Page 10 of Prize of the Warlord
11
Casually I walk between two tents and then furtively skirt the second one until I’m approaching the horses’ shelter from behind. It’s a latticework of birch poles and leafy branches, barely high enough for the heads of the great shaggy beasts. They’re munching noisily from a temporary trough made of sticks, filled with hay.
These horses are much too big for me to mount alone, especially without a saddle, and I have no time or skill to equip them. I’ve saddled a horse or two in my life, but it’s so much easier to ask our stable-boy to do it for me. Now I wish I’d made the effort more often.
I know these raiders had more than three horses. Where are the others?
I scan the clearing, peering into the trees. Finally I see them, a short distance away in a hastily-constructed pen. The posts of the pen have animal skulls tacked to them. Another superstition to keep away the imaginaryjäkel, no doubt.
I slink through the trees to the enclosure and pick out a horse that looks small enough for me to handle—not much more than a pony, really, but it will do.
Carefully I slide between the poles of the makeshift fence and approach the pony, hand outstretched. “Come here, girl,” I murmur. “Come on.”
The pony approaches me, curious, probably expecting a treat. I back away, urging her closer to the barrier. Then I step on one of the fence poles and launch myself onto her back.
The pole falls with a faint thump—not very solidly built, this fence. The pony shudders and blows out a disgruntled huff, but she doesn’t buck. Gripping two fistfuls of her mane, I urge her toward the fence, which is lower now. “Go,” I hiss. But she backs away, chuffing. It’s still too high for her to step over.
Despite the biting cold, I’m sweating under my new clothes. Every second that passes is another moment in which the raiders could discover my escape. I turn the pony, trotting her around until we have a decent space to charge the fence. Then I kick her flanks, and she finally breaks into a run.
She and I are both light and small, and we sail easily over the bar. There’s a whinny of interest from behind us as we gallop away, and I can’t help a smirk at the thought of the raiders’ other horses escaping now that we’ve shown them the way. It would serve the Warlord right if he had to chase his animals all over this strange scarlet forest.
Shouts break out behind me, and I lean low over the pony’s neck, legs bent and knees pressed tight. There’s enough sunset left to tell me which way is south, so I head in that direction, with the sun on my right.
Joss would be better at this. Better at riding, better at escaping—she probably wouldn’t have let herself be taken in the first place.
I hope I see her again, so she can tell me all the ways I could have handled this better.
My pony must be used to the forest, because she runs lightly, leaping easily over fallen trees and other debris in our path. Up ahead, the trees are thinning, and there’s a pale, flat expanse beyond. The Bloodsalt. We must have crossed it while I was unconscious, but we didn’t get far into the forest before they made camp and summoned the healer.
How long was I unconscious? Hours? Days? The Warlord said my father had received his ransom demand today—how long has my family known of my capture? And how is the Warlord planning to communicate the terms of my release from so far away?
More shouts from behind me, and the thunder of hooves. When I glance back, I can’t see the pursuers yet, but they have bigger horses, and they know the terrain better than I do. They’ll catch up to me quickly.
My heart sinks.
Maybe I am the mouse after all. The mouse, chased by cats, unable to outrun them.
But what does a mouse do best?
It hides.
I’m coming to the edge of the forest, and the Bloodsalt sprawls ahead, snow-white tinged with a pink sunset glow.
Sharply I tug on my pony’s mane. She screeches a protest, but she skids to a halt.
I fling myself off and smack her rump as hard as I can. Whinnying again, she charges forward, through the final fringe of trees and out onto the flats of the Bloodsalt. I duck sideways and scurry through the undergrowth, dodging trunks and ducking beneath branches.
With any luck, the raiders will follow the pony, and they won’t realize she’s riderless until they get closer. Meanwhile, I’ll find somewhere to hide, and then I’ll cross the Bloodsalt at night, when it’s harder for them to see me.
It’s a flawed plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
12
I scramble up a ridge and down again, over a ditch and around a tumble of red-stained rocks. Shadows are deepening, night falling in ever-thickening veils between the black pillars of the forest.
My boot skids on dead leaves, and I almost topple headlong into a narrow ravine. It’s deep enough for me to walk along it without my head sticking above its edge, so I slide down into the gully, hoping I’ll find a hiding spot. I’ve been running for what feels like hours now, and my lungs ache from laboring so hard. I can feel the telltale tickle in my throat, the dry itching sensation that often precedes one of my breathing attacks. I need to stop and rest.
The mucky bottom of the ravine plunges lower, and I find a shallow, half-frozen pool among some rocks. I plunge my fingers through the skin of ice on its surface and wet my lips and tongue, but I don’t dare drink much of the water in this strange forest.
