Chapter 6
The valley of the Silver Horn was shaped like a trap.
One way in. One way out. The good news was that we knew from what side our pursuers would be coming; the bad news was that it was also the only possible direction to ride into.
Durlain didn’t waste a second, mounting and settling himself behind me as I was still finding my balance in the saddle.
His arms came around me without warning.
His weight pressed briefly against my back as he prodded a knee into the horse’s flank, and then we were moving, straight into a canter – out of Horn’s End and down to the winding river path, the mossy fields and rocky hillsides opening wide around us.
In the distance, the horns were still screeching.
The horse didn’t seem to need any other encouragement, galloping so wildly I was tossed back against Durlain’s chest with its every leap.
Yesterday, the sensation of his nearness had been unwelcome.
Now it was downright mortifying – all cosied up with a power-hungry murderer, so close to his tall body that I felt his breath hot and humid against the back of my head.
His muscled thighs squeezed mine. His lean hips grinded against me with every stride – rhythmic, unsettling intimacy.
I made an attempt to focus on the pine green forest line in the distance instead.
On the soldiers gathering to find me, on the ruthless wind whipping at my face.
It was like being burned alive and trying not to think of flames.
For Lark, I told myself, gritting my teeth. Anything for Lark – yet somehow, the thought of him only made everything worse.
‘What were you saying about magic?’ Durlain rasped behind me.
I latched onto the distraction with an eagerness that bordered on pathetic. Runes weren’t warm, at least. Runes weren’t tall and solid and … mists take me, muscular.
‘Was thinking—’ The words came out in bursts and gasps, hooves thundering beneath us, wind stealing my breath. ‘If we want speed— The weight— The saddle— Need a little space to—’
He should have asked questions.
Any sensible man would have asked questions – hell, Lark would have asked questions – and yet he moved without a word.
I was so shocked I didn’t see his arm coming until it wrapped around my waist. A wiry forearm dug into my side.
A gloved hand splayed across my lower ribs and dragged me backwards in the saddle, towards him as he shifted back as well.
The horse galloped on, and our bodies squeezed tighter together, my backside rubbing against—
Was that a bulge?
I decided, with all the desperate confidence a situation of true calamity called for, that it most definitely could not be a bulge, and squeaked, ‘Thank you.’
‘Just get to work.’ His voice was tight. ‘This isn’t the most comfortable position for riding.’
My thoughts stuttered.
Riding.
It would have been deliberate innuendo from Lark’s lips, and I was a traitor – a filthy, heartless traitor – for even thinking of that now, pinned against the chest of Pol Estien’s murderer.
Lark, who had kissed me so sweetly. Lark, who had wrapped me in his arms every single time Aranc had sent for me again, who had comforted me as I sobbed over the horrors I couldn’t possibly escape, and—
‘Thraga,’ Durlain bit out.
Shit.
‘Right.’ My voice had gone breathless. ‘Yes. Just … just working out my runes.’
‘Really.’ He sounded as though he was speaking through his teeth. ‘I suggest working them out a little faster, then.’
We agreed for once.
I reached for Wunjo beneath my borrowed coat, fingers missing its small, smooth hilt twice before I managed to grab it mid-bounce. Runes. Focus. I’d use mannaz, of course, and probably uruz, although strength wasn’t the same as weight …
Durlain stiffened as I drew my knife. ‘What do you need that for?’
‘Longevity.’ The sharp inhalation behind me announced a second question, so I hurriedly added, ‘Finger signs are temporary. Engraving the runes—’
‘Right. Got it.’ At least he was fast on the uptake. ‘Just keep the blade away from Smudge, will you?’
I almost dropped Wunjo. ‘Smudge?’
‘Cimmura named her,’ he snapped. ‘Are you getting to work?’
He didn’t strike me as the sort of man who’d let his little sister name his horse. But the battle horns were growing steadily louder, and Cimmura was hundreds of miles away … so I bit my tongue and bent over, trying not to notice how my bottom pressed against Durlain’s crotch with the movement.
Definitely not a bulge.
Definitely not a bulge, and I had to fucking focus. I couldn’t save Lark if the Svein’s Creek soldiers killed us first.
At least I had Wunjo. Bounding up and down in the saddle, I wouldn’t have managed to make the signs anywhere near legible with any other knife – but this little blade was made for runic work, and the magic steered my fingers in straight lines even as we galloped off the path and towards the hill slopes rising over the valley.
Four small runes took shape beneath my fingers, scratched into the worn, polished leather.
