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early for any chance that the mercenaries would arrive. Byron's caravan would have hours on them, guards already settled into place, creating a traveling fortress. If they hadn't crossed the border by the time the mercenaries caught up, they wouldn't be far from it. There would be no rescue if it didn't happen soon.
    Ashe yanked at his ties again, half frantic. Rope rubbed his flesh painfully, tore it, and swelled as it absorbed his blood. He dislocated both thumbs trying to pull his hands free, but the widening of even his willowy palms was too much. The binds were too tight.
    "I don't want him scarred," Byron said, sounding irritated. Ashe looked up to see one of the guards give him a frustrated look, then leave the room. Ashe glared at Byron, filling the look with as much hate as he could, and kept yanking at his hands. He poured magic into them, dulling pain receptors, strengthening muscles.
    The guard walked back in, dabbing liquid from a deep brown bottle onto a scrap of cloth. He moved purposefully for Ashe's cage.
    Ashe paused, taking in the sight, the intention. Then he renewed his efforts, twisting to fling himself into the center of the cage so they couldn't just grab him. They'd have to open it. He'd have a chance -- he had to make a chance, because if they drugged him again he'd never be able to escape.
    The guard opened the cage. Ashe still didn't have his hands free, wasn't even close. He kicked out, giving a muffled yelp when the guard stomped down on his ankles to pin them in place. The guard bent, grabbed him by the hair, and hauled him partially upright.
    Ashe poured more magic into his blood, not sure what he could do with it but knowing he had to do something . He struggled, though it was almost useless. The guard clamped the cloth over his nose. Ashe held his breath. He tried to wrench his face away, but held up by a hand in the braids at the back of his skull, he couldn't twist far. He couldn't do much of anything; even his legs were still pinned down by a boot on his ankles. The cloth went with him, no matter how much effort he put into turning his head.
    Magic pulsed through him again, a temporary substitute for air as his lungs started to burn. His eyes watered, and as the magic lost some of its potency, agony slid in beside it. His lungs contracted. Against his will Ashe gasped, choked on the gag, and dragged a breath through his nose.
    Chemicals set him to coughing, painfully when the air couldn't expel past the cloth ball in his mouth. The world swam for more reasons than drugs, and every ragged inhalation sent him into more abortive hacking.
    He couldn't get enough air. The magic bled away. The world spun and went fuzzy, narrowed down to the effort to breathe. Pain lanced through him even as he realized the damp cloth was no longer over his nose. His lungs calmed. The coughing fit eased and went away. The whole world floated, far away, too distant to reach, somewhere with the fear that still lurked.
    Emotions came back slowly, as did awareness. His cage was closed and locked. They'd taken the griffon. The lid to the dragon egg crate was being tapped on carefully, four men standing nearby to carry it off. He blinked, and came back to the world to see the curtain back on his cage, to feel movement.
    Fear stabbed through the drug haze. He tried to call out for help, and heard only the faintest whimper before his eyes closed again.
    Then they were moving.
    ***
    "What do you mean, he's gone?"
    Eddie watched the tavern keeper rear away from Nate and almost felt sorry for the man. She wouldn't want to be faced with Nate, the entire towering hulk of him with his scowling visage, the salt and pepper beard ghosting over coal-dark skin. He was scary when he had gotten a good nights' sleep and wasn't worried about a member of his crew. Right now he looked more like a furious demigod than a man.
    The tavern keeper spread his hands harmlessly. "He left this morning, at first light. Asked me for a list of