The Hanging City (91)

I feel a little more myself when I wake. I’m sore and hungry. My skin feels tight where the sun burned it. My mouth is dry. My rage has abandoned me, and it feels like a betrayal, my shield gone when I need it most. But when my father comes in to untie me, anger prickles at my back, reminding me of its allyship.

I clench my jaw as my joints reorient themselves. Massaging my shoulder, I say, “That was unnecessary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Ottius Thellele throws the bonds on the ground and hands me a piece of jerky. That’s all my breakfast is to be, then, but at least he’s feeding me. “Come. I’ve work for you to do.”

Already. I chew on the jerky and stretch. The tent is used for miscellany, odd equipment that the army can’t put elsewhere. A pile of belts, a few crates that might have foodstuff in them, two saddles, a bolt of cloth. I follow my father out, ensuring that I keep his pace. I am the obedient and repentant daughter. If that mask slips even a hair, both I and Azmar will suffer for it.

I’m led away from the main camp, only to discover a second, smaller camp just over a quarter mile away. There are roughly a dozen soldiers here and only one tent, though it’s a high, round tent like the ones my father uses. The men busy themselves cleaning up: covering fires, rolling tarps, sheathing weapons. They glance my way when I arrive, but their glances don’t linger, probably more my father’s doing than mine.

Six of the men surround the circular tent, more heavily armed than any human soldier I’ve laid eyes on. At my father’s approach, one of them pulls the door aside and allows us entrance.

I’m immediately assaulted by the scent of urine, thickened by heat. Nothing occupies the tent save for a trollis on his knees. My stomach lurches, and I hold my breath to keep my composure. I don’t recognize him. He looks to be about Perg’s age, with gray skin so rich it looks blue. His long black hair falls in a giant knot over one shoulder. He’s completely naked. Red slash marks—from a knife or a whip, I can’t tell in the low light—cover his person. Bile burns the base of my throat when I see deep blue holes in his shoulders. Someone has dug out the bone stubs.

The queen and the oak tree. War.

You hate the trollis. You hate the trolls. That is what he must believe, I remind myself. My thoughts try to superimpose Azmar, Unach, and Perg over this poor creature, and I mentally push them away. I cannot show sympathy. I must be as merciless as my father. He must learn to trust me. That is the only way to survive.

“This one’s stubborn,” my father ribs, as if we’re talking about horseflesh and not one of the gods’ own people. “He won’t give up anything, even his own name.”

The trollis lifts his eyes, first to my father, then to me. His brow twitches, and fear clamps on my belly. He recognizes me. All of Cagmar has seen my face, thanks to the caste tournament. Pressing my lips together, I silently plead with him to say nothing.

He glares.

“I want you to get him to talk,” my father finishes.

My stomach tightens so severely I fear I’ll lose my meager breakfast. I’ve come to a crossroads with my promises. I’ve sworn to Qequan that I will get battle information from my father. I’ve also given my word not to use my abilities against the trollis. But I will not garner my father’s trust if I do not do as he says. I cannot stay true to both of these, not without talking to this trollis in hopes of convincing him to play along. My father will not leave me alone with him, I am certain.

The choice is easy to make. I choose Azmar. I will do whatever is necessary to spare him. Thus my father’s trust trumps my promise to the council. Should this creature give any information that will hurt Cagmar, I will report it, then do what I can to counteract it.

My father says, “How many able trolls are in your army?”

I could tell him the answer, but that isn’t the point of this exercise. He’s testing me. Seeing if I still have the ability he indirectly gave me. Seeing if I will heed him as I did when I was a child.

I’m so sorry, I want to say, but the words must stay mute within me.

I push out a trickle of fear. The trollis and I recoil at the same time. He says nothing.

“How many.” My father gestures to me. Hugging myself, I push out more fear. Cold sweat licks my palms and starts to form along my spine.

The trollis grits his teeth and turns away, resisting. He strains against the chains holding him. The depth of his skin pales.

I push.

He growls. “More than you have, louse.”

My father waits.

The trollis shakes his head, obviously confused, and sends another scathing look my way. I focus on his stomach. He roars. “Five thousand.”

He’s lying. Cagmar isn’t large enough to house so many. At best, they have half that.

My father’s brows knit together. “And what is the tactic your generals will use in response to a frontal assault?”

A frontal assault would be difficult. Even if the humans managed to chop down the east side of the bridge, Cagmar wouldn’t fall. Too many cords, beams, pressure points, and arches hold it up.

My father snaps his fingers. Ensuring I won’t bite my lip or tongue, I push out more fear. My hands and shoulders tremble with it.

The trollis squirms. I can’t tell if he wants to fight or run. He’s too restrained.

He roars again. “We will pick you off one by one. You won’t penetrate our walls. Our strongest will surface and slaughter you.”