Page 10 of Bride of Mist
It didn’t matter. He’d tried to slaughter her clansmen and her cousin. He deserved to die.
She donned her leaf-colored mask and coif and pulled the dark green hood over her head, leaving only her eyes visible. Then she shouldered her pack of belongings, and disappeared into the shadows of the wood.
There was only one westward road wide enough to accommodate a fugitive on horseback. Situated several miles north of Creagor, the main thoroughfare roughly followed the river.
By the time she reached the road hours later, the sun was already setting. On foot, she was clearly no match for a rider.
But she had several advantages.
She was patient. Persistent. Tireless. Motivated. Unafraid of the dark. And she knew several detours through the forest that would shave hours off her journey.
She was also blessed by a nearly full moon, which would guide her when night fell. She didn’t intend to sleep until justice was served. Until the monster’s cold blood dripped down her hot blade of revenge.
As she’d expected, the ground was gouged and scarred by the charger’s heavy hooves. The man had made no effort to disguise his passage, riding at a reckless speed to elude pursuit.
Also as expected, he was headed west, probably fleeing toward Ayr.
Fortunately, Feiyan knew a shorter path through the wood.
It would still be a long while before she’d catch up to a man on horseback. Maybe a day. Maybe two. But shewouldcatch up to him.
She’d be damned if she’d let the Westland devil run loose through her Scotland.
Dougal couldn’t keep up this manic pace forever. He’d already run Urramach half to death to get to Creagor in three days. The return trip to the coast would surely finish the animal.
Still, there was no time to waste. The bright moon was not his friend tonight. Sooner or later, the mac Giric men would catch up with him. He’d killed one of their womenfolk. And he’d left behind the claymore that had done the deed. A blade that damned all of Darragh.
His foes’ eyes would be full of bloodlust. Their hearts full of vengeance. From what he’d experienced against their blunted blades, Dougal doubted he’d last long against their sharpened swords. He might be a feared fighter in his own clan. But he was no match for a company of seasoned border warriors.
He had to reach Ayr before they did. Warn his clan before the enemy descended upon them, bringing a deadly tempest of revenge.
He’d been a fool to come so unprepared. He’d assumed the bloodthirsty mac Girics were nothing but a cowering band of outlaws. He’d never imagined they would turn out to be an organized army.
An hour later, he had no choice but to rein back the wheezing charger, slowing him to a walk.
The steed’s sides were heaving. His flanks glistened with sweat. Flecks of foam blew out with every breath. Without rest and water, the horse would die.
The road generally followed the river. A gap between the trees led downhill, toward the distant hiss of rushing current. Dougal dismounted and led Urramach through the brush, using his dagger to clear the way.
A few hundred yards brought them to the river’s edge. Dougal fell to his knees in the silt, scooping his hand into the shallows and slurping up the cool water.
But the charger only stood and stared at the river. The proverb about leading a horse to water echoed in Dougal’s head. Surely Urramach was thirsty. But the stubborn beast took no interest in the water, jerking back when Dougal lifted a palm full of it to the horse’s lips.
He muttered a curse. This was not going to work. If Urramach didn’t drink, he would exhaust himself and collapse on the trail. And Dougal had no time to wait for him to work up a good thirst.
After several fruitless attempts at coaxing him to drink, Dougal made up his mind. As much as it pained him, for his beloved destrier had served him well, and traveling on foot would slow Dougal’s progress, the only answer was to abandon the beast.
The mac Girics would be searching for a man on horseback, after all. Without the horse, Dougal could slip in and out of the forest, concealing the signs of his passage, throwing his pursuers off his trail.
He pitched his helm, shield, chausses, and hauberk into the bushes. Chain mail might protect him in battle, but it would burden him now. Besides, he could hardly bear to look at his armor, stained red with innocent blood.
Taking only what provisions he could carry, he led Urramach back to the road. There he continued at an amble for a mile or so until he found a suitable place to leave the beast. With a heavy sigh and a bitter heart, he tied his faithful destrier to a tree. Then he shouldered his belongings and ducked into the woods, following a narrow deer trail that branched off the road.
The trail eventually opened onto a small moonlit glen. On the far side of the meadow was a wider footpath that continued in a westerly direction through the trees.
With each mile, the pines grew thicker and more menacing, until they blocked out the moonlight, and he could no longer see the trail.
Surely he was out of danger now. Far from the main road. Far from his horse. Deep in the wood.
