Thud.
The sound of hard steel hitting wood chills me to the bone.
I don’t dare move.
Thud.
“What’s this thing made of, fuckin’ elven-wood or something?”
Thud.
This time, the wooden door finally shatters.
The glass pane explodes. Shards of glass tinkle as they rain all over the blankets.
I tense, frantically trying to think of how I can escape this. Maybe I can launch myself forward; catch the intruder by surprise, somehow get to the outside…
No. Don’t be stupid. He has an axe.
There are at least five men outside. They have horses. No matter where I go, they would run me down.
Maybe I can steal one of their horses.
“What in the Seven Furies is all this? A dress? There a woman in here?” The intruder mutters to himself as he rummages through the ridiculous dress that’s folded up on the bench, before opening and slamming the wooden drawers beneath the seats. “Nobody in here?”
He tugs at one of my blankets. I clutch it with all my might, not ready to be uncovered.
He yanks harder. He’s too strong. The blanket’s torn from my grasp.
Cold air brushes against my face.
I look up… and come face to face with a stranger.
I’m dissected by a hard blue gaze. He has straw-colored hair and a rough beard and dirty teeth. His clothes are brown and rough and dirty. His cracked lips curve into a lascivious smile. “Well, well. What do we have here? Oi, boss. Look what I fou—”
Thud.
He stops mid-sentence. Something is poking out of his left eye. I cover my mouth in horror.
It’s an arrow-tip.
Blood seeps from his eye where the tip of the arrow has penetrated through his sclera, just shy of his iris.
He slumps forward, collapsing onto his face. A metal-shafted arrow protrudes from the back of his head.
Outside, there’s chaos. Men shouting. Horses whinnying. I brave a look out the window. Another man falls, an arrow protruding from his chest.
The remaining three gallop off in the direction of the shooter, leaving a pile of bodies and two untethered horses behind them.
Bile rises in my throat as the smell of blood hits me.
I’m queasy.
Paralyzed.
Trembling all over.
I force myself to move.
Ignore it. Keep going.
This could be my only chance.
I throw off the blankets and scramble over mounds of fabric and broken glass, desperately pushing the dead man aside as I make for the exit. One of the glass shards embeds itself in my palm, drawing blood and a sharp prick of pain. I pull it out and toss it aside, clenching my fist tightly to stem the flow of blood.
It’s nothing to worry about. It’ll stop soon.
Thank the Goddess I kept my boots on. I drop down onto the cold, hard snow, ignoring the glass shards that have embedded in my hands.
I barely even feel the pain.
The horse closest to me is a quarter horse. He looks a little underfed, and his deep brown coat is dull and lackluster. Overstuffed saddle bags are strapped down behind his saddle.
“Come,” I say softly, approaching from the side, holding out my hand.
He takes a tentative step forward.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, careful not to look him in the eye. “Come on.”
He edges forward until he’s close enough that I can grab the reins.
In the distance, I hear the sounds of men fighting; of steel clashing against steel, of frenzied shouting and screams of agony as wounds are inflicted.
My fingers curl around the soft leather of his reins. The cut in my hand is not so bad after all; it’s only shallow, and the blood has already started to dry. It might open again, but it’s not worth worrying about.
I’ll deal with it later.
Nearly there. Keep your head.
I focus on the horse; on getting him to trust me. I block out all sound and gently pull on his reins.
I ignore the smell of blood; the stench of death.
I ignore the fact that there are bodies strewn all around us.
We walk. I lead him behind the carriage until I can no longer see the carnage. The sight of pure, untouched snow is but a momentary respite.
Slowly, carefully, trying my best to give off a calm aura, I walk to the horse’s side and lower the stirrup. Holding the reins steady, I slip my foot into the stirrup.
One, two, three…
Up.
The saddle beneath me feels familiar and somehow comforting. I hold the reins steady and a little loose. The horse waits expectantly.
Good boy.
Much to my relief, he’s easy to handle, and not too spooked by all the violence.
He must be used to it.
I give him a gentle squeeze with my legs. “Let’s go.”
He starts to walk.
Fear and excitement course through me. This is it. I might actually be able to escape from here.
I apply a bit more pressure with my legs, more briskly this time.
He speeds up. I shorten the reins and ease him into a trot, absorbing his movements with my body.
Almost.
We’re almost away.
We’re about to break into a canter; to leave this terrible place behind for good.
But then I hear the sound of my own name, shouted by a voice that’s all too familiar to me.
“Fin! Don’t go!”
I pull on the horse’s reins.
Did I really just hear that, or am I hallucinating?
There’s no way I can ignore that voice.
I turn in my saddle.
And all of a sudden, I’m staring back at a face that’s so very similar to my own.
6
FINLEY
Three lads.
What?
They’ve followed me all the way here, taking the very best horses from Ruen’s stables.
I can’t believe my eyes.
I squint.
In the distance, I see my younger brother, Kastel, galloping toward me.
Behind him is another rider. It’s Garan. One of the squires, he’s the son of Ruen Castle’s stable master, and a good friend of my brothers. They’ve played together since they were toddlers.
Someone is slumped across the front of Aran’s horse.
Aderick.
Oh, no. Please don’t be…
Cold fear grips my heart.
I’ve seen enough death already.
Silently, I curse my father and Emperor Duthriss.
Why is it that when old men try to connive and make plans, they so often end in nightmares?
And this son of the Emperor, this Corvan Duthriss… what part did he play in all of this? Was he not expecting me? Could he not even send an escort to the border of his lands to greet us?
Kastel and Garan are gaining ground quickly. Aderick’s unmoving form sways, his hands swinging from side to side.
The boys are wearing thick leather armor emblazoned with the serpent insignia of Ruen. Their heads are covered by sturdy leather and metal helmets. Longswords hang from their sides.
Their armor is splattered with blood.
The lads are much better fighters than I’d thought.
“What are you doing here?” I scream. “You should not be here, Kastel! I told you not to worry about me.”
Anger wells up inside me, combined with a strange feeling of gratitude.
They’ve followed me all this way. For what? To rescue me from the clutches of this supposedly mad, terrible Corvan Duthriss?
Kastel reaches me. He slows his horse and manoeuvers the big gelding until he’s alongside me. “Finley! You’re safe! Thank the Goddess. If we didn’t reach you just now, those brigands would have…”