,” he said.

This time he expected the blow. Something heavy and metallic smashed against his hip, then the first bat smacked his knees. Vermen collapsed on the cold stone, shock and pain taking the legs from under him. Blood and saliva mixed in his mouth. He wanted to spit but it’d catch in the bag’s tissue. The captain rolled over, trying to ease his breathing despite the throbbing in his side. The ringing in his ear and the roaring waterfall buried the insults they threw at him. He did feel the boots connecting with his legs, then thighs, however, and as pain wracked his muscles Vermen fought to keep still, to keep silent. He refused to give them the pleasure of hearing him scream. He’d die here. They would beat him like a dog and shoot him out of his misery when he was bloodied and battered. What dignity he could retain by taking the blows in silence, he would. He was a captain of the Union army. He did not plead with criminals for mercy.

“Enough,” a young voice said, the same who’d wanted to remove the bag. “Finish this.”

This one didn’t approve. Vermen could almost like him for that. Almost.

As they lifted him back to his feet he tried to turn in the boy’s direction, to get a glimpse through the bag. His head spun, his knees gave out, and he almost fell again. They caught him, made him kneel then pressed the shotgun against the back of his skull and pushed his head down. Too bad he’d never know who he should thank for the small reprieve. Vermen’s throat clamped down, his innards churned. At least he was outside. He tried to picture the landscape below.

“Captain Hans Vermen, for your crimes against the rebels, we sentence you to death.”

Klaus would’ve mocked their solemn declaration. He’d had no patience for fakes and despised ceremonies. Vermen shut his eyes. It was better to die his brother’s way. No warning, no ridiculous announcement. Just a man with a gun and the guts to hold your gaze as he pulled the trigger. Vermen took a deep breath. Sharp pain stabbed his side at the movement and he winced. The cold metal against his neck shifted ever so slightly.

A gunshot rang. A dozen feet behind them. Not in his head.

“Step back now!”

Seraphin’s voice whipped the cool air. They all obeyed at once, dropping their weapons. Vermen started breathing again, a huge uncontrolled gulp. His heart hammered against his chest. He dared not move. What if Holt had decided this was a great idea but it should be him holding the gun? It’d still be better than these cowards.

“What were you thinking? We do not execute prisoners, no matter who the prisoner is. And if it was to happen, ever, it would be my responsibility and I can guarantee he would not be kneeling on the ground, beaten. Now get inside. All of you.”

“But Seraphin—”

“I said go!”

The depth of his anger surprised Vermen. Why did it tick him off so much? Had he not dreamed of doing this very thing? He’d threatened to shoot him in front of the noodle boy and the captain doubted he’d have hesitated. Vermen waited as they shuffled away, ill at ease with the thought Seraphin Holt had just ordered his men not to shoot him. This was backward. It should’ve been Andeal interrupting. Then maybe everything would’ve made sense.

Once his men were gone Seraphin skipped across the rocks to reach the small platform. Vermen could hear the light steps and swallowed hard as he knelt by his side. He didn’t dare to move. What if it somehow changed Holt’s mind? When the Regarian loosened the bag and removed it, the captain lowered his head, averting his eyes from the sunlight and from the pale, piercing gaze. He should say something, but he could not bring himself to thank him. This was the White Renegade. The man who’d shot his brother.

“Your men have no discipline.”

Seraphin answered with a derisive snort, picked up the shotgun then helped Vermen back to his feet. Vermen struggled to stay upright despite the strain in his left knee, the hands tied behind his back, and the sharp pain in his side. Seraphin kept a hand on the captain’s shoulder to help him, and Vermen felt a distinct twinge of disappointment when the other man removed it. That was not a feeling Hans would ever allow to blossom.

For a long moment, the Regarian studied him in silence, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Vermen looked wherever else he could. Not far from his feet, several streams connected into a larger one and the Delgian’s Fall plummeted off Mount Kairn. The summit. They’d brought him to the summit. The land sprawling before him formed a breathtaking vista, nearly enough to take his mind off the relentless scrutiny.

“Why didn’t you do it?”

