Talen grabbed a saddle, bridle, and blanket that looked to be the right size for him and rushed to a stall.The chestnut gelding there jerked its head back when it saw Talen, an obvious stranger.“Are you ready for a little ride?” Talen asked the horse calmly, trying to sooth it. “Just a little moonlight.” He opened the stall door. The horse snorted a warning. “Apples and oats, I promise,” Talen said and took the horse around the neck.
Immediately, he felt the animal’s soul and Fire, and his desires flared.
By Regret’s eyes, they flared!
He cursed. He couldn’t stick to Sugar. No, now it had to be stinking men and sleth-rotted horses!
He grunted in anger and frustration, and pushed forward, trying to ignore the ridiculous feelings, and began to fit the bridle over the gelding’s head, vowing to give the Creek Widow a piece of his mind.
In the woods at the far end of the field the dogs with Tenter bayed. Surely that would wake the horse breeder in his house.
This was going to be close.
Then Felts turned at the entrance to the barn. He grabbed one of the two doors and closed it.
Oaks was already leading his horse out. He looked up.
“Sorry,” Felts said, then ran over to the other door and began to shut it.
The plan wasn’t to hide here. What was he doing?
“No!” Oaks shouted. He dropped the reins to his horse and rushed the closing door. “You filth!”
Talen was confused, then realized what Felts was doing. There were only a handful of people who had known about this mission. Talen had assumed the person who had betrayed them was back at the fortress, someone who had been spying and overheard. But who said the traitor had to stay behind? Rooster, Shroud, and Black Knee were dead. That left Oaks and Felts. And Felts had, curiously enough, missed all the excitement.
It was impossible, but there was no other conclusion—Felts was the one that had betrayed them.
Oaks crashed into the door just before Felts slammed it home and dropped the locking bar. But even though Felts was older, he was anything but weak. And he probably had the door braced with his foot, for the door didn’t budge.
Oaks must have realized this, for he suddenly rolled to the other door and shoved, throwing that door open. Oaks drew his knife, but Felts knocked his blow aside and struck Oaks in the face, an open-handed, multiplied blow with clawed fingers to his eyes. Oaks stumbled back.
Felts struck again, knocking Oaks to the ground. He turned and rushed back to shut River and Talen in. But River left her horse and raced forward. She had been using the lore for many years and had the power of a mature dreadman.
Felts saw her, drew his own knife, and slashed at her face, but she snatched his knife hand and with her other hand struck his windpipe.
Felts reeled back, dropped to a knee, and clutched at his throat. He wheezed terribly, trying to get breath.
River looked down upon him and cursed in frustration and dismay. “Why?” she demanded. “Why? What could they promise you!”
But Felts only fell to his side writhing, struggling for breath, his face full of fear and pain.
Talen was sick. Felts had been joking with him over a mug of watered ale not two days ago. How was this possible?
Oaks’s horse side-stepped away from its stall. Its eyes were wide with fear at the strangers and commotion. It made a dash for the door. Talen yelled a warning and grabbed for bridle, but it was too late, and the animal charged past River into the night, its reins trailing on the ground.
River turned and helped Oaks up.
Talen quickly buckled the bridle on the chestnut gelding. He tied the reins to a post to keep him still and fetched the blanket and saddle. By the time he finished adjusting the stirrups to fit the length of his legs, River was back at her mount, cinching up the belly strap.
River said. “Get the horses in the pen. Get them running.”
Talen ran out of the barn and caught movement at the house.Someone had been at one of the windows. “The house is awake,” he shouted and ran to the pen that held the other horses. He opened the gate. Beyond the pens, at the far end of the field, Tenter, a number of Fir-Noy, and the dog master burst out of the trees.
“They’ve found us!” Talen yelled back. “There’s no time to saddle a third.” The horses in the pen began to move. He ran around the edge of the pen, clapping and hollering. The horses startled. One found the open gate and darted out. The rest followed, and then the horses River had chased out of the barn joined them out in the yard.
The door to the house burst open. An older man and what appeared to be his son stepped out with clubs. “What’s going on here?” one demanded, but Talen yelled and clapped, and the rest of what the man said was drowned out by more than a dozen horses galloping past him.
Oaks rode out of the barn on the black mare River had saddled. River vaulted to the saddle of the chestnut gelding.
“See here!” the older man shouted.
Talen ran to River, took her outstretched arm, and swung up behind her on the saddle. Then she put her heels into the horse. The horse surged forward, and he clung to it with his thighs.
He felt the horse through the legs of his trousers. Felt its flanks with his bare feet. The animal’s rotted soul and Fire were all about him, and the desired flared up his rotted legs.
Ahead of them Oaks put his heels into the stallion’s flanks, and the animal shot after the mob of horses they’d scared out of the pen and barn. Talen glanced back.Tenter was running full out, taking impossibly long strides, approaching the house, the dogs trailing behind him.
“Go!” Talen shouted. “Go!”
River kicked the flanks of the gelding again, and they shot away from the barn, but he could see they weren’t going to outrun Tenter. The dreadman was already rushing past the pen, his half black, half white face looking like something out of a nightmare.
River was wearing her strung bow across her chest and back. “Give me your bow!” Talen said and grabbed it, sliding it up and over her head. He snatched an arrow from her quiver, nocked it.
They galloped past the house. The strapping son rushed forward and tried to strike River with his club, but she leaned away from the blow and kicked him hard in the arm. The club went flying. And River and Talen flashed past.
Tenter was already in the yard, rushing past the barn, his face all business and murder.
