Page 81 of Wench

‘Let it choke,’ he snarls. ‘Let it suffocate on every drop of fae blood it ever drank.’

Shackles melt; swords sag into slag; spearheads drip into dull, glowing puddles.

The smell is iron-sweet. Marian feeds the maw until her arms tremble. Every blade carries a faint, tortured echo of ore beaten out of its first language. But each time the metal yields, the chord inside her tightens.

Marian rips open the last crate lid with bleeding knuckles. Crossbow stocks and bundled bolts tipped in a hateful gleam. She bares her teeth and shovels them in. The wood kindles fast; the iron glows bright as it slumps and the air roars as heat rolls off the pit in throbbing waves.

When the final bundle collapses, silence rushes in. For a heartbeat, the world is only their breathing and the wet pop of blistering pitch far back in the flues.

‘The roof.’ Marian’s voice scrapes. ‘Take out the chimneys.’

Allen glances to the twin stacks that have swallowed smoke for a decade. ‘Right,’ he grunts, jaw set. ‘Collapse the lungs before we burn the body.’

‘I’ll line the flues.’ She nods, already snatching a bucket sloshing with pitch from the corner as Allen darts back outside.

She drags the bucket across the flagstones, leaving a trail of black. After wrapping a rag around the end of a broom handle, she dips it in the bucket to make a torch, twisting linen with sticky fingers until the whole thing is saturated.

Finally, she strikes flint to steel. A sputter, and then a thread of flame crawls along the rag, hungry, sulphur-sour in her nose.

‘My runaway bride returns.’ A voice drops from the platform above. ‘I was beginning to think the wild had eaten you.’

Marian jerks, and for a heartbeat she can’t find the mouth that spoke the words. A breath later, the Sheriff steps forward.

His breastplate is burnished, edged in dark metal that hums discordantly in Marian’s bones. Fae ore. It’s laced into the seams of his vambraces too, and into the gorget at his throat.

Marian’s grip tightens on the torch until the soaked rag spits pitch onto her wrist. She winces but doesn’t lower it.

‘I see the forest put a little bite in you,’ he purrs, pacing along the beam, shadow sliding with him. ‘Still. No matter how wild a thing becomes, there’s always a collar that fits. If you don’t put out that fire, I’ll show you just how tight it can be.’

She lifts the torch higher, ready to jam it into the chimneys and let the pitch climb, but iron fingers lance out from the dark and clamp around both her arms. Two guards flood her peripheral vision, leather and chain dragging smoke through the air. One wrenches her right arm back until pain sparks white; the other pins her wrist and twists. The torch jerks from her hand, the soldier throwing it down with a hiss.

It clatters and spits, before a boot stamps it flat, flame guttering on stone.

‘I had high hopes you’d come to your senses,’ the Sheriff croons, descending the ladder one slow rung at a time. He lands soundlessly and dusts unseen ash from his shoulder. ‘Alas, it appears I’ll have to carve the resistance out of you myself.’

The door behind them groans open. The guards drag Allen over the sill like a caught stag, head lolling, blood trailing down his temple. His wrists are bound behind him with chains that glimmer with fae ore. His boots leave twin tracks across the grit as the guards toss him to the ground before the Sheriff.

Allen hits the stones with a wet thud that turns Marian’s stomach. He tries to rise, but his knees refuse to lock. Blood trickles from his hairline in a thin thread that spiders along his cheek. The moment he sees Marian, his eyes sharpen with defiance.

The Sheriff turns back to Marian with a lazy tilt of his head. ‘Your father begged me to forget you,’ he says, his voice soft, almost fond. ‘Came to me on his knees and said his daughter was a useless, troublesome cunt and he’d trade me any contract, any shipment, if I erased my claim on you.’

Heat rakes up Marian’s throat, and the guards’ gauntlets bite deeper when she tries to lunge. ‘And yet here you are, howling at my door like a bitch in heat.’

The guard on her right jerks her arm up. Her shoulder grinds, torquing tendons until her fingers tingle.

Pain bursts behind her eyes. She hisses through it, never looking away from the Sheriff.

He steps closer and his smile curdles. His attention narrows on the dark curl of ink peeking above the torn edge of Marian’s collar.

‘You’ve been branded,’ he sneers, face twisting. ‘Tell me, what else has that fae bastard done to you? What filth has he left smeared in your veins?’

‘You want details?’ If he expects shame, she will give him none. ‘Shall I describe it, stroke for stroke, so you can tug your little?—’

The blow is instant. His glove cracks across her mouth with a snap that bursts her lip against her teeth. The taste of iron floods her tongue, metallic and hot.

Marian bares her teeth through the blood.

The Sheriff’s hand whips back to seize her chin. His grip is cruel, forcing her face up until her neck strains. His breath floods her skin with grease and wine.