Ariandalise felt her legs buckle under her as her feet made contact with the ground.

“Careful, princess,” a hoarse voice crooned as a callused hand reached out to snatch her wrist. “Can’t let the goods be damaged.”

She nodded shakily, the only thing keeping her more or less upright, Tusk’s grip on her arm. He hauled her out from under the shadow of the Cavendish and towards the open door of a seedy-looking tavern.

Offering little resistance, she let herself be dragged along as to not invoke the rage of the heavy-handed thug.

She glanced around the open air port, or at least what passed for one, to get a feel for where they were. The land was sparse and relatively flat as far as the eye could see, with the exception of a few large stones dotting the horizon line.

They still had to be within the Arai System; Tusk would want to find a convenient place to hold up in, far from prying eyes but still close enough to make contact with her father, and that meant staying within his borders.

She tossed Tusk a worried glance, before turning her attention back to her surroundings. She knew he wouldn’t dare touch a hair on her head, but a sense of unease still lingered in the back of her mind.

Tusk seemed to be a rational, albeit rather short tempered kidnapper. He had shown no inclinations to ravage her in the confines of his ship either, but it was always hard to tell with people like him.

Panic swept through her body.

“Wait,” she said, freezing in her tracks. “I need to use the washroom.”

“You can do it inside,” he hissed, tugging her forward. “If you behave I might even let you wash."

She tossed a glance over to the land skiffs by the tavern lot. A glimmer of hope began to take shape within Ariandalise;perhaps one of the owners of the skiffs inside could help her.

The tavern was overgrown with cyan vines, the white of its stone walls long since covered over by grime and dirt. The air smelled of cheap liquor and unwashed bodies.

He stopped just short of the door. “Behave,” he spat before shoving her through the doorway.

Ariandalise nodded shakily before studying the occupants with a sinking heart. None of them appeared to be able to offer any substantial assistance. At one table sat a pair of shabby-looking drifters playing cards. At another table was a hapless couple struggling to rein in a trio of boisterous children. A few solitary travelers were scattered throughout the taproom, but none appeared to be capable of fending off Tusk.

Tusk settled onto a free table rather brusquely, his boots propped up on the pockmarked surface of the table and his hands cradling the back of his head.

She sat at the table with a little more delicacy, her back ramrod straight and her palms laid on her lap in standard aristocrat fashion.

She couldn’t help looking like a mess, but she could at least control how she carried herself. With slow deep controlled breaths, she closed her eyes.

Keep a cool head, be rational, don’t panic.

By the time she opened her eyes, Tusk had already called over a passing serving girl.

“I suppose you want a meal for two?” the serving girl asked.

Tusk shook his head and raised three gloved fingers. “Two ales and some water for the girl,” he said. “And a place where my sister can freshen up.”

The serving girl nodded. “Your orders won’t take long,” she said, pointing to a narrow hallway, “and there’s a washroom at the end of that hall.”

The “washroom” was merely a sink with a grimy mirror. It was better than nothing however, and she was grateful for any opportunity to freshen up. After splashing some cool water on her face, she stopped to study her reflection.

Stress had transformed her once soft and ruddy features into a wan, hollow countenance that looked ghastly under the dim crystal light. Her thick, dark hair was in unmanageable tangles, and her light blue dress was impossibly wrinkled.

I’m a mess, she thought sullenly. She wondered what her mother would make of her current appearance.

Even when kidnapped, one must look the part of a prime’s family, her mother would probably say. She was just that sort of woman. One who seemed to care more about her lavish parties and gatherings than her own daughter.

After a pitiful attempt at fixing up her hair and smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles she rejoined Tusk at the table. His partner, Corvus had just walked in and was making his way over to them.

Corvus was so quiet she had nearly forgotten about his existence. But Ariandalise had been given a first hand experience to just how brutal the man could be in his occasional fits.

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“We need to refuel,” he said as he pulled up a seat. “I say around thirty minutes before we can take off.”

Tusk frowned. “Make it twenty,” he said, tossing Ariandalise a dark look.

“Too risky,” replied the other man. “Thirty is being generous, twenty minutes and we’ll be stranded out in the middle of deep space at the mercy of mercury blasted pirates.”

Tusk looked annoyed but offered no other response than a nod.

The serving girl approached with a tray of mugs. “Drinks,” she said, setting the tray on the table. “Food be ready in a bit. Roasted bush chicken and some leftover porridge from last night.”

The two men nodded in response and sent her away with a bronze credit chip as a tip.

Tusk then looked over at Ariandalise and gave her a leering grin. “We can get a room, we have the time for it you know.”

With a dark emotion she had never felt before guiding her, she snatched a salt dispenser from the table. Intending to fling it at Tusk’s face she was interrupted by Corvus’s palm as he slammed it down on her wrist, pinning it to the table.