Naudiz. Mannaz. Uruz. Ing.
Lack. Body. Strength. Earthward.
There was a small stumble in Smudge’s steps as I completed the last diagonal stroke of the ing rune … and then, impossibly, she ran harder.
Behind me, Durlain breathed an audible, ‘Fuck.’
‘There.’ I swiftly sat straighter, shimmying forward in the saddle as far as the arm around my waist allowed. He didn’t release me. ‘Useful enough for you?’
‘Quite.’ His grim laugh brushed over the skin of my neck. ‘Hold on tight.’
‘What—’ I started – and then he yanked the reins to the right, and Smudge dashed up the bleak, moss-covered slope of the hill without any regard for path or prudence.
A shrill cry escaped me as the movement flung me sideways.
Durlain’s arm did not let go.
I managed to clasp my hands around the pommel and haul myself back upright as the black mare continued to clamber up the hill like a hell-cursed mountain goat.
If our weight had still been resting on her back, the effort would have been impossible.
Even with the gravity-defying rune spell in place, it was a desperate gamble to steer her this way – the sort of flight that only made sense if …
I risked a glance over my shoulder.
In the distance, at the foot of the forested hills, three – no, four – small figures were riding out from between the trees. Horns blared again, a different signal this time.
Soldiers.
Shit.
‘They’re not going to believe we’re off to Mount Averre, are they?’ I choked, because Varraulis’s stronghold lay straight to the north, and we were obviously and very visibly going east instead.
‘Not a chance.’ Durlain’s gloved fingers twitched against my midriff. ‘We could kill them when they come after us, of course, but …’
Yes. ‘Aranc.’
He sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t reply, guiding his horse past a slippery patch of mud, then higher up the hillside.
No elaboration was necessary; we both knew the way of the courts.
Asking for royal help was a sign of weakness, and the provost of Svein’s Creek wouldn’t want to humiliate himself in the eyes of his king.
As long as this was a matter of escaping prisoners, he might try to handle it alone.
If we ended up slaughtering guards left and right, on the other hand …
He’d hardly have a choice.
Invisible fingers were squeezing my throat, tighter and tighter.
Aranc fucking Estien, with his violent mind and his vicious hands. With his blood balls and his burnings, with his fits of rage and – far, far worse – his calculated moments in between. Perhaps he wouldn’t even be angry if he heard about my antics. Perhaps he’d just enjoy the chase.
I’d seen a few too many of those up close.
‘We need to stay out of their reach, then.’ My voice was hoarse, strangled. ‘Can we outrun them?’
‘For a day, yes.’ I felt his stiff shrug through the movement of his arm. ‘But once they realise where we’re headed—’
‘—they’ll send word.’ And guards would be waiting for us in every town we passed. ‘So we need to shake them off before they realise where we’re going, then. Where are we going?’
‘Mount Garnot, in the long term. I was hoping to reach Elenon today.’ A mirthless laugh. ‘But I’m willing to settle for any place with a fire and hot water, if necessary.’
Smudge had reached the top of the hill, finally – panting and bristling, puffs of breath steaming from her nostrils.
Before us, the Estien midlands stretched out into the distance.
Rivers carving their path between the cliffs and craggy hills, pale green grass and rust-coloured moss covering the few fertile surfaces they could find …
and at the horizon, hazy and grey, the glacier-covered peaks I knew to surround the fiery slopes of Mount Estien itself.
Beneath the silvery grey sky, the sun a faint white dot on the horizon, this cold, barren version of Seidrinn looked almost beautiful.
‘So.’ Durlain lightly prodded Smudge back into movement, and she began trotting down the hill, the decline on this side far gentler. ‘Any suggestions on where to go?’
I blinked. ‘What, me?’
‘Much as I hate to remind you of the circumstances of our first meeting’ – he sounded like he did in fact quite enjoy the reminder – ‘I seem to recall you mentioned knowing the Estien lands well.’
Shit.
‘I was desperate,’ I said hoarsely. ‘The average drunkard would have been more reliable, as you so kindly informed me.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘Were you lying?’
No.
Not exactly, at least – but I’d never been the one handling navigation, and what if I didn’t know the land nearly as well as I hoped I did?
I might mess this up. I might land the both of us in even deeper trouble, might piss him off even more than I had already done – and at what point would a cold bastard like him decide I was too much trouble to be worth the effort of hauling me and my magic along?
‘Just exaggerating a little, perhaps,’ I muttered.