The Gatherer (Brilliant Darkness 2.5) Read Free Page A

says. "You were supposed to do our cooking and washing and keep us warm at night. Instead all you do is snivel and cry. Waste of flesh."
    A slap rings out, but it doesn't stop the howling. My teeth clench. I have encountered men who sound like these before. They are often wanderers with no home—and no purpose.
    I tell the girl to sit inside the protective curls of fog where we stand. "Remain here, and be silent."
    Dipping the point of my blade in the venom sack, I slide closer.
    "Stop that noise!" Disgust taints the second man’s voice. "You kick off more than the moaners! Make us some breakfast, woman, and if you cry in it, you're gonna regret it."
    The mist thins suddenly, enough for me to see the three clearly . . . and for them to see me.
    Alarm seizes the two men’s faces as they scramble for their weapons—a stout club for each. They are bony, dirty, and in threadbare clothes. One is small enough to be mistaken for a child. He squints at me as if nearsighted and backs away a few feet. The taller one shoots a questioning glance at the other but does not budge. His grip tightens on his club. He is missing the thumb on that hand; it will make his swing weaker.
    The woman shrinks away from all of us. Her hair—loose and long, brown and bedraggled—droops around her face. Her pale flesh is a map of bruises.
    "What do you want?" The thumbless man sneers. His teeth are blackened.
    "Let the woman go." I flick the venom-wet tip of my knife toward her, allowing him a good look at my weapon and how I handle it.
    "She's ours," he says.
    The small man hisses and tugs on the other’s sleeve. He is ignored.
    I hold my blade loosely, but if my stare were a spear, the thumbless one would be missing his eyes by now. I tamp down my fury.
    "Women do not belong to men," I say, "any more than the sun belongs to the inferior moon."
    " This one does.” He steps over and grabs the woman by the hair. As he does, his gaze finally falls where all men’s eventually do: my body. His tongue snakes out of his mouth, licking cracked and bleeding lips. "And you will, too, sweeting."
    The small man yanks desperately on the other man's arm now. Sweat beads on his brow. "Don't you know that paint and the colored feather, cocklebrain? She's a Fire Sister ."
    The other’s eyes fly open as he takes me in again. His maimed hand twitches uncertainly.
    "We didn't know she was one of yours," the little one says to me, his voice respectful. His head dips low.
    "Weren't worth a loaf anyway," the tall one mutters.
    "She is not my Sister," I say. "But she is a woman, which makes her more valuable than both of you together. Now release her and drop your weapons."
    The little man complies instantly. Frowning, his partner follows after a moment. They huddle together, eyes on me. I sidle closer.
    "What are you gonna do?" the small one asks breathlessly. His eyes skitter everywhere except to my knife.
    Let them be afraid for their worthless lives.
    Gripping the taller man's shoulder, I bring the blade to his neck. I only mean to sting him so he cannot follow the girl and me, but the dullard lashes out, knocking my hand away. He pushes me hard, and I stumble back.
    The small man loses no time sprinting into the forest; the thumbless one scrambles for his club. He swings it wildly at me as the woman shrieks and crawls away. It might be the last thing he ever does.
    I spin under his arm, drop to one knee, and knock his feet neatly out from under him. He falls on his back, and I pounce, jabbing my blade into the vein at his neck with practiced precision.
    His body becomes rigid. Hovering over him, I hold his frightened gaze. Does he see me now? Me. A Fire Sister. Powerful, indomitable. Not a piece of flesh he can use or discard at his pleasure.
    When I'm sure he does, I stand. The sting keeps him still. The woman abruptly stops her noise, and the little man is gone into the mist-wrapped trees.
    "Sit there," I tell my victim, pointing to a nearby trunk. "Don't