“Show decorum befitting a prime’s daughter,” Corvus whispered into her ear in a slow and deliberate voice.

She tried her best not to show any signs of deference, but his grip on her was so tight she couldn’t help but let a small whimper escape.

“Foods ready,” interrupted the serving girl, she stood there awkwardly with three platters of steaming food in her arms.

Ariandalise let out a soft sigh as Corvus begrudgingly released her wrist.

The serving girl left in a rush after setting the food down onto the table, it was clear she had no intent to get involved in her predicament.

“Look what you did,” Tusk said, the corners of his lips curling upwards into a sadistic smile. “You went and made a scene. Look me in the eye.”

Tusk stared at her with cold, dead eyes. It was then she knew that the person in front of her was no man. Not a single glimpse of humanity could be found in the rough outline of his scarred face.

“Need help?” asked a bright voice just a few steps away. “You seem to be in a predicament.”

Tusk looked over the newcomer coolly. The short, lean individual was one of the drifters she had seen when they first walked in. Although the drifter wore trousers and a tight, form-fitting jacket usually worn by men, close up, it was clear the drifter was actually a she.

“Who the hell are you,” Tusk snarled as he jumped to his feet.

“Someone who can help,” the short woman said, her gaze focused on Ariandalise.

“Go sit back down,” Corvus demanded, placing his hand underneath the fold of his jacket.

The woman looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Just give me the word, and we can get you away from your. . . friends.”

Ariandalise shrinked into her seat. “They’re not my friends,” she whispered. “They-”

Before she could utter another word, Corvus’s fingers tightened around her wrist, nearly crushing it in his giant hands.

He looked up at the short woman with an unusually gentle face. “She’s just confused,” he said, with a glint in his eyes, as if he assumed the short woman had an ulterior motive. “This really doesn’t concern you.”

The woman remained defiantly in place.

“How much?” asked Corvus.

The woman frowned. “Excuse me?”

Corvus arched an eyebrow. “How much for you to leave us alone?”

“The girl comes with us,” pitched in another voice, coarser, deeper. Ariandalise peered at the newcomer, a well-built man who wore his hair straight and long, down to his shoulders. He was dressed similarly to the woman, a no nonsense outfit of a traveling laborer. Her eyes couldn’t help but wander to the pistols strapped to each hip.

Corvus muttered a foul oath under his breath before snapping at Tusk.

She could see the patrons of the tavern shift nervously in their seats, even the cook had come out to see what the commotion was. Once again Ariandalise felt a wild surge of hope. Surely with their superior numbers they could overpower her captors.

Without warning, Tusk leaped at the interlopers, his large frame slamming into the drifter man.

Ariandalise screamed and flinged herself backwards, sending her chair toppling to the floor. But Corvus held onto her fast, his open palm whipped out and struck the side of her face.

Unexpectedly, Corvus released her wrist. “Stay put,” he ordered, leaving her cowering beside the table. He shook free a wicked-looking blade from his hip sheath and approached the drifter woman. Her own blades, a long knife in each hand, were out now and they circled each other warily.

Ariandalise grabbed Corvus’s unfinished plate of food off the table and flung it at him.

He howled and staggered somewhat as the plate made contact with the back of his head. “Rotten bitch!” he snarled, turning his attention back to Ariandalise.

With three quick slices of the drifter’s knives, Corvus was on the ground screaming, his hands buried in his face.

“Now you and your partner make a pretty pair,” the drifter woman mused with a faint grin. She then turned her attention to Tusk, who like Corvus was on the floor squirming in pain. The other drifter loomed over him, his hair a little tousled but looking relatively unscathed from the struggle.

“They’re down for now,” the drifter woman said. “Need to grab your things?”

Ariandalise shook her head. “No,” she replied, already racing for the door. “We can just go.”

The drifter pair followed hot on her heels as they scrambled through the door.

“Which is their skiff?” the drifter woman asked. “We can slow them down.”

Ariandalise shook her head. “No skiff, we got here on a ship,” she replied hastily, gesturing to a maroon tinted frigate. “But I heard they need to refuel.”

The drifter woman cursed before tugging Ariandalise in the direction of a land-skiff.

The tavern doors were nearly thrown off its hinges as Corvus charged through. His face was covered in lacerations, his shirt stained red with blood. The drifter man drew one of his pistols and fired high above Corvus, sending him diving to the ground, just in time to trip Tusk as he rushed out.

Ariandalise shrunk down, clutching at her ears, the sudden explosion of sound was nothing like she had ever heard before.

“Get on the skiff,” the woman cried, helping Ariandalise up into the back seat of the skiff. The woman sheathed her knives and clambered up to the shotgun seat. They were soon joined by her partner, who vaulted into the driver's seat and plugged in the ignition key all in a single, fluid motion.

Ariandalise could hear the scurry of feet behind her but they were off across the muddy tavern yard, through its wooden gates, and racing down the travel beaten path.