Chapter 4
The worst part about the looming violence was the wait, the silence—the knowing. Trisha’s whole body was wound like a too-tightly pulled string, ready to snap.
Or maybe it was the fury simmering just beneath the surface, how effortlessly she’d been drawn into a conflict she wanted no part of. Ironic, really. Despite her attempts to avoid these endless struggles for power, fate had come to bite at her.
Thank the nameless gods for small graces. Blainor, Warlord, she reminded herself, did not expect her to join the battle. To do so would mean burning bridges completely. Such a sacrifice she wouldn’t accept, not without a fight.
But she refused to leave Dapple behind. She couldn’t afford to abandon him with the other horses. Even she knew that whatever the attack entailed, the enemy would certainly target their mounts too. Dapple was Trisha’s, and she’d be damned if she didn’t protect him with all her might.
“And what if he panics and gallops in the middle of a fight?” Blainor ground out, pulling on his gloves.
Since bringing the news about the approaching attack, he’d changed into a padded gambeson—unadorned, simple, without any obvious signs of his status.
He had kept his sword at his belt, and one of his men had brought him a shield that rested against a rock a few feet away.
“I won’t let your horse get my men killed. ”
“You should have thought of that before dragging me into your conflict, Warlord! Dapple won’t lose his calm.”
Blainor’s mouth flattened. The stare of his eyes was flint-hard, but she refused to cower or relent.
Around them, the soldiers moved, cautious and quiet.
The metal of their helmets and weapons gleamed, and their armor pieces clanked as they prepared an ambush with an ease that spoke of years of experience and a clear understanding of what was expected.
At last, Blainor released a breath, yielding—more out of necessity, she knew. “Stay out of sight.” Leaning closer, he raised a finger. The leather of his gloves creaked softly. “But if he runs before my sword, I won’t hold back.”
“He won’t,” she snapped.
She led Dapple out of the clearing. The undergrowth tangled around her calves, and the dark leaves shivered as she took a spot behind a thicket of young trees. It provided just enough coverage to hide with Dapple.
Trisha set her bow against her knee, dangling an arrow from her hand. She prayed she wouldn’t need to use it. The worn leather of the bridle rubbed against her skin. A crack to her right broke through like a thunderclap. She strained her eyes. Was it an animal? Just the wind?
She stared into the dank night, breathing shallow and legs shaky. Trisha forced herself to stand still. She touched the tip of her bow before dropping her hand. It wouldn’t serve her without a clear target.
All she had was her hiding place.
As if to remind her of its presence, the magic rose. A rush of comfort uncoiled up her spine.
Let’s sing them into oblivion, it cooed.
Trisha’s throat tightened. The dormant stone circle lay so temptingly close, yet the land beyond seemed further than ever in her life.
A frustrated exhale escaped her. Too risky.
Exposing her abilities under the knowing eyes of Eichlandt’s Warlord was an invitation for trouble.
The darkness hid her scowl, as if she weren’t already in enough trouble. Curse Blainor and his smug certainty.
The touch of Dapple’s soft coat eased the knot in her stomach.
“Shh. Stay calm, friend. Stay,” Trisha whispered. “Tonight our lives may depend on it.”
He gave a gentle nudge with his muzzle. I’ll do it for you.
“Sugar afterward.” She wanted to bury her face into his hide and drown herself in the warm scent of his musty horsehide. “But you must remain still.”
The campsite looked undisturbed. Smoke from a low-burning fire reached her hiding place, the weak flames illuminating motionless forms beneath their covers. Above the treetops, the sky was lightening. A lone watchman yawned, as though half-asleep.
Trisha’s clammy hands gripped Dapple’s bridle. Her legs cramped, but she didn’t dare move. In the expectant silence, she imagined her heartbeat rippling the earth miles away for everyone to hear. The hoot of another owl bounced through the rustling leaves as the wind swept overhead.
Dapple exhaled softly. She smiled; he’d fallen asleep. Better that way.
A faint sound or a movement in the dark tensed her shoulders.
Trisha’s grip strained, pulse spiking. The campfire still burned low, figures remained under their covers, and the guard rubbed his eyes.
A twig snapped. On the other side of the clearing, shadowy forms emerged from the forest’s clearing.
A group of silent men stepped into the light. Their weapons glinted, sharp and ready.
Everything froze. It felt as though the world had ceased breathing. Even the trees waited, dark and silent.
Trisha’s trembling legs felt like they’d grown roots; all warmth had fled her body.
