He knotted the gag at the back of her head and left her with a pair of guards, taking the same path that Chamtivos had to the tent. Was Serovek in there as well? It was the only place in the camp itself big enough to hide a person. Everyone else had pitched small lean-toes hardly big enough to cast a square of shade or didn't bother with one at all. That tent served more than just the purpose of luxury for the group's leader.
She'd have to bide her time and strategize a way out of this dilemma before Chamtivos decided to enact whatever entertainment he had planned. It would mean leaving Megiddo behind, but the monk had something neither she nor Serovek did: value. He'd be safe for a short time.
Cramped, cold, and hungry, she shifted from side to side to keep the blood flowing through her limbs. Several escape plans played through her mind, each one ending with her either shot, skewered, or dismembered for the attempt and Serovek still held captive. She gave up temporarily, allowing her racing thoughts to settle. Her guards didn't talk to her or pay her much attention. She listened to their idle conversation. And learned.
For all his swagger and self-importance, Chamtivos wasn't particularly well liked by those who followed him. These were peasants and yeomen under the command of a nobleman's youngest son. They'd been loyal to his father and transferred that loyalty to Chamtivos out of respect for his dead sire. She wondered how many of them knew or suspected their current leader had committed both patricide and fratricide to seize the position he now held. The two guards set to watch her questioned whether the effort in attacking their party and taking Megiddo hostage had been worth the sacrifice of the seven men who'd died in the attack.
Anhuset could account for three of those deaths. She wondered how many of the remaining four Serovek had been responsible for. If he were lucky, none. Otherwise, whatever punishment Chamtivos chose to mete out to the margrave, it would be brutal.
She pretended to nap so her guards would assume her asleep and loosen their tongues even more. The remainder of their conversation was as dull as listening to grass grow, though she learned that the man who'd given her water was Chamtivos's second-in-command and named Karulin. From what little she'd gleaned from her interactions with both men, Karulin seemed more suited to the role of leader than Chamtivos, and she wondered why so measured a man had chosen to serve one so malevolent and erratic.
Made groggy by boredom and cold, she snapped alert at the approach of a new visitor. Anhuset lifted her eyelids enough to observe the man who greeted her guards and paused to loom over her, wearing a nasty smirk.
Conversation ceased, replaced by an expectant hush. She forced her muscles not to tense, and kept her eyelids lowered as she waited to see what her observer might do. He didn't carry a weapon unless one considered the stench wafting off him deadly enough to kill a person with a single whiff.
He unlaced the front of his trousers, and Anhuset nearly gave herself away by the disbelieving snort she swallowed behind her gag. Did he think to rape her? With the way she was bound, he'd have to exercise considerable effort to get her clothes out of the way without cutting them off her. He'd fail and die for trying. She was bound, not helpless.
Her disgusted snarl held an equal amount of shock when instead of a rape attempt, he pissed on her. She rolled away, barely avoiding a face full of the reeking yellow stream.
Howls of laughter rang out from her guards, and saliva filled her mouth as her stomach heaved. The stench of urine flooded her nostrils as she fought to hold down the bile creeping up her throat. Whistles and catcalls joined the laughter. Her tormentor grinned and swiveled his hips in a lewd motion, waving his dripping prick at her. He finally tucked his bits into his trousers and replaced the placket, then strutted back and forth in front of the growing audience, raising his arms to coax more cheers from their ranks, as triumphant as any conquering hero claiming victory over the vanquished.
He'd signed his own death warrant with that act of humiliation. Anhuset swore to herself no matter what it took or how long, she'd kill this man, carve him up into small pieces, and toss his remains into a midden for the rats to feast on.
Unsatisfied with his shallow victory and the attendant cheers from the crowd, the idiot chose not to walk away from the scene. Instead, he moved closer to her, leaning down to say something or maybe spit on her. She didn't wait to find out and used all her strength to lunge forward and slam her forehead into his face.
Bone crunched and screams replaced the gloating snickers as the raider fell backwards, hands clutched to his face. Blood seeped through his fingers, cascading in rivulets over his knuckles as he rolled on the ground, bellowing in agony.
Still seeing stars from the hit, Anhuset wasted not a moment in protecting herself as best she could, tucking her head between her arms and curling even tighter into the fetal position as punches and kicks rained down on her head, shoulders and back from those who sought to punish her.
An angry voice rose above the snarls and curses accompanying the blows. “Back off before I geld every last one of you.”
They obeyed instantly, and Anhuset, never a religious sort, thanked any gods listening for the respite from the battering and for the return of the one the guards called Karulin.
“Explain,” he demanded. “Lie, and you'll regret it.”
Both men spoke at once with a few from the crowd interjecting their accounts before going silent under Karulin's glare. A chorus of gasps went up when he tugged Anhuset's gag down to her neck without hesitation or concern he might lose his hand. His nose wrinkled when he caught the smell on her. “Are you bleeding anywhere or having trouble breathing?”
She was tempted to say yes and beg him to untie her so she could check, but instinct told her he'd know she was lying, and his warning to her guards echoed in her mind. “Just a few bruises,” she said.
He nodded and left her to see to the man whose screams had weakened to pitiful moans. Anhuset couldn't make out what Karulin said, but when he returned to her, he eyed her with renewed caution and a faint approval she was certain she didn't imagine. “It seems there's no part of a Kai that isn't dangerous,” he said. “You shattered Lewelis's nose and knocked out three of his teeth. You'll have a knot on your brow for the doing, and you stink worse than a dead weasel, but you didn't come out the loser.”
Soaked in piss, tied like a hog, and held captive by a mad bastard eager to make her the focus of some future and no doubt violent game didn't feel much like winning, but at least now Chamtivos's men would think twice before trying to make sport of her a second time.
Chamtivos returned from the tent to join their little gathering. After listening to Karulin's summary of events, he tutted, gave Anhuset a once-over glance filled with revulsion, and left her to help Lewelis to his feet. He listened to the man's complaints of her ill-treatment of him with an attentive expression and a few sympathetic nods. Even she gasped along with the others when he suddenly pulled a knife and slashed Lewelis's throat in one swift arc.
Chamtivos turned away before the body hit the ground, and once more she caught a glimpse into the cruelty-laced madness lurking behind the boyish façade. She stiffened when he walked toward her. The crowd backed away, except for Karulin, who eyed his master as warily as he did Anhuset.
The warlord wiped his blade clean on a bystander's sleeve. That person dared not utter a word of protest. “The Kai woman is my captive,” Chamtivos said in a strangely cheerful voice. “Not yours. Mine. And while she lives, I think of her as one of my possessions.” He offered them all a sunny smile that made everyone take at least two steps back. “I don't like people touching my things without my permission. Do it again, and you'll join Lewelis there, feeding the vultures and the worms.”