Chapter Thirteen
Allara’s heartbeat raced beneath her skin. He was here. The Gifted was close. And so were the Koraudians.
The sense of him in her head pulled her on, southwest more than south now. She didn’t have to guide the men because that’s where they were headed anyway. The Cherazim youth who had sought help in Réon Couteau led the way through the Thyra hills, his long hair flying behind him as he rode.
For hours, they had pushed the horses hard. Lather flecked the black silk of Rihawn’s shoulders and clotted in his mane. But he pounded on, breath gusting from his red nostrils. They passed through the smoking, shattered remnants of the Cherazii caravan, and they left the corpses without a second thought. If survivors waited ahead, the dead could wait.
When finally they cleared the forest into the plains, the Cherazim slowed his horse.
“There.” He pointed.
She shaded her eyes against the deep gold of the evening sun. The land, suddenly free of the restricting hills, stretched before them, unbroken all the way to the faraway line of trees that marked the Mistgloam River. The last sunrays struck the sway of the gloamwheat and transformed it into a tapestry of silver. A few sweeta birds—sunshine yellow with curling tail feathers as long as their wingspans—drifted across the sky. They whistled back and forth in two-noted cries, the first deep like a sotti-cello, the second high and questioning.
She found the dark blot about half a league ahead of them and scrabbled in her saddlebags for her spyglass. Eroll handed her his. Through its magnified circlet, she could see the blood red of the Koraudian uniforms, almost two companies strong. In their center walked their Cherazii prisoners, perhaps fifty of them, mostly women and children.
Cold teeth edged the summer warmth of the wind, and bit through her tunic’s crepe sleeves. She shivered. “Half a Koraudian battalion this close to Glen Arden. This should never have happened.”
Eroll took his spyglass back. “Nateros has heaps of support in the north. And, of course, the border is infested with their followers. Your father’s going to have to shut down the border altogether after this.”
“And rotate the Guardsmen at the northern posts. Who knows who’s loyal anymore.”
Quinnon finished conferring with the Guardsmen and trotted over. “They outnumber us, but not by enough to matter if we can surprise ’em. The Cherazii will fight as soon as they see there’s an opportunity to escape, and that’ll even the odds considerably. You stay back beside me, you ken?”
The safety of the rear was where she belonged, as both a princess and a Searcher. But that wasn’t where she wanted to be. That wasn’t where she needed to be. Her palms itched. “He’s here. I can feel him.”
Eroll looked up from clipping the spyglass to his belt. “The Gifted?”
Quinnon reined around to look, as if he’d be able to recognize one human amidst the dim column ahead. “They’ve already got him then?”
She gritted her teeth and concentrated. The Gifted’s emotions swirled through her head: anger, exhaustion, confusion, maybe even . . . betrayal. Her heart stuttered. “Yes. He’s a prisoner.”
And if he were a Koraudian prisoner, he was already halfway down the road to bringing Mactalde back.
No. She straightened her shoulders. Perhaps the Koraudians didn’t yet know what he was. And even if they did, they would have a long road to travel to convince a hostage to aid them. She allowed herself a nod that was almost confident.
Quinnon reined around. “Good job we got here when we did. I’ll tell the lads to keep an eye out for him. Last thing we need is him getting a bullet in the wrong side of him. We’ll stick to the gullies as much as we can, stay out of sight until we’re on their tails.” He rode away to give the order.
She made herself keep breathing. We’re coming. We’re coming. Stay alive. She tried to blast the words across the plain to where the Gifted trudged in the midst of the Cherazii prisoners. He probably couldn’t feel them. The channel between Searcher and Gifted only went one way. But right now, it was the only thing she could actually do to try to keep him alive and out of danger.
Eroll reached over to tap her forehead. “Stop with the scowling. You’ll regret the wrinkles in another ten years. We got here in time, didn’t we? The God of all always has a plan. Everything’ll come right.”
She made herself nod. How long had it been since she believed there was a plan or a purpose to make sense of her life? She fell in beside him at the rear of the troop and urged Rihawn into a trot, down the length of a gully that in the wet months was a tributary of the Mistgloam River. Tall enough to hide all but the hat feathers, it would get them within charging distance of the Koraudians.
At a gruff order from Quinnon, the men replaced their broad-brimmed hats with the helmets affixed to their saddle horns.
She handed hers to Eroll. “Be careful, won’t you?”
