Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

He starts sprinting toward the carriages, pulling me along with him. My feet try to keep up, my legs pushing through shin-deep snowfall, the bottom of my skirts growing heavy and wet.

Slow, it feels like we’re going too slow, though I’m moving as fast as I can.

Men are shouting orders, words barked back and forth that I can’t concentrate on long enough to comprehend. Sail continues to haul me forward, while the other women run alongside us, tripping and screaming as they go.

Snow pirates. We’re about to be attacked by snow pirates.

I’ve heard of them, but they were always a distant story, nothing I’d ever actually think to see for myself. They roam here in the Barrens, and they stalk the Breakwater Port, pillaging imports, stalking trade routes, stealing whatever they can.

They call themselves the Red Raids, their faces always covered in blood-red balaclavas. I’ve heard Midas grumble about stolen shipments, no doubt their doing. But no one ever spoke about the danger of the snow pirates tracking us. They go for the ships and the large hauls. Not traveling caravans.

Sail and I run as fast as we can, and by the time we reach my carriage, more thunderous noise erupts in the air. Though this time, it’s accompanied by a new sound as well. Sail and I both stop to listen, breaths panting as we crane our heads and strain our ears.

It’s loud. Low. Unsteady.

“What is that?” a saddle asks, more of them piling into their carriages, shoving past each other as they go.

The noise builds, uneven yet constant, a collection rather than a single source. A split second later, I realize that it’s voices. Hundreds of voices, raised together in a battle cry. And it’s getting louder, louder and nearer.

“We need to go! Now!” Sail shouts at the others, the others who are already atop horses, yanking on reins or helping more saddles into the carriages, hurrying them along.

“Go, go!” Sail says, practically yanking off the door as I rush inside. He slams the door behind me, and I toss the lock over, my heart pounding in time with the battle cry that’s echoing across the barren land.

“Where’s the fucking driver?” I hear Sail shout. More yelling, more saddles racing by. More guards piling on their horses.

“Shit!”

Through the window, I see Sail abandon his own horse to race for my carriage instead, his body disappearing from view as he hops onto the driver’s seat.

“Move out! Head for the pass! Protect the king’s favored!”

A second later, the snap of the reins cracks through the air like a tree splintering down the center of its trunk. The carriage lurches forward, nearly sending me flying as it begins to barrel over the snow, Sail making the horses run as fast as they can.

I get tossed around the inside, my body careening from one side to the other. All I can hear is the pounding of the horses’ hooves as we race away, but the wheels are groaning from the deep snow.

Guards on horseback converge around my carriage, racing beside us on either side to defend it—to defend me. Their golden cloaks billow behind them, hoods flown back, their faces fearful shadows I can barely make out. Through the window to the left, I can see one of the saddles’ carriages racing right alongside us, though the others are out of view as we race on, race fast.

I strain to look ahead, to see how far the mountain pass is and if we have any hope of reaching it, but my stomach plummets at the truth of the distance. Too far. We’re too far.

Shouts sound. My head whips left and right, from one window to the other, but every time I turn to look, it seems like another guard is gone, plucked from the night.

Snowflakes race past the window, making it harder to see, even worse when the carriage jolts, sending the outside lantern smashing against the wall, its flame extinguishing in the blink of an eye.

Now bathed in horrible darkness, racing at a breakneck speed, the noises of those battle cries get loud enough to drown out the hooves, the wheels, the snapped reins. It grows louder, no matter which direction Sail steers us, no matter ho

w fast our horses race.

They’re coming for us. As if they were waiting. As if they knew.

Sharp fear consumes me. My vision growing tunneled, my breathing erratic.

I feel my ribbons unbind from around my waist. All two dozen of them loosen and slither over my lap like serpents, coiling and defensive. When my hands tremble, they slip between my fingers, threading over my palms, wrapping around my thumbs. Their silken lengths clasp and twine, like a friend squeezing my hand for comfort.

I squeeze back.

Loud. Everything is loud. Close. The entire carriage begins to rattle from the speed, the wind, the sound. Outside, something crashes. Someone shouts. A horse screams. The wind balks.

Out the window, those balls of light are upon us. Fast—they got to us so impossibly fast.