I purse my lips sweetly. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”
“Do not push me, little girl. And do not ever forget who holds the power between us.” His eyes narrow on mine. “Perhaps I should put your shackles back on. You seemed so very fond of the iron.”
My stomach somersaults.
“Or perhaps I’ll fashion another noose and tow you behind my horse as I ride. You’ve seen how fast he can run. Surely you won’t have a difficult time keeping up?”
My face goes pale as he speaks. He notices, judging by the cruel smile that twists his lips.
“What? No more objections?” He steps back, out of my space, and I resume breathing. “Good. Get on the godsforsaken horse. Face down, like a proper sack of grain.”
I do.
We make campthrice more on our journey, each time in musky caves or shallow outcroppings of stone, taking momentary shelter from the elements by the warmth of a low fire. On each occasion, Scythe disappears for a short span, returning with a rabbit or some other prey lying limp in his large, bloodied hands. I eat without comment, knowing I need to build up my strength despite how much I hate taking aid from my enemy.
He is a strange travel-fellow. He does not say much of anything to me, besides the occasional gruff order. But he does not harm me. In fact, despite his claims to the contrary, he seems rather invested in my well-being.
When the fever finally clears from my head, I begin to take sharper notice of his actions. The cloak he spreads over me as we ride, to shield me from the worst of the snow. The pair of thick wool socks left beside my head as I sleep—a poor substitute for shoes, but better than nothing at all. The jar of healing salve, shoved wordlessly into my hands. The way he watches me across the light of the campfire as I apply it to my wounds and rewrap my wrists with strips from my shift, a strange gravity in his eyes.
I never see him rest. He remains constantly on guard forunseen enemies, monitoring our surroundings with a vigilance that makes me uneasy. I think often of the marching soldiers with their red-and-black sigils. Are they the ones hunting us? Or is it Scythe’s own men—comrades of those he slaughtered—who track us through the ever-deepening snowdrifts?
He gives no answers.
There is also the matter of the helmet. I have still never seen him remove it. I sometimes catch myself curious about what color hair is tucked beneath, or whether the absence of metal might soften his angular features in the slightest…but those thoughts are quickly banished to the back of my mind. What does it matter whether my captor is fair headed or raven-haired? Such superfluous details will not change my circumstance.
I steal sleep when I can. Despite my earlier show of bravado, I am still exhausted beyond measure. I learn to rest even on horseback, lulled into a jerking sort of slumber by the metronomic patter of the stallion’s hooves. But my dreams are full of dark visions—clashing swords and dripping blood and dark clouds rolling across a land of ice; carrion birds circling the smoke-streaked skies over a swallowing sea of sand. Past and future horrors swirl through my mind in the most violent of tempests.
For three days, we ride through the hills. Ever upward, ever northward, our altitude rising as the temperature plummets. Craggy hills morph into precipitous peaks, spearing into the dark sky. The air grows colder with each passing hour, the snow on the trees thick enough to strain the branches of the low-slung pines native to this mountainous region.
Face down on the rump of the horse, I watch the ground pass, a constant blur of white, and shiver so hard my bones rattle. To stave off the cold, I fill my mind with warm memories. Reading by the hearth, a thick blanket draped across my lap. Whiskers,the stray cat Eli rescued from the bramble, snoozing in a sunbeam. A cup of cider clasped in the circle of my hand. Tomas, the baker’s apprentice, sneaking me honey cakes on lush summer nights. Strong arms wrapped around my shoulders, reminding me I am safe.
The indignity of my riding position chafes at my pride, but there is little I can do about it. Protesting got me nowhere. I try to focus on the positives. My shackles have been removed. With the help of the salve, my wrists are beginning to heal—more rapidly than I’d thought possible. My fever remains at bay, at least momentarily. My stomach is full, my thirst sated. And my time with my captor is almost over.
It has to be.
My knowledge of Anwyvn’s geography is admittedly lacking, but I know eventually we will hit the Cimmerian Mountains. And no one travels beyond there. Not if they ever plan on returning. There is but one pass that leads through the jagged, snowy peaks. The Avian Strait—a narrow gauntlet, wide enough for only a few men marching side by side. Over the past two centuries, countless armies have fallen there, picked off by northern arrows or buried in unexpected avalanches, their corpses never to be recovered. Folks say the earth beneath the deep snow is stained red—the aftermath of many vain attempts to conquer the Northlands.
Not much is known with certainty about the kingdoms beyond the mountains. If the legends are to be believed, they’re icy, inhospitable places where disfigured monsters roamed freely in the age of maegic. Since the Cull, the only confirmed monster who still calls the north home is a man. A king. For even the most common of peasants has heard talk of King Soren of Llyr, whose barbarity rivals that of the southern warlords.
It is his kingdom that sits on the other side of the AvianStrait—one he defends mercilessly from the Midlanders. It is his face that young children conjure up in their most horrific nightmares. Wives pray their husbands will never face him in combat. Hardened soldiers speak of his battle tactics in fear-strangled voices.
I have no desire to learn firsthand if their terror is warranted. I assure myself even Scythe is not reckless enough to view Llyr as a viable hideout from the enemies on our heels. Yet the farther northward we travel, the less confident my assurances become…and the tighter the knot in the pit of my stomach twists.
When we stopagain, the skies are dark. I cannot tell the hour. The world is dim in the shadow of the mountains even at midday. The promise of impending snow presses down on us, infusing each breath with damp heaviness.
The stallion slows in a thin copse of pine trees that cling to a jutting cliff side. Craning my neck, I see it is a precipitous drop. Bottomless, to my eyes. The depths of the ravine are entrenched in inky shadow. Across that deep abyss, the Cimmerians loom, their frosted peaks blocking out the sun.
Scythe puts two fingers into his mouth and lets out a whistle that reminds me of a hawk’s shrill caw. I flinch as the sound reverberates off the stone canyon, echoing far out of range.
We wait.
The world falls quiet once the echoes fade, only the stallion’s occasional shuffles from hoof to hoof and the muffled plops of snow falling from overladen tree boughs to break the silence. I do not know what we are waiting for until, a few moments later, an answering caw carries back to us on the wind—hawkish and unmistakable.
Someone is on the other side of the gulch. Someone who has been awaiting Scythe’s signal.
A signal…for what? From whom?
I don’t have time to wonder long. No sooner has he heard the caw than Scythe spurs the horse back into motion, riding along the rim of the ravine with renewed energy. Face down as I am, it is difficult to make out much of anything, but my heart fails when I see how near we are to the edge. One false step, and we’ll plummet to our deaths.