“That’s my knighted name, don’t you know?” He tucked his hat into his saddlebags and tugged the too-small helmet over his face. “Sir Careful, that’s what all the blokes call me.”
“Give me your rapier. You can’t fight Koraudians with a blade that light.” She pulled her heavier estoc from where it was strapped atop her rifle scabbard.
“Forgot to check my schedule this morning when I got up, so I didn’t realize a jolly ol’ battle was the order of the evening.” He tilted his helmet-heavy head and peered at her from beneath the short brim. “Did you have any more swaps in mind, did you?”
“If I had any plate armor, I’d give it to you.” She hadn’t been planning on a battle either.
“No matter. Wouldn’t fit.” He tested the heft of the estoc in his hand and rolled his shoulders. He might not have ever done an honest day’s work in his life, but he was still one of the finest swordsmen at court.
She checked the loads on the pistols that hung on either side of her saddle pommel, then pulled her rifle from beneath her leg. With her thumb, she flicked the pea-sized brass lever behind the bolt and turned on the hydraulic system that powered the shots. Aqua light glimmered through the circular vent pattern on the stock and buzzed softly as it pulled moisture from the air. Firearms took too long to reload to be of any use in close combat, but in a fight like this, a few riflemen stationed in the rear could give the Guardsmen just the advantage they needed. Right now, they needed all the aid they could get.
_________
Twenty minutes later, Quinnon called for a halt and signaled with his hand above his head for the men to climb out of the gully.
“Be safe,” Allara hissed at Eroll.
He blew a kiss in her direction without looking around. “No worries. Be back with your Gifted before the bounders even know he’s gone.”
She made herself nod. She should never have let him come along. Never mind that he wasn’t dressed for a battle. Of course, he would never dream of staying behind when there was adventures to be had. Life was a game to him. With any luck, today wouldn’t be the day he found out differently.
The horses clambered up the wall of the gully, raining pebbles and clods of dirt down on her and Quinnon. Even sweated as he was, Rihawn jerked his head up and down, fighting the bit and half rearing. She held him back. Above, the horses broke into a gallop, and their hoofbeats pounded down through the earth to thump in her chest.
Quinnon trotted the length of the gully to join her. “You could stay down here. Be safer.”
“I’m not about to.”
“Didn’t think you were.” He turned his gray to the wall and spurred it forward.
She released Rihawn’s head, and the big black followed Quinnon without any urging. His front legs scrabbled up the side of the gully, his hind end lunging to keep up. They broke above the lip, and the setting sun speared her vision. She ducked and blinked hard.
The Guardsmen tore across the field. They stood in their stirrups and leaned over their mounts’ necks, swords raised. In front of them, the Koraudian column erupted in chaos. Riders held back their ho
rses and craned to see. In their center, the prisoners churned, already pushing against the perimeter guards.
Quinnon reined up behind the row of sharpshooters that had remained behind the charge. “If they want to stop and gossip, let’s give them something to talk about!”
The men dismounted and knelt, their green coats nearly disappearing in the tall grass. Almost as one, their rifles cracked.
The volleys smashed into men and horses alike. Koraudians screamed and fell, and their blood gushed red and invisible against their scarlet tabards. For a long, deadly moment, they swirled in panic. Then someone in the front started shouting and they pulled themselves aright.
Quinnon peered through his spyglass. “Och. It’s Rotoss heading it then. I can see his pennon.”
Allara’s chest seized. Rotoss would have led an expedition into Lael for only one reason. He had come hunting the Gifted on purpose. And he had found him. She balanced her rifle across her legs and searched her saddlebags until she found her spyglass. Her fingers shook as she raised it.
The Guard’s charge hit the rear lines with a clash of swords and shouts. The Koraudians began to return fire, sporadically, but the Guard was close enough to prevent them from having time to reload.
She glassed the Cherazii. “Fight,” she commanded them. A grown Cherazim was worth three men on any day. Even the children could hold their own.
As if they had heard her, they screamed their unintelligible battle cries and hurled themselves at their captors. Their skin burned blue as they sank into the battle fire that banished fear and pain and allowed them to fight with heightened senses. Most of them ran to the rear to hit the beleaguered Koraudians from the back while the Guard entertained them from the front. They fell beneath the guards’ swords like scythed grass, but even with their hands bound, they fought with a ferocity and a power that stunned their captors.
