Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

I don’t know what to think of it.

My eyes can’t seem to leave him, and I find myself counting the black spikes that trail down his spine. Starting from between his shoulder blades to his lower back, he has six of them, each one shorter than the one above. They’re curved in a slight downward arc, popping right through his armor, a vicious gleam to them that reflects the red-burning lanterns.

The ones on his outer forearms are much shorter, but look no less sharp and deadly, four leading from above his wrist to below the curve of his elbow.

I’m too terrified to wonder what he looks like without his helmet. Some accounts have said he has horns on his head or vile scars ripped down his face. Some have alleged that he has fangs, while other written records swear that he can kill a person just by looking at them with his burning red eyes.

I don’t want to find out if any of those are true.

But what I do want to find out is why he’s here, in the Barrens, meeting with the Red Raids.

“Captain Fane,” a low, deep voice rumbles out. The saddles beside me stiffen at the sound.

“Commander Rip,” the captain replies in greeting with a slight tilt of his head. “I’m surprised to see you so far from Fourth. Your message was unexpected.”

“Hmm.”

Captain Fane’s attempt to fish for information is fruitless, but he doesn’t seem deterred. “We heard there was trouble at your borders.”

The commander cocks his head. “No more than a nuisance. But the king doesn’t tolerate attacks on his land.”

“Of course not. No true leader does.”

I nearly swallow my own

tongue at Captain Fane’s obvious suck-up.

“How are the Barrens and Breakwater Port? I assume pirateering is still paying well.”

The captain smirks. “Can’t complain.”

“You’re not usually this far north in the fall.”

It’s not a question, but even I can hear the demand for information.

Captain Fane shares a brief look with Quarter before replying. “We had a tip. It pulled us back this way, and fortunately, it paid off. We’ll return to the docks soon enough.”

My hands, still frozen on my ribbons, drop down to my sides.

We had a tip.

A tip? A tip to bring him here? Frowning, I look at the captain, as if staring at him hard enough will give me answers.

“Interesting,” Commander Rip replies. He shifts his arms, the scarlet light catching on those spikes of his, drawing the captain’s eye. “And would this tip have anything to do with the dozen messenger hawks you sent out a couple of hours ago?”

Captain Fane stiffens. “How do you know about that?”

Instead of answering, the commander holds up his fist. He opens it, letting a piece of rolled parchment fall to the deck...followed by his soldiers behind him also opening their hands and tossing down eleven more.

The captain’s expression turns outraged. His mouth opens and shuts, a gaping fish without water. “What...How did you—”

The commander tosses up a pouch in the air, and Quarter barely catches it in time. “Compensation. For the hawks.”

Quarter and Captain Fane stare at the commander, completely caught off guard.

“You intercepted all of my messages?” the captain demands, fury coating his throat.

The commander tilts his head. “I did.”