Months of running, hiding, and surviving by her wits, her luck, the help of her dead father, and the arbitrary mercy of the gods, and now she’d die not by Gharek’s hand but by some nameless steppe nomad looking to loot, plunder, and kill.
The thought was briefer than the breath she couldn’t take, chased away by the sight of the sword blade flashing in the sun as its wielder brought it down to cleave her in two.
Death came fast and savage, but not hers. Another blade met the first with a dull ring, blocking the lethal blow, and Siora managed to snatch a thin inhalation as the second blade slid free to slice through her attacker’s neck. Gouts of blood fountained in every direction, splashing her in a hot wave. She rolled away just before the Nunari’s headless body collapsed onto the spot where she’d lain, his sword clattering harmlessly beside him. His head bounced a short distance before stopping with his face turned to the sky. His wide eyes blinked slowly as if mystified by how he’d ended up in his current position.
Terrified of facing a rescuer who was just as likely to kill her as the dead Nunari, Siora scuttled backward on her haunches and elbows, half blinded by blood not her own dripping down her forehead and into her eyelashes. A hand grabbed her arm, the grip as unyielding as the one that had held her braid. She twisted to see who imprisoned her.
Fear fought with relief at the sight of her captor. Gharek’s implacable features were soot-stained and as bloody as hers. He hauled her to her feet, giving her a slight shake to emphasize his displeasure. “Stupid girl, stop fighting and keep up,” he snarled.
He didn’t give her a chance to reply or resist. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, shackling her to him, and he pulled her deeper into the havoc around them. There was no time to puzzle out why he’d chosen to save her instead of letting the Nunari cut her down. She stayed close behind him, using his body as both shield and battering ram as he clove a path through the square.
Buildings consumed by flames collapsed into fiery heaps of red-hot timbers and glowing showers of sparks. Heavy smoke made it hard to see and breathe. Riderless horses, terror-struck by the fire, galloped through the crowds, trampling anyone too slow to get out the way. A man enrobed in flame and blazing brighter than any pitch-soaked torch staggered along a hastily cleared path, screaming in a voice no longer human. A woman, face resolute and smeared with soot, tossed a baby from the second story window of a burning house into the arms of an older girl waiting in the street. She closed her eyes in obvious relief just as the roof collapsed on her with a dull roar and an explosion of sparks.
The hazy shapes of ghosts mingled with the serpentine swirl of smoke in Wellspring Holt, both so thick in some places a person could carve their name in the miasma and have it linger. The chance for Siora to escape Gharek came when he let her go to capture a runaway horse by its trailing reins. She didn’t take it. The man who’d chased her across Empire lands was, for the moment, her ally and her best chance at survival.
The animal skidded in the dirt and reared before settling down. Its wide eyes rolled and its nostrils sprayed snot with every frightened, bellowing breath. Gharek grabbed Siora, flinging her onto its back so hard she nearly flew off the opposite side. He mounted behind her, using the reins as a lash. The horse jumped to a full gallop, and Siora clutched the saddle pommel to hold on.
We’re going to die. We’re going to die.
The chant played over and over in her head as they raced through Wellspring Holt. Gharek plowed the horse through a small knot of fighters, using his sword to cut down a pair of Nunari who tried to halt their escape. Siora spotted one of the town’s two gates so close, though it might have been in another kingdom for any chance they’d have of reaching it alive. Gharek lashed the horse to greater speed. The gods only knew what threat lay on the other side—no doubt more Nunari invaders riding on a second wave of attack to finish what the first wave had started.
They didn’t slow, and the horse raced through the breached gate at a dead run. Siora flinched and closed her eyes for a moment, expecting a hail of arrows to descend on them, death from above, painful but hopefully quick. She opened her eyes again at Gharek’s bellowed “Oh fuck!” and yelped when their mount reared once more, pivoting hard on its back hooves before crashing down again. Siora narrowly avoided biting her tongue as her teeth snapped together from the jarring landing. She caught a quick glimpse of what looked like an ocean of uniforms, a landscape of shields, and a forest of spears stretched as far as her eye could see. Instead of Nunari horsemen waiting outside Wellspring Holt, an entire battalion of Kraelian soldiers stood at the ready.
A voice rose above the din behind them, sounding both surprised and triumphant. “Holy gods, it’s the cat’s-paw! Catch that fucker!”
Panic engulfed her when Gharek turned the horse back toward the gate, toward the burning town, and the fighting within. She struggled for space in the saddle, enough to fling herself sideways and off the fleeing animal. She sent up a brief prayer that she wouldn’t break anything. She never got the chance.
Two loud cracks split the air, followed by agony so sharp she thought she’d retch. Like the vicious edge of a mirror shard, the pain cut across her upper arm, tore along her collarbone, and bit deep into her other arm before she was wrenched from the saddle. The world turned a somersault in her vision an instant before another breath-stealing fall to the ground rattled every bone in her body. A last tiny huff of air burst past her lips in a whisper when Gharek landed on top of her with a hard grunt.
CHAPTER THREE
Gharek sat, bound and bloody on the saddle of a trotting horse, and swallowed back the foul-tasting bile that hung in his throat. The view in front of him offered little in either interest or comfort—a solid wall of mounted, armored Kraelian soldiers. They rode toward some unknown destination, absolute in their intent that Gharek go with them. He scraped his tongue gingerly over his split lip, wincing at the sting there. He didn’t complain. They could have broken his jaw and made him spit teeth, and that was before they might have entertained the idea to crack his spine like a broomstick or gouge out his eyes. Kraelian soldiers weren’t known for their civility or their mercy. He would know. He’d been one before taking up the far more lucrative and dangerous role of Dalvila’s cat’s-paw.
The blessing of no life-threatening injuries didn’t stop him from cursing inwardly, not only over his rotten luck but also his own foolish mercy toward Siora. Had he not tried to play the role of hero, he wouldn’t be in this sorry predicament right now, a prisoner of some faction of the fracturing army with plans for him that no doubt included a slow, agonizing death at the hands of one or more of the countless enemies he’d made in the Empire. The only question was who among that considerable number would have the pleasure of weaving his entrails through their garden gate or displaying his severed head on a pole outside their front entry.
He’d realized the second his horse had cleared Wellspring Holt’s gate that he’d ridden into an equally grim situation. A full Kraelian garrison’s worth of soldiers had gathered outside, weapons drawn, as they waited for the command to charge inside the city and battle the Nunari ransacking, pillaging, and looting. Any hope that he might simply ride past them had died when one voice rang out, urgent and demanding.