Chapter 40 #2
“Give to me your hands,” she said in rough Zagadkian, before securing a length of rope around them. Saga glanced desperately about for Havoc, but it seemed the stallion had abandoned her.
“Who is the clansmother?” she whispered to her captor. “Will she send help?”
Her captor did not deign to answer, most likely because Khiva’s sharp gaze had fallen upon them.
Saga’s heart was accelerating, her chest constricting.
Soon they’d be in the air, and Saga was bound—no escape.
No exits. But there was also no turning back.
She leaned forward, bracing her forehead on the horse’s withers as she thought of Kassandr and Elisava. Of Rov and Alasa. This was for them.
The horsewomen chattered around her, the whinny and flap of wings signaling the horde taking to the skies. Her vision danced with starlight, and she was glad for her captor’s freckled arm around her waist as their horse leaped into flight.
And then there were only the sounds of rushing winds in her ears.
They were airborne and flying to an unknown location.
Hold on, Kass, Saga thought over and over, as the seconds stretched into minutes.
She wasn’t certain when the first whoop met her ears, but she soon learned it signaled that their destination was near.
Saga could sense the horse descending and pried one eyelid open to take in a city of tents.
These were no flimsy, temporary tents, but great, sturdy things built on wooden planks and with smoke twisting up from within.
Campfires glowed in the looming darkness, and as the scent of sizzling meat reached Saga’s nose, her stomach finally felt something aside from nausea.
Children cried out, rushing toward the horsemaidens as they landed on the outskirts of the city.
The winged horses lifted their tails, the silver bells braided into their manes jingling as they pranced for the youngsters.
At the head of the procession, Khiva bent low, scooping up a young girl and placing her in front of her on the winged horse.
But the joy in the children’s faces turned to suspicion as they noted Saga, and several began whispering among themselves.
Being back on firm ground made Saga feel somewhat more stable, and she focused on the sights around her to keep her panic at bay.
The horses were led to a series of wooden troughs, male horse minders filling them with oats, while others readied brushes and an assortment of grooming implements.
The rolling fields beyond were not enclosed by fencing, but Saga supposed there would be no point to a paddock when the horses had wings.
Saga was pulled from the saddle, but the movement jostled her queasy stomach.
Her captor jumped back with a cry as Saga bent double and retched.
She yearned for the comfort of a roof and four walls—for a break from the ceaseless fear roiling through her.
But as Saga wiped her mouth, she found Khiva’s hard eyes scowling at her and she reminded herself this was not about her comfort.
“With me,” Khiva snapped, and Saga was led by her bound hands through the strange city of tents.
The clanspeople gathered in groups around cookfires under thick fur jackets while rabbits and fowl roasted on spits.
Children rushed about, bells jingling from their ankles, and a dark form soared overhead.
Against her better judgment, Saga craned her neck in time to catch a pair of winged horses taking to the skies.
“What is this place?” she murmured in amazement, more to herself than to the clanswomen.
It was jarring to see children playing and people going about their regular lives when only this morning she’d left a place of such misery and despair.
Saga bit down on her lip, wondering yet again if she’d made the right choice by climbing on Havoc’s back.
She could have detonated that fire flask and killed King Ivar.
What if she’d missed the chance to turn the tides of battle?
Saga was led to a quiet tent, the flaps thrown back to reveal planked wooden flooring and a fire crackling softly in a central hearth.
As she stepped inside and the tent walls surrounded her, Saga’s heart immediately calmed, the tension in her chest beginning to loosen.
She peered up at a smoke hole cut in the roof, then down at the iron loops secured in the floor.
Her mind’s eye showed her Havoc, shackled in the stables by a loop much like this, and Saga couldn’t help but laugh. What else could she do?
“What is funny?” demanded Khiva. She’d folded her arms, supervising as the red-haired horsemaiden secured Saga’s hands to the loop in the floor.
“It is nothing,” Saga replied wearily.
And with that, Khiva and the horsemaiden departed, leaving Saga alone in the tent.
Saga curled on the floor, facing the fire as she tried to wrangle her thoughts.
Her pulse had eased slightly with the comfort of walls and a roof, but her body tingled with the lingering effects of the day.
She was bone-weary and craved nothing but to collapse into a long, deep sleep.
Yet time was a luxury Saga did not have.
How much time had passed on the steppe? The sun was near setting as they’d landed at the city of tents.
Saga had to speak to this clansmother. Needed to convince her to fight for the easterners.
Hours seemed to pass before the tent flap was pulled aside and a trio of women stepped into the tent.
Saga struggled to a sitting position and faced the women with as much dignity as she could muster.
Immediately, she knew which one was the clansmother.
With silver braids that contrasted against her brown skin, this woman’s feather-trimmed cloak was more ornate than the others.
As the clansmother stepped deeper into the tent, firelight caught on the silver torcs at her collarbones and wrists.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she examined Saga’s torn and singed clothing. The clansmother paused a few paces away as her ladies gathered on either side of her. Khiva, Saga noted, scowled from the tent doorway.
“Who are you to trespass on my lands?”
As the clansmother spoke, her cloak shifted, hundreds of iridescent feathers glinting in the light.
“I am Saga Volsik, rightful queen of íseldur, and no enemy to you.”
She did not pause, not even at the flurry of whispers from the clansmother’s ladies.
“Kovograd is attacked by Urkans and will fall soon. Men will be killed, women and children taken to other Urkan colonies.”
The clansmother watched, her face impassive.
Saga dug deeper, desperate to find the thread that would pull this woman to her cause. “Once, clans came for help of the east—”
“That,” said the clansmother, “was centuries ago.”
Saga swallowed and tried again. “When Kovograd falls, Urkans will aim next for steppe.” She let that statement hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “They will come for horses and lands. And they will come for children.”
The faintest flare of the woman’s pupils was Saga’s only hint that her words had any effect.
Still, she shouldered on. She twisted until the scars on the backs of her hands were bared to the clansmother.
“Urkans are monsters.” Her voice wavered as the ladies leaned forward, studying the screaming bears branded into her flesh.
“I once lived among them. Have seen many horrors. Please, listen to my warnings.”
The woman stared at Saga’s branding marks, silent for a long minute.
Saga bit down on her cheek, trying to keep from shouting, from screaming and snarling like a wild thing.
How could this woman pause even for an instant, when the blood of innocents spilled and her people were next? How was her answer not immediately yes?
“East and west must unite,” Saga pleaded, her desperation growing. “Alone, you are not enough. Urkans have power you cannot imagine.” She thought of the siege tower and the thousands of warriors. “Your horsewomen could break battle…expel Urkans from lands…”
The clansmother lifted a hand, and Saga fell silent. Her heart hammered in her throat and her skull; emotion clawed at the backs of her eyes.
“The wheel of fate,” said the clansmother, “works in mysterious ways.” Her dark eyes roamed Saga’s face. “I am sorry for what you have faced, queen of íseldur, but I do not know you. How can I send my warriors into battle at the word of a stranger?”
The throb in Saga’s skull built to a deafening crescendo. “Please,” she begged. “I—I will give to you anything. They will die.” Her mind spun with dizzying force. “Please.”
But the clansmother turned. “The east deceived us before. There is nothing that can convince me to trust them again.” And with that, she departed.
“Please!” shouted Saga, Kassandr’s face flashing in her mind. “They cannot die!”
Movement in the tent’s corner drew Saga’s gaze. There lingered Khiva, watching her silently. But after a moment, she followed the others.
And as the tent flaps slid shut, Saga’s sob broke free.