Chapter 40
Lands beyond the river, Zagadka
Saga knew the world below her would make a beautiful sight, yet she couldn’t lift her face from where it was buried in Havoc’s white mane.
Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her heart trampling wildly inside her chest, and she clung to the horse with every bit of her resolve.
Perhaps the stallion sensed this, for his wingbeats were smooth and even, and he made no rapid changes in direction.
On the flight went like a too-vivid nightmare. Yet the scent of horse and the icy wind whipping her hair rooted Saga firmly in reality.
Hold on, she told herself, her muscles aching. Just hold on.
Saga did not even notice they’d descended until Havoc’s hooves pounded on packed earth. Gradually, they stilled, and Saga tumbled from the horse’s back. She landed on all fours, then heaved every morsel she’d eaten into the long grass.
The horse nickered—judgmentally, Saga thought—and she curled into a ball to protect herself from those lethal hooves. But the sound of ripping grass told Saga that stamping her to death was not currently on the stallion’s mind.
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Havoc watched with onyx eyes, unimpressed by her antics, and Saga stared right back, trying to collect her thoughts.
But iron clanked and her gaze fell to the stallion’s hind legs.
As she realized the manacles were still strapped in place, Saga’s anger burst forth with disorienting force.
“You should never have been caged away,” she muttered.
In the bright light of day, Saga could see that the manacle’s bolts had loosened and knew it would only take a few twists by hand to remove them. That was, if Havoc didn’t crush her skull first.
“Let me unscrew them, will you?”
Slowly, she crawled forward. The stallion merely crunched his grass, watching her with a flat gaze.
Amazing how differently a freed creature could behave, she thought dazedly.
Saga’s fingertips slid around the bolt, and she twisted it deftly until the first manacle clanked free.
A raw, red patch of skin was revealed beneath.
“I shall have words with Kassandr,” she seethed. But Saga’s urgency rushed back, her heart lurching at the thought of Kassandr. She had to find the clans beyond the river. Had to convince them to join the easterners in battle, and quickly. She crawled to the second manacle and got to work.
Saga freed Havoc of his second manacle, then pushed to her feet. The horse threw his head back with a gleeful whinny. Then, after stamping the ground, he took off at a gallop, racing across the field with impressive speed.
“Wait!” she cried out, her heart taking off with him. “Come back!” But after cresting a knoll, the stallion launched into the air. Bile rose in Saga’s throat as the white form in the skies vanished over distant mountains.
“Oh, gods,” whispered Saga, turning to examine her surroundings. Rolling grasslands in every direction, as far as the eye could see. Open skies yawning wide above her. Gods, it was so open, so exposed…
A dull ring began in her ears, and Saga tapped her fingers against her shoulder, counting each breath.
What were you thinking, climbing onto the horse’s back? Saga wondered. You’ve abandoned them, and now the horse has abandoned you, and you’ll die all the same, like a coward under open skies…
The ring in her ears reached its crescendo, her heartbeat a rapid staccato.
But Saga continued her tappings and remembered to stop fighting against her fear.
Instead, she felt it. Let it crest. Its impact was brutal, pulling her under into the frothing, tumultuous seas.
She gasped for breath as her heart beat too hard, too fast. But like a wave, it had a cycle.
Gradually it lessened, until eventually Saga’s panic had washed away.
She lay curled in the grass in the aftermath, wanting nothing but to nap for the rest of the day. But she reminded herself of Kassandr—of all of Kovograd—and forced herself into motion.
“Think, featherhead,” she muttered. “What will you do?”
In that chaotic moment in the courtyard, Saga had seen Havoc’s offer as a sign from the gods—a chance to beg the clans beyond the river for help.
Now, alone on the open steppe, Saga had no idea how to reach them.
She searched for Havoc’s white form in the skies, and her heart sank when she did not find it. The stallion had abandoned her.
“What did you truly expect?”
With a breath, Saga rose on shaky legs and shuffled in the direction Havoc had flown.
As she walked, Saga kept her gaze on the ground; kept her fingers tapping against her shoulder with each step.
She thought of the Zagadkian warriors fighting for their lives; of the children and the elderly sheltering inside the fortress.
Then she thought of her mother and father—of Ana’s little sister—strung on those pillars.
She could not let this happen to Zagadka.
