Chapter 12 Chains Of The South
Alberto came to consciousness slowly, the way a drowning man claws toward the surface of black water. Pain arrived first, a white-hot pulse radiating from the left side of his stomach, exactly where the silver dagger had slid between his ribs three nights ago. The wound had been cauterized with crude fire and wrapped in filthy cloth, but silver always burned longer than steel, and the burn had settled deep, gnawing at muscle and nerve alike. He did not open his eyes yet. He lay perfectly still, breathing through his mouth in shallow, measured pulls, letting the rest of his senses map the world before vision complicated everything.
Cold stone pressed against his back. Iron cuffs circled his wrists, the links short enough that his arms were wrenched upward and outward, forcing his shoulders into an aching stretch. A thicker band of metal hugged his waist, pinning him to something solid behind him. A pillar, he realized, thick and ancient, carved from the same dark granite that formed the bones of the southern mountains. Chains rattled faintly whenever his chest expanded too deeply. The air carried the stink of damp earth, old blood, and the unmistakable musk of rogue wolves who had long ago stopped bothering with baths or borders.
Somewhere close, a fire crackled. Boots scuffed across stone. Low voices drifted in and out, rough accents thickened by years spent far from any Alpha worth respecting. Southern rogues. He had been taught to scorn them as scavengers and oath-breakers, but scorn felt distant now, drowned beneath the simple animal fact that he was chained inside their den and bleeding slowly into their dirt.
Only when he was certain his heartbeat had steadied did Alberto risk opening his eyes.
The world arrived in smears of torchlight and shadow. His vision swam, refusing to sharpen, but shapes were enough. He hung in a cavernous chamber hollowed from the mountainside itself. Stalactites dripped overhead, each drop striking the stone floor with a sound like distant rain. Torches guttered in iron brackets along the walls, painting everything the color of fresh liver. Dozens of wolves lounged or prowled or argued in small knots. Their clothing was a patchwork of stolen finery and cured hides, faces marked with scars and brands and the occasional ritual tattoo that no lawful pack would ever allow. Some bore the pale eyes of those born outside the moon’s blessing. Others had filed their canines to points for the sheer pleasure of making humans scream.
A few glanced his way, but none lingered. Prisoners were not rare here.
Alberto let his head loll forward, chin resting on his chest, and forced his body to go slack. The chains took his weight with a soft metallic groan. He slowed his breathing until it was barely perceptible and waited.
Footsteps approached, unhurried. Leather creaked. A shadow fell across his boots.
He felt the rogue’s stare like a hand pressing against his skin. The male circled slowly, boots crunching on grit. Alberto kept his eyes slitted just enough to track movement without giving himself away. The rogue was big even by southern standards, shoulders broad beneath a coat of patched wolf pelts. A jagged scar crossed his face from left temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling the lip into a permanent half sneer. His eyes were the flat yellow of old piss.
The rogue stopped directly in front of him and crouched. Alberto smelled sour wine on his breath and the sharper bite of dried blood under his nails.
“Hey,” the rogue said, voice low and gravelly. “You awake in there, princeling?”
Alberto did not twitch. He let saliva pool under his tongue and then allowed a thin line of it to slip from the corner of his mouth, the way a truly unconscious man might drool.
The rogue grunted, unimpressed. He reached out and flicked Alberto’s ear hard enough to sting. Still no reaction. A second flick, harder. Alberto’s head rocked with it, but he kept his body limp, muscles unlocked, the perfect picture of a wolf lost to fever and blood loss.
“Thought I saw his eyes move a minute ago,” the rogue muttered, half to himself. He straightened and turned toward the fire where three others sat cleaning weapons. “Guess the silver’s doing its work. He’ll be dead by morning if the boss doesn’t decide to play first.”
One of the others, a lean female with a shaved head and silver rings piercing both ears, laughed softly. “Let him wake. I want to hear a north wolf beg.”
The big one shrugged and walked away, boots echoing. Alberto counted twenty heartbeats before he risked lifting his head again.
The pain in his side flared with the motion, a fresh reminder that the dagger had been twisted before it was yanked free. He tasted blood where he had bitten the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. Breathing shallowly, he tested the cuffs. The iron was old but solid, links thick enough to hold even an enraged Alpha for a short while. The pillar at his back had been worn smooth in places by generations of prisoners rubbing their spines raw in futile attempts at freedom.
He cataloged everything he could see. Two exits, one broad archway leading deeper into the mountain, one narrower tunnel to his left guarded by a single bored sentry picking his teeth with a knife. The chamber itself was a gathering hall of sorts. Long tables of rough-hewn timber lined one wall, stained dark with use. A raised dais of black stone stood at the far end, empty now but clearly meant for someone important. Skulls, some wolf, some human, some disturbingly in between, decorated the walls like trophies.
No sign of his own pack. No familiar scents beneath the reek of rogue. That could mean they were all dead, or simply that the southerners had stripped them of clothing and dragged them elsewhere. Hope was a luxury he could not afford yet.
A sudden commotion near the main archway drew every head. Three wolves strode in dragging a fourth between them. The prisoner was smaller, slight of build, hood pulled low. Blood streaked the front of a once-fine tunic Alberto recognized with a lurch. Pack colors. Third patrol. The captive’s head lolled, but when the hood slipped back Alberto caught a glimpse of auburn hair and felt his heart stutter.
Liana.
They threw her to the ground in the center of the hall. She landed hard on her knees but did not cry out. One of the rogues kicked her in the ribs for good measure. She curled around the blow, silent.