Seraphin’s voice broke the charm. Emotion thickened his Regarian accent. Vermen did not need to ask what ‘it’ was. He forced himself to look back at Holt. Wind buffeted his long white hair about. Vermen’s gaze lingered on the Regarian’s wiry body, magnetized by it. Seraphin’s jaw line was taut and his fingers were clenched around his skeptar. He had no other weapon on him and Vermen realized belatedly that the gunshot interrupting his execution had come from the very weapon that had completed his brother’s. Acrid bile burnt his stomach.

“Decency, a friend said.” Vermen straightened, ignoring his muscles’ protests at the movement. “One day justice will catch up to you and you’ll pay for your crime. It won’t be by my hands. There are laws. I know my place.”

“That’s cute.”

Vermen scowled at the mocking tone. It brought a thin smile to the Regarian’s lips.

“No, really, I admire your faith in our corrupt system. It speaks volumes of your degree of brainwashing. Andeal must be wrong about you.”

“How is he?”

The question burst out before he could control his worried tone. Seraphin let another awkward silence slide by, walked around Vermen and untied his hands. Then he deigned to answer.

“Feverish and paranoid. Yet somehow he got to his feet earlier, stumbled all the way to our meeting room, and made a desperate and useless plea for your safety.”

“I don’t think useless is the right word.” Vermen gave a pointed look at the shotgun slung on Seraphin’s shoulder.

“I never intended to kill you.”

Another silence. The waterfall’s constant rumble filled the holes in their conversation. Vermen tried to enjoy the sun on his skin. Impossible. Not with Seraphin staring at him, detailing him, measuring him. Not when part of Hans hoped he liked what he saw.. The captain squared his shoulders as much as his wounds would allow. He did not want to appear as vulnerable as he felt.

“Why not?” he asked.

Holt had no answer ready for him. His slender fingers brushed against the skeptar’s hilt as he reflected on the question. There was something captivating about his thoughtful expression, as though it broadcasted his every emotion clearly—confusion, anger, relief, hesitation. It shouldn’t be so easy to read, and Hans found himself wishing he could understand every single one.

“Where to start?” Seraphin said. “I have no need. I owe you for Andeal’s life. More than that, however…You’re not your brother. You didn’t kill my family. Yes, you are responsible for the deaths of fellow rebels but they are not part of my ancestry. I am not beholden to avenging them.”

“That’s some stupid Regarian logic.”

“Congratulations, then. You owe your life to some stupid Regarian logic.”

An amused smile played on Seraphin’s features. Vermen felt an unspoken challenge to continue this banter. He refused to give the Renegade that pleasure.

“What now?” he asked.

“Andeal thinks you’ll work for me.”

“Never. I’m not one of your outlaws.”

“You’re an outlaw.”

Vermen clenched his jaw. He’d defied orders to go after Seraphin and they’d labeled him a deserter. They were wrong. He hadn’t betrayed his oath to serve and protect. He only needed time to sort himself out and escape. Before the captain could deny the accusation, however, Seraphin brushed it aside with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“In truth, you’d be working for Andeal. Moving crates about, doing manual tasks.”

“I don’t want to contribute to whatever this is.”

Seraphin shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s the only way you’ll get out of that cell, however.”

That struck a nerve. Vermen hated the cramped little cave. Andeal’s visits might help make it bearable but there was only so much he could do. The daily exercise kept his body in shape but the immobility grated on his mind. He licked his lips, considered the option. It would only be a temporary deal. He could discover more about the rebels, learn to navigate their headquarters, and find a way to escape that did not involve taking Andeal with him. Seraphin tilted his head to the side, studying him, perhaps trying to gauge his reaction.

“Andeal’s on a short mission. When he returns, he’ll want an answer. Now come.”

Seraphin signaled for him to follow and headed back into the mountain. Vermen took a first hesitant step, found a way to shift his weight as he walked to diminish some of the strain, then followed the Regarian.

As the stuffy underground air enclosed Vermen once more, weighing on him, the captain knew then that when his friend returned, he would accept.