Rooted in her purpose, Saga found new strength.
She walked across the grassy steppe for hours beneath the bright sun and against the fierce winds.
She was clad in breeches and a woolen kaftan, which did little to keep her warm.
For the most part, tension thrummed low in her veins, a constant, yet manageable, thing.
Despite this, her panic seized control half a dozen times.
Saga was forced to her knees. Came back to herself, rolled into a ball on two occasions.
Each time, when her vision stabilized, she climbed back to her feet and resumed her journey. What else could she do?
When she first caught the strange thrum in the air, Saga was so depleted, she thought it was a product of her mind.
But as the minutes passed it grew into a constant, low-level thunder, and Saga realized it was entirely real.
A form in the sky crested the distant mountains, and for a moment, her heart sang, and she was certain that Havoc had returned to her.
But then another form joined it. Another, and five more, until at least a hundred small forms could be seen in the sky. Instinct had Saga searching for a tree, a rock—anything to hide behind. But on the wide-open steppe, there was no escape from the incoming horde.
Trapped! screamed her mind, but Saga rooted her feet in place, reminding herself that this was what she wanted.
The horde rolled on toward her, and as they neared, Saga blinked in astonishment.
They were not all white like Havoc, but an assortment of blacks and grays and chestnut browns.
Manes snapped like banners behind the striking creatures, and sunlight caught on feathered wings spread wide.
Seated atop the winged horses were fearsome-looking warriors in chain mail and feathered cloaks.
With kohl smeared across their eyes and long, braided hair secured beneath bronzed helms, at first Saga thought the warriors were merely beardless. But as they neared, she realized.
Women.
Women comprised the entire horde.
The riders landed, the thunder of the skies now reverberating across the entire steppe.
The horsewomen directed their horses around Saga, and soon, a storm of hooves and wings encircled her, Saga in the very eye of it.
Those nearest to her drew their horses to a stop before leaping down.
These fierce horsemaidens had an assortment of complexions—from moonlight-pale to rich mahogany and everything in between.
A tall woman, clad in chain mail and a feathered cloak, approached, unsheathing her blade. She spoke rapidly in a language Saga did not understand. But upon seeing the confusion in Saga’s face, the woman quickly shifted to accented Zagadkian.
“What are you doing on our lands, trespasser?” asked the woman, leveling her sword at Saga’s breast. A swath of black hair had torn loose from her braids, and the wind blew it across the woman’s brown cheeks.
As Saga stared into her fierce, dark eyes, she realized this horsemaiden was far younger than she’d expected.
“I come,” said Saga, more breathily than she’d have liked, “for asking…help. City of Kovograd is attack by Urkans.”
“Urkans?” Laughter burst from the black-haired woman. “Let the eastern deceivers fall. It is what they deserve.”
Saga’s chest constricted further at the woman’s remark. “If they fall, Urkans will next aim for you.”
The woman’s amusement evaporated at that.
“I ask for help,” Saga repeated. “Together is chance to win—”
“Enough, girl!” snarled the woman, dragging her sword point up to rest in the hollow of Saga’s throat. “Where do you come from to speak so boldly?”
Saga swallowed, trying to quell her racing heart. “íseldur.”
A murmur rose among the clanswomen behind the black-haired woman, their hostility shifting to curiosity. “íseldur? How did you get here? Our shores are closed to outsiders.”
Saga rolled her lips together, trying to choose her words.
“What are you doing on my steppe, foreigner?” said the woman, her words sharpened to a deadly point. Saga’s heart skittered, her breaths quickening. She had to be careful. Had to choose the right words, else they might be the last she spoke.
“I ask for—”
“Help,” finished the woman, holding up a hand. “Never mind it. You will stand before the clansmother. It is she who will decide your fate.”
And with that ominous statement, the woman turned her back on Saga, and her clanswomen closed in.
They patted Saga down and found her fire flask immediately. After Saga explained what the flask was, the horsewomen sought counsel with their leader, whom she’d learned was named Khiva. Saga watched Khiva examine the fire flask before sliding it into her pocket.
Next Saga was tossed rather roughly onto the back of a chestnut winged horse, a burly, red-haired horsemaiden climbing up behind her. Khiva barked orders in the clanswomen’s tongue, and the horsemaiden behind her sighed.