Alberto closed his eyes fully this time, forcing his body to remain slack even as rage boiled behind his teeth. He could not help her if he revealed himself now. Not yet.
The big scarred rogue returned, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped in front of Alberto again and this time there was no pretense of gentleness. Rough fingers gripped Alberto’s chin and jerked his head up. The sudden motion tore at the wound in his side; hot blood seeped anew beneath the crude bandage.
“Look at me,” the rogue commanded.
Alberto let his eyes remain half-lidded and unfocused, pupils blown wide with feigned delirium. The rogue studied him for a long moment, then spat to the side.
“Still out. Good. The Alpha wants him alive when he wakes. Said something about sending a present north.” He released Alberto’s chin with enough force to snap his head back against the pillar. Pain exploded behind his eyes, but he welcomed it. Pain kept him sharp.
The rogue walked away again, this time toward Liana. Alberto watched through the fringe of his lashes as the male hauled her up by the back of her neck and shook her like a rabbit.
“Wake up, little northern bitch. Time to see what you’re worth.”
Liana’s head snapped up. Even from across the hall Alberto saw the fire in her eyes, the refusal to cower. She spat blood into the rogue’s face. The hall erupted in coarse laughter.
The scarred rogue wiped his cheek, grinning wide enough to show broken teeth. “Oh, this one’s got spirit. Chain her next to the princeling. Let them keep each other company while they wait for the boss.”
Two others dragged Liana across the floor. She fought every inch, kicking and twisting, but exhaustion and injury had slowed her. When they slammed her against the pillar beside Alberto and locked a second set of cuffs around her narrow wrists, she sagged, breathing hard.
Alberto kept his gaze forward, unfocused on the middle distance. He felt the heat of her body only inches away, smelled the copper of her blood mingling with his own. She turned her head slowly, and he sensed the moment she recognized him. Her sharp intake of breath was almost soundless.
He gave the tiniest shake of his head. Not yet.
Liana stilled. After a moment she let her own head fall forward, emulating his pretense of unconsciousness. Good girl.
Minutes bled into hours. Torches burned lower. Rogues came and went, some drunk, some merely restless. Once, a fight broke out over dice and ended with one wolf’s throat torn out before anyone bothered to intervene. The body was dragged away without ceremony, leaving a wet streak across the stone.
Alberto used the time. He memorized faces, counted guards, noted which wolves carried keys at their belts. He tested the give in his chains whenever attention drifted elsewhere, shifting his weight millimeter by millimeter to keep blood flowing to his numb hands. The silver wound throbbed in constant rhythm, but pain was an old friend. He could wait inside it.
Near what he judged to be midnight, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. Conversations died. Wolves straightened, suddenly attentive. From the main archway came the measured tread of boots that did not hurry, did not stumble. Authority wrapped around the sound like a cloak.
The Alpha of the southern rogues had arrived.
He was not as tall as some of his wolves, but presence made up for height. Long black hair bound at the nape, beard trimmed close, eyes the pale gray of winter skies. Scars latticed his bare arms, deliberate patterns rather than random violence. He wore a sleeveless coat of midnight wolf pelt that had once belonged to an Alpha; the scent still clung faintly, a ghostly claim of conquest.
Behind him walked a female with hair the color of fresh blood and a smile sharp enough to cut. She carried a silver-tipped whip coiled at her hip. The wolves parted for them as if an invisible wind pushed them aside.
The Alpha stopped ten paces from the pillar and regarded his new prisoners. His gaze lingered on Liana first, clinical, assessing. Then it moved to Alberto.
Alberto let his head remain bowed, but he felt those pale eyes peel back skin and sinew. The Alpha inhaled, scenting the air, and his smile was slow and unpleasant.
“Open your eyes, Alberto De La Vega,” he said softly. “I know you are awake.”
The use of his full name sent ice down Alberto’s spine. Few outside his own pack knew it because it was given to him by Fernando himself on his arrival to the pack. Someone had talked. Someone still lived to talk.
He considered continuing the pretense, but the Alpha waited with infinite patience, and patience in a wolf like this was more dangerous than rage. Slowly, Alberto lifted his head and met the pale gaze.
The Alpha’s smile widened. “There you are.”
He stepped closer until Alberto could smell the faint cedar and smoke on his skin.
“I am called Vargus,” the Alpha said. “And you, little prince, are going to help me send a message to your father.”
Alberto tasted blood again. He smiled, small and sharp. “My Alpha does not negotiate with dogs.”
Several rogues growled, but Vargus only laughed, a low, rolling sound that filled the hall.
“Oh, he will,” Vargus said. “When I send him your pelt, cured and tanned, with his adopted sister’s pretty red hair braided through the fringe, even Fernando Dun will learn what it costs to cross into my mountains.”
Liana made a small choked sound beside him. Alberto felt her tremble, not with fear but with fury. He shifted his weight just enough that their shoulders brushed, a silent promise. Hold on.
Vargus turned away, already dismissing them, and gestured to the red-haired female. “Wake them fully. I want them to be aware when we begin.”
The female uncoiled her whip with a practiced flick. Silver tips sang through the air.
Alberto closed his eyes for the space of one heartbeat and reached inward, past pain and rage, to the cold, clear place where plans were born. The chains were iron. The pillar was stone. The were many rogues.
But he was still Alberto De La Vega, and he had not come all this way to die on a southern rogue’s floor.
Not yet.
The first crack of the whip split the air like thunder.