He isn’t even winded.
The broadsword in his hand is stained black with blood. In the dim light of the dying fire, I watch him wipe it clean on Burrows’s decapitated body. When it once again shines, he rises to full height and takes a deep breath that broadens his whole frame.
Slowly, his head swings in my direction. The breath snags in my throat as his eyes lock on mine, pinning me in place more effectively than the binds around my waist. In two strides, he’s standing before me. I try not to scream as he raises his sword, but I cannot contain the faint bleat of terror that escapes my lips.
At the sound, he goes still. One eyebrow arches upward, as if in surprise, though his mouth remains a severe line. We regard each other for a moment, neither seeming to breathe in the quiet of the night.
Do it.I glare at him with what flimsy courage I can muster.Get it over with already.
As if hearing my challenge, his sword hand jerks and in one smooth stroke his blade makes its cut. Not across my neck, but through the noose that binds it. The rope falls to the ground as his sword flicks again, this time ridding me of the binds around my torso.
Free at last, I topple forward into the dirt. My deadened legs are incapable of supporting my weight, and my wrists, still clapped in irons, can do precious little to shield my fall. Pain explodes in my temple as my head cracks against the hard earth. The wind evacuates my lungs in a great whoosh, leaving me gasping in a heap.
When I manage to peel my eyes open, I find myself face-to-face with a familiar bushy beard and two pockmarked cheeks.Burrows’s severed head is close enough to kiss. I shriek and roll over, pushing up on my chained hands, my motions clumsy in my desperation. The earth beneath me is saturated with soldiers’ blood. I try not to notice as I drag myself along in jerky spurts, fingers clumping in dirt and fallen leaves, passing body parts and tree roots as I go. Each inch of progress is agony on my damaged wrists.
“Get up.”
The voice from above is cold. I decide to ignore it.
I think I hear a sigh, but I can’t be certain. I’m too focused on my rather pathetic escape attempt. I make it approximately two more handspans before Scythe reaches down, grabs me by the hair, and yanks me forcibly to my feet. I cry out in pain, but he does not yield—merely tows me along like a disobedient hound.
We cross the clearing in seconds, leaving behind the massacred men and their orderly camp. The fire has nearly gone out; there is no one left alive to tend it. At the edge of the clearing, a pack of horses graze beneath a tree. Amid the sea of dappled gray coats and soft white muzzles, one steed stands apart—a glossy black stallion, his color perfect camouflage for riding through the night without detection. He’s several hands taller than the others and wears an armored saddle fit for battlefields. A plate of chain mail covers his broad nose.
There is little doubt as to which rider he belongs.
Scythe releases my hair, but only so he can toss me roughly across the rump of the great horse—face down, my legs dangling over one side, my manacled hands on the other. Seconds later, a leather saddlebag strap cinches efficiently across my middle, holding me in place.
I’m too worn-out to protest the indignity of my position.
The commander’s menacing presence recedes momentarily as he sets loose the tethered horses. I hear the low cluck of histongue, the firm slap of his palm against a series of rumps. Eager hoofbeats fade into the night as the cavalry leaves the camp—and their dead masters—behind. I hope they find peace in their early retirement, somewhere in the wild. No longer forced to ferry anyone into battle, no longer beholden to the whims of bloodthirsty kings. Just days full of sun and wind and endless grassy fields for grazing.
I fear my own fate will not be half so tranquil.
With a low grunt, the commander swings up into the saddle and, clicking his bootheels against his horse’s sides, spurs us off, into the dark.
Chapter
Three
It’s nearly impossible to fall asleep slung across the stallion’s back, each pound of his hooves against the earth jolting through my bones like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. And yet, my exhaustion must exceed my discomfort, for when my eyes open, dawn is breaking, its pink fingers creeping across the sky.
Gods, I ache everywhere.
My body feels more wrung out than a damp washcloth. Limp and lifeless. With the strap so tight around my middle, it’s difficult to draw breath. I can see little except the lathered flank of the horse beneath me, the heel of my captor’s boot in a muddy stirrup, the ground below us a rush of color.
We are riding hard. Northwest, judging by the sun’s position in the ashen-gray sky. Away from the boglands, out of the forest—though I have no idea where. I rack my brain for any meaningful details the soldiers let slip last night. What was it Burrows said?
We’re off to the southern front at first light. King Eld has called for reinforcements.
King Eld of…
The Narrows?
No.
Dymmeria?
No.