Page 37 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"I cannot hold back for long." Its voice was vaguely Eamon's, but gravelly and echoing, like a demon roaring from some far-off pit of Hell. "Run!"
Even as the skull spoke to me, the Horseman's massive arm lifted, brandishing the golden scythe. But he did not speak my name. He did not freeze me in place and render me helpless—though he stalked toward me, slow and heavy, drawn to me like a compass needle is sucked toward True North.
No spell had sealed me in place when he read my name from the note; but if he spoke it again, I would be paralyzed.
I fled.
No time to think about the sharp twinges of pain in my back. Fear fueled my steps, and I bounded along the path like a deer, terrified and trembling.
A thought formed, clear and sure. I had to get to Elatha before the Horseman did. The stallion was my only chance of survival.
The sunlight had faded, and stars glinted like teeth through the dark limbs of the trees. No gateway to Faerieland here, and no stately columns crested with glittering colors. That illusion was shredded by shadows, and the trees tunneled around the pathway, closing me in.
My toe caught on the edge of a rock and I nearly fell; but I lurched forward, risking one look over my shoulder.
My Horseman stalked me, a dread hunter with a skull of bone and fire. As I stared with sick fascination, his head darted forward, streaming flames, a smoky hiss issuing from its mouth and echoing between the shrouded trees.
I clapped my hands over my ears, and I ran again. Faster this time. My feet pounded over hard-packed earth, their frantic beat dulled by the layer of dead leaves. Down the slope I raced, so fast I nearly tumbled in a headlong slurry of rotten leaves and panic. I slowed as much as I dared, so as not to spook the stallion who stood ahead of me in the center of the field, his head lifted to the wind. He seemed more alert now, and restive. Maybe he could smell the hellish smoke from the Horseman's skull.
Even as I had the thought, the skull blazed over my head, showering sparks. They winked out before they touched the dry grass.
With a tiny shriek I leaped forward, calling to the horse in a breathy, overly cheerful voice. "Elatha! Elatha, come here. Come to me."
The skull whirled up into the sky, screeching something that sounded like my name, only garbled, with the syllables scattered in the wrong places.
Eamon was fighting the fell sway of his magic. He was straining against it, for me, so I would have a chance to escape.
"Elatha," I crooned to the horse again.
If only I had a treat, something to tempt him. But apparently he remembered the carrots from earlier in the day, and our interludes of conversation—he trotted toward me, ears tilted forward with interest.
I had nothing to use for a saddle or bridle. I took a handful of his mane, cupped his face with my arm, and led him toward the fence.
We reached it just as the Horseman himself marched out of the forest. His scythe caught the icy starlight as he swished it, back and forth, back and forth, the blade whipping low to the ground, slicing the longest of the grasses.
Biting back another scream, I stepped onto the fence and launched myself onto Elatha's back. Agony bit into my wound, but I felt no rush of blood. Even if I had, this was no time to worry about it.
I pressed my knees and calves to the horse as tightly as I could and took two fistfuls of mane. Quick and light, I tapped my heels to Elatha's sides—not to hurt him, but to send the messagego, go, go.
He hesitated.
"Elatha." My voice cracked with urgency. "Please. Go!"
The stallion wheeled and galloped across the field, away from the Horseman. We rode fast, approaching the fence at a pace that chilled my blood—I clenched my legs for dear life, sobbing with pain and fear.
A hideous floating sensation—my stomach sailed into my throat—then a crash of hooves on the ground, and we were safely over the pasture fence and off again.
I guided Elatha as best I could, steering him downhill as much as possible. I had no idea where Eamon's shortcut tunnel was, and I could not spare the time to search for it. As long as the horse and I were headed into the valley, toward buildings and people, I'd have a chance. I was moving much faster than Eamon—he would have to walk the entire distance that Elatha and I covered.
We found a path, of a sort—a passable swath of space between the clustering trees. Elatha must have traveled it before on his forays with the Horseman. As he cantered down, down, toward the valley, I had a chance to breathe, and to think.
Anika had been at the cabin today. It must have been her I glimpsed in the woods, watching me. Perhaps she had come to give Eamon new orders, or to bring him something—or perhaps she had not fully believed his explanation during her first visit. She had seen me lying outside, and realized that I knew more than I should about her dullahan murder-slave. And she had decided that I must die.
My fate was sealed.
A dullahan never stopped pursuing its victim. Once given a name, it must capture the victim's head, or remain headless forever. Unless—
Eamon had told me he was magically prevented from killing his Ceannaire or her family members. Unable to free himself that way, he said.