She swept her glass up the column. The only humans were the Koraudians. Where was the Gifted?
Near the front of the column, a towering Cherazim launched himself at a fat Koraudian’s horse. His shoulder caught the man in the ribs, and his momentum hurtled him over the top of the horse and toppled them both to the ground. The Koraudian lurched to his feet and swung his estoc at the Cherazim.
From behind, a human prisoner took the Koraudian down with a shoulder in his back. The sword hurtled into the grass beyond, and the man righted himself in time to smash his knee into the Koraudian’s throat.
She couldn’t breathe. This man was her Gifted.
The Cherazim used the Koraudian’s dagger to hack his bonds loose and buried the blade to its hilt in the man’s chest. He snapped something to the Gifted, then turned to where two Rievers, tied together, struggled in the grass. The Gifted rose to his feet, and his fear and excitement pummeled her. He’d quite obviously never been in a fight like this before.
From behind him, a mounted Koraudian bore down. The Gifted turned to face the charge, empty hands clenched uselessly at his sides. The Koraudian’s sword arm swung back. In another moment, he would slice the Gifted’s head from his body and ride away without a backward glance.
Allara cast aside the spyglass and swung her leg over Rihawn’s neck. She dropped to the ground, her rifle already rising to her shoulder. The barrel swung up to find the Koraudian’s back. She squeezed the trigger, and her shoulder instinctively softened to absorb the recoil.
The shot slammed the Koraudian’s body forward. The sword fell from his hand, and he tipped forward out of the saddle, his back a cavern of exploded flesh.
The riderless horse galloped past, and the Gifted dodged out of the way. His chin lifted and his head turned in her direction. If anything, his stance seemed to widen. Did he think she was going to shoot him, just as she’d done in all of her warnings before he’d crossed?
Quinnon bellowed at the troops. “Regroup! Hit them again!” He caught Rihawn’s reins before the horse could bolt.
The Guard thundered into what was left of the enemy, felling the Koraudians like overripe wheat.
Behind the Gifted, the big Cherazim knelt, cutting loose the two Rievers. He shouted something, so loud Allara could almost hear his voice. There was something about him . . . She knelt and snatched her spyglass from where it had fallen.
He rose to his feet and faced her. On his chest, the buckle of his baldric bore an oval crest. And on it—she squinted harder. It could be a Garowai wing, the sign of the Tarns. A Keeper in Lael? What were the odds of Rotoss capturing both a Keeper and the Gifted? The back of her neck iced.
She swerved the spyglass back to the Gifted, his strange clothes, and the tension in his shoulders. Amidst the wary confusion he radiated, something else snaked into her mind. Something that felt like guilt.
“No.” It couldn’t have come to this. Not already. Not on the first day. She hadn’t even had the chance to protect him. To protect Lael. Where was the justice in that? Where was the rotted plan?
“Quinnon—” The words were already leaving her mouth, even as she scanned the field. She had to look, had to see if the worst had already happened. But she already knew. “It’s Mactalde.”
“What?”
The Koraudians fled across the field, headed east to the Karilus Wall. Hanging back, at their rear, a white charger pranced. On his back rode a man who wore the expensive leather coat of a lord. He extended his arm, his pistol pointed across the field, and she knew he aimed at the Gifted.
His pistol fired, and she jerked to see if the Gifted had fallen.
The shot caught the edge of his shoulder and spun him to his knees.
Nearby, a Koraudian fled past, too intent on the pursuing enemy to see the big Cherazim running through the grass behind the Gifted. The Cherazim took two steps forward to meet the horse, grabbed the rider’s arm, and stabbed him out of the saddle. He wrenched the horse to a halt and shoved the reins at the Gifted. Then, without awaiting acknowledgement, he ran to meet another fleeing Koraudian, dragged him to the ground, and commandeered his horse.
The Gifted hauled himself into the saddle and spurred his mount, headed toward the gully.
Mactalde’s pistol exploded again. The horse’s left side fell away. The animal managed to stagger on three legs for a few steps. Then its hind end collapsed, and the rest of its body reared and toppled.
Allara dropped the rifle and the spyglass where she stood. One hand caught hold of her saddle horn, and she vaulted into her saddle without touching the stirrups. She wrenched the reins from Quinnon’s grasp.
She may have failed to protect Lael, but she was still sworn to save the devil-taken Gifted, no matter what he had done. Heels to her horse’s sides, she charged into the fray.