She clenched her jaw not to shake and awaken Dapple.
For all her promises to Blainor, she knew her horse.
Dapple wasn’t a warhorse. He despised the smell of violence.
At the first draw of blood he’d surely make a sound, exposing them both.
The men of Normark drew closer. With their swords and drawn bows, it was easy to forget that they, too, may have someone waiting for them—children and wife, perhaps.
Camouflaged by the nondescript clothes of dark colors, the soldiers spread around the clearing like a ghostly fan. Their steel swords flashed eerie smiles.
The leather of Dapple’s bridle sank into her skin. Guilt twisted her insides. She didn’t wish for their deaths. But it was either them or her.
A muffled sound came from the direction of their horses. In spite of her hammering heart, a small smile teased her lips. Whoever they’d sent to kill the horses had met an untimely end. The soldiers slowed, as though hesitating.
Before they could act, Blainor’s command shattered the silence. “Now.”
Hell broke loose. Those under the blankets swiftly threw their covers aside and pounced. The other men, hidden from prying eyes, released their arrows at once. Choked cries of pain echoed through the clearing.
The Normark’s soldiers hadn’t expected it, and Blainor’s men didn’t allow them time to recover.
Like a wave crashing on the shore, they met their assailants.
The opening became a swarming mass of limbs and weapons.
Steel clashed against steel, and bowstrings sang.
The thick tang of blood, sweet and coppery, overpowered the fresh wind and the forest’s resin.
Bile rose to Trisha’s throat, almost making her retch.
She pressed her mouth tightly shut as Dapple stirred. Her horse tossed his head, snorting.
Shh. Shh. “You promised.” Trisha turned to him, forcing herself to ignore the clangs, the grunts, and other sounds of violence. She kept murmuring words of endearment—nonsensical topics, things he’d love, anything to draw his attention away from the thick odor bleeding to the ground.
And, in some ways, to distract herself.
This distraction worked too well. A rustling sound and hurried steps grew louder. She released the bridle like it burned, spinning around as panic raced through her. The remaining soldiers, escaping the bloodshed, had picked her direction.
Fear lashing at her, Trisha snatched her bow and nocked an arrow.
She didn’t even have a chance to take proper aim before they were already in her view.
Three men: flesh and skin made into shadows.
A quiet moan escaped one of them. In the night’s cover, she couldn’t discern the reason, but she felt she’d be happier never knowing.
“Back off,” Trisha commanded with more pleading than threat. If these men lunged, she’d be done for.
Dapple moved, nervous, but it was his presence that lent her a flimsy certainty. She’d promised to protect him. Trisha’s hand steadied as she let out a loud exhale.
“I don’t want to shoot.” Her voice cracked. “Just… go.”
A moment of pause aroused a mad, desperate hope. Maybe they’d listened. Maybe they’d…
Then, the air shifted. The men moved, and their swords flashed, rising higher. She didn’t need words to know they were going to strike.
Trisha pulled the bowstring taut as her pulse roared inside her eardrums. Did she dare to shoot? To take a life?
Please, please, please.
But these men didn’t hear Trisha’s silent plea. They drew closer.
Her hand trembled as she aimed, and still, she hesitated.
She exhaled.
Thwip.
An arrow loosened. A squelch as it sank into flesh. The moaning one fell with a thud.
She reached for another arrow, but Dapple skittered away in a frenzy, freaked out by the sharp smell of blood, the violence, the movement. Instead of an arrow, her hand met only air.
Scrambling, she backed off, blindly grasping for Dapple and her quiver. All her hands found were the shapes of the saddle, the roughness of his coat. No.
The two remaining men kept approaching. Shadows hid their faces, but their eyes promised death.
Help.
Trisha’s breath came in frantic bursts as she clambered off, the bow slipping from her grip. A sharp pain lashed her cheek as an offshoot of a supple bush whipped at her face; her feet tangled its roots.
Somewhere behind her, Dapple let out a high-pitched neigh. Trisha fell.
A spasm struck her lower back as she hit a bough buried under leaves and moss. The impact with the earth knocked the wind out of her lungs and left her gasping for air. Every thought disappeared. Then the men were upon her, their swords hilts raised high in the air.
“Eichlandt’s whore,” one of them spat.
Trisha kicked against the earth and the roots. The ground scraped her back as she crawled away. Damp leaves clung to her fingers, the rot of the forest floor soiling her skin.
Nononono. She squeezed her eyes shut and hunched. Accepted whatever may come.