What have I gotten myself into now?
The male lowers, his massive scarred hand coming down to point at my iron cuff. “Guil dee nahh?” he asks, and I shake my head, figuring he must be asking about the evidence of my past imprisonment.
“Just ornamental,” I burp out, chased by another splatter of spew. “Isn’t it”—reeetchhh—“pretty?”
Definitely wouldn’t want him to think that I’m an escaped prisoner who barely avoided getting ripped apart by a thunder of Moltenmaws. I might end up back there again.
The male turns, yelling more unfamiliar words to another in the distance, the latter standing on the shore’s severe lip, hacking storm debris from a damaged fishing net.
I’m so busy heaving half my guts on the ground that it takes me too long to notice the markings on the back of the male closest to me. A dotted tattoo of some kind of bird, wings stretched around his ribs as though hugging him from behind.
I frown—retch—continue frowning.
It reminds me of the dots that make up … Kaan’s . . . tattoo . . .
Realization flays me through the chest, another surge of water gushing up my throat, splashing on the ground.
Warriors of the Boltanic Plains.
This might be where Kaan spent his adolescence.
My nausea instantly abates, and I curse, using the back of my arm to wipe my trembling lips.
More yelling in that language I don’t recognize, the other male now running toward us. The one closest grabs my arm and helps me to my knees.
There are many clans scattered across this chapped and grainy wasteland no others have the tenacity to carve out a living on, and I seem to have drifted right into the clutches of two such folk, their way of life even more mysterious than those who reside near The Burn’s capital.
But I do know one thing.
These clans produce warriors with unmatched abilities …
Think I’ll give this place a miss.
The male before me drops to one knee, his ruddy beard concealing half his tan, freckle-dusted face, his sharp stare cutting across my features. He reaches forward and lifts a coil of my sodden hair. “Achten de. Kholu perhaas?” he says, pointing at the long, vomit-drenched tendril coiled in his palm, looking back at the other male who’s now drawing close—the latter shrugging. “Sheith comá Rivuur Ahgt … en?”
I gather my hair and push his hand away.
His brow bunches, and he grabs me by the shoulders, helping me to my feet. The moment I plant them on the ground, I lurch from his grip, backstepping, lifting a hand to cradle my throbbing temple.
“Acht etin aio?” the male asks, gesturing to me.
“I don’t understand.”
He touches his hand to his temple—to the same spot where mine’s throbbing—his next words presented so slowly it’s obvious he’s trying to help me comprehend. “Surva etin agaviein?”
Is he asking how I hit my head?
“I fell off a cliff.”
His frown deepens, and he murmurs something to the male beside him—more of those words I don’t understand.
I can tell by the glances nipping my way and by their general body language that they’re discussing how to get me from here to somewhere else. I don’t want to find out where that is, nor do I want to find out what they want to do with me there. I’ve got a headache. The last thing I feel like doing is breaking necks.
Unless it’s Rekk’s, of course.
“Well, it’s been grand, but I’ve got a tree to catch,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the rushing river that looks nothing like it did the previous cycle, now so orange and full of debris, no doubt torn up from the abated storm. Unfortunately, it’s nowhere near as tranquil and inviting, not that it’ll stop me from leaping into it the moment another log bobs by.
The males pass each other stares of uncertainty, speaking in those foreign words again before they advance as one—almost stepping through my puddle of half-digested soup.
The determined hardness in their eyes stiffens my spine.
Shit.
Looks like I’m not waiting for another log after all.
I spin, about to leap into the gushing river when a blur of motion catches my eye, drawing my attention to the cliff on the opposite side.
A piece of rock displaces, plummeting before thumping against the riverbank below. I wouldn’t think it strange were it not for the claw marks also scoring down the cliff, like something invisible is climbing it.
I frown.
How hard did I hit my head?
“Jakah tu …”
I glance back to see both males staring wide-eyed across the river, their complexions turning so pale their freckles stand out in stark difference.