Page 60 of Prize of the Warlord
Hitching my hands into his armpits, I tug vainly at his bulk. He doesn’t budge, not an iota.
“Faen, faen,” I hiss under my breath, hot tears sliding down my cold cheeks. “Getup, you big bastard. Do you have a spine? Any will to fight? Or are you weak after all?” A sob hitches in my throat. “Pull yourself out of this, or I swear I will dive into the ether and kill you myself.” In my helpless rage, I kick him, right in the breastbone.
His body jolts and he hauls in a long breath.
“Oh gods.” I bite back more tears and pull vainly at his arm. “Come on, Cronan. You have to do this. I need to get you onto the horse.”
I don’t like the sound of his thick, wheezing breaths, or the way he groans piteously as he heaves himself mostly upright. Blood oozes from the gashes across his chest, stomach, and thighs, smearing the horse and her saddle as he gives one great pained lunge and throws himself up onto her back. I toss the reins over the mare’s head and leap up behind him quickly, wrapping both arms around him and taking up the reins again. I can only pray that I’ll be able to keep him from toppling off during the ride to the mountain village.
Peering around the Warlord’s bulk, I lift the reins and urge the mare forward in a low voice. She obeys me without hesitation, sweet thing that she is. As we round the corner of the stable, I notice the three guards passing the back gate again, and I tug the reins sharply to halt the horse in the shadows.
The guards assemble briefly before splitting up, two going in opposite directions around the inn wall and the third heading for the woods.
I wait a few moments, then hurry the mare toward the back gate. It won’t take the guards long to do their rounds and return here.
I have to dismount to open the back gate, and when I do, Cronan nearly slides off. But I manage to push his shoulder hard enough to get him back up, lying on the horse’s neck. She chuffs, apparently disturbed by the size and the slack weight of him, but I keep crooning to her, and when I urge her through the gate into the field beyond, she complies.
I close the back gate before mounting again. Inside I’m chanting a terrified prayer ofquickly, quickly,mingled with the names of all the gods I’ve ever heard of and some I probably made up on the spot. I don’t head straight for the forest; I angle the mare to the left, toward a long ridge of rocky dirt with no snow on it. Her hoofprints by the gate will mingle with those of the guards, and if we ride along the bare stretch of hard earth, hopefully they won’t notice our trail leading away from the inn until we’ve covered some distance.
We trot along the packed dirt for a few minutes, and then I hear, up ahead, the low voices of another patrol through the fringe of trees. Panicking, I pull the mare up short and hold her there, peering through the gloom. I can barely see anything, but I wait until the voices and the dull tramp of hooves has receded.
We have to stop a few more times to avoid patrols. Once, two pairs of guards intersect nearly on top of us, and we only get clear of them because my mother’s mare is quick, even with the Warlord and me on her back. If I’d been on foot, I wouldn’t have been able to cross the open ground fast enough, and I would have been caught.
No wonder Cronan was captured. My father and the Prince have laced these woods with a few dozen soldiers, it seems.
After that narrow escape, I consider angling toward the village and hoping for fewer patrols—but then we would have to deal with walls and fences that the mare can’t jump with two on her back, and gates I can’t risk stopping to open. Plus there would be village dogs who might signal our passing.
We stick to the forest, picking our way through the thickest shadows until it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a patrol. Meanwhile I talk to Cronan in my mind, constantly, in my sharpest tones. I criticize and cajole, pester and praise him. Anything to keep his consciousness rooted to his body, tethered to me. If he’s answering in the ether, I can’t hear it—but I have to believe that he’s there, responding to all my nonsense with annoyed grunts.
He’s still naked, except for the horse blanket I threw around his shoulders. I hate to think what the saddle is doing to his privates, or how cold his feet must be, but it can’t be helped. When I think it’s safe, I steer us onto the mountain road leading up to Three Bridges.
What follows is a blur of dark trees, the miasma of coppery blood, freezing night air, and rough road. The mare stumbles several times, and with each jerk, the Warlord’s body shifts and starts to slide. I have to strain and pull, tugging him back into balance. I’m shaking with nerves, and my nose is numb with cold, yet my armpits and chest are damp with hectic sweat.
Just when I think I can’t keep him on the horse any longer, when I think my teeth are going to crack from chattering, I see the glittering stream and the first of the three bridges.
The next moment, someone barks, “Stop.”
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At the harsh command, I halt the mare. I know better than to test the good graces of the Warlord’s people. They probably have arrows trained on me already.
“I have the Warlord,” I call out. My voice sounds pitifully feeble. “He’s injured. He needs the healer.”
“The Warlord? Injured?” A lantern flares and bobs toward the mare. “Dismount, and throw down your weapons!”
“I don’t have any weapons, and if I dismount he’ll fall off,” I reply.
Urgent voices speak the Warlord’s language, and another lantern springs to life. Large figures approach the horse, and arms reach up to take Cronan down. The men exclaim at the state of him—naked, torn to pieces, nearly frozen.
I sway on the mare’s back, sick to my stomach and terrified that I didn’t make the right choice, that I didn’t get him here in time.
“He’s breathing,” one of the warriors calls out, and I vent a sob of relief. The healer can fix him. It will take a while to seal those gashes, restore the lost blood, repair any frostbitten parts—but my Warlord will live.
“You.” A hand grips my arm and jerks me off the mare. My ankle wrenches painfully, caught in the stirrup, and when I finally get it free and land on it, agony lances up my leg. A shrill cry escapes me, and I collapse onto the cold cobbles of the road.
“Foolish brat.” Chestnut braids swing past my face, and I catch a glimpse of Olsa’s features, painted harshly in the light of the lamp she carries. “You arranged for him to come to you tonight, knowing it would mean his death!”
“I didn’t arrange it,” I gasp. “I had no idea he would try to see me. It was stupid of him.”