Talen continued to hold the horse tight with his thighs, the Fire and soul of the beast calling him, and brought the bow around, but the bow was too long, and he had to cant it sideways to avoid the horse’s rump. Talen drew the string. His muscles bunched as they had thousands of times. His father had been the captain of a hammer of Koramite bowmen. He’d made sure his children had learned the art. Talen brought the string back as far as he could at this angle.
Tenter saw it and, incredibly, put on some speed.
That’s right—come closer. At this range that brass cuirass wasn’t going to provide much protection.
Tenter took two more strides. One more and he’d have the horse’s tail.
“Go back to your pig lovers!” Talen shouted, then released his arrow.
Tenter dove off to the side. The arrow flew past him, its white, goose feather fletchings flashing in the moonlight, and almost took one of the men of the house. Talen turned and grabbed another two white fletched arrows.
Tenter rolled to his feet, but Talen already had the string to his cheek. He released again.
Tenter twisted to the side, then came again.
The horse was at a full gallop now, thundering down the moonlit road, leaving the house and barn behind. The animal’s gallop was strong and smooth and would have been a pleasure to sit if Talen hadn’t felt his rotted thirst for the animal growing.
Talen shot the third arrow. It flew true and struck Tenter, but the angle of the s
hot and the metal of the cuirass were just enough to deflect it, and the arrow skittered off into the shadows by the barn.
Talen grunted. He should have had that shot.
Tenter came again, but he must have taken a wrong step, for he tumbled, rose, and tried to run again, but only managed to limp a few paces. He took a few more injured strides, then stood in the middle of the road, yelled, and gestured an insult.
The dogs flew past Tenter, continuing the chase. Three others from the horse breeder’s house ran after them. But Talen nocked another arrow and shot one of them in the chest. The dog went down in a yelp. The other dogs slowed, and then the owners called the rest back.
River urged the horse to the right, and they raced past a number of low-hanging branches that forced Talen to duck. When he came up again, he saw their pursuers had indeed given up the chase.
He blew out a breath in relief, but knew it wasn’t over. Tenter would return to the village. Anyone who had been captured, and was still alive, was going to face a horror. And Sugar was still out there. He turned around and leaned in close to River.
“We’ve got to go back,” he said.
“It’s too dangerous,” River said.
He said, “We’ve got to go back for her.”
4
Water
SUGAR PUT A good two dozen yards between her and the village gate, minding the road, for a number of wagons and horses must have come through after a rain, leaving ruts and tracks that had dried hard with deep edges that could break a toe or twist an ankle. But she couldn’t slow because she’d seen Solem’s dogs in competitions. Seen them run down deer, their teeth ripping into hamstrings and throats.
Holy ancestors, she prayed, give me speed and immediately realized she could answer her own prayer. A candidate’s weave multiplied, but it also limited the Fire. It was given to those new to the lore to keep them from killing themselves. Her weave was a copper arm ring. If she took it off, she could multiply herself beyond the power the weave gave her.
She grabbed the copper ring, knowing if she lost control, if she gave into the firelust, it would be the end of her. But she was going to die if she couldn’t run faster than those dogs. So she slipped the copper weave of might off her arm and shoved it into her sack.
Immediately, her Fire began to diminish. The strength in her legs slackened. But this was to be expected. When the weave was on, it controlled the flow. Now that it was off, she was forced to manage it herself. She began to build her Fire in the way River had taught her: carefully, in increments, so that it didn’t flare and run away with her.
A surge of life and vigor rushed back into her limbs. But it wasn’t enough at her current speed.
The dogs galloped behind her, quickly closing the distance. She was dead if she kept this pace.
She increased her Fire. Felt it in her heart. Felt it in the quickening of her lungs. She measured her strides as she had practiced. She’d been warned that if she multiplied herself too much, she would overpower her breath. And then she’d fall to the ground panting or pass out completely. Breath was the key.
But she’d never multiplied herself to that point. She didn’t know her limit. And she wondered, not for the first time, how she would know when she was approaching it. How could you tell when you were on the edge when you felt the surge of joy she did now? River had never been able to give a satisfactory answer.
She pumped her legs faster. Her Fire grew, and she flew down the road. Her strides lengthened to nine or ten feet. Eleven. She sped down one swell and up another. The dogs barked behind, full of vicious bloodlust, but she felt so good she wanted to laugh.
A small gust of wind blew across the fields, carrying bits of detritus with it. Straw from the fields, insects, dirt—she didn’t know. One speck went up her nose; others flew into her eyes and cut like sand. Sugar lost her vision for a moment. She blinked furiously, rubbed, almost stumbled. And then the flecks moved. Her eyes cleared, even though the grit still hurt.
She was lucky she hadn’t taken a wrong step and twisted her ankle. Lords, to be undone by a speck in the wind.
She glanced back. The dark forms of the dogs sped along the sunken lane. They approached the bottom of a swell behind her, sprinting in the moonlight, gaining on her, terrible and smooth, like shadowy pike shooting through dark waters toward their prey.
She pushed herself faster. The edges of the fields flew by, but she dared not look back. She needed all her concentration on the road and the ruts that could undo her with one bad step.
The thudding of a galloping horse sounded across the field on her right, and she realized she was not going to be able to return the way she’d come. They would be fanning out, hoping to flank her. Sugar built her Fire further. Her limbs surged with joy, and she shot forth.
She felt the same giddiness rising in her chest as she did when jumping off the top of the Swan Creek waterfall to the pool below, and this time she couldn’t help herself and gave voice to the joyful thrill with a shout.
She was panting, her lungs burning, and yet, lords of the sky, she didn’t care. Riding this surge of life was like riding a wild and ferocious horse without saddle or stirrup. Perhaps if she just let it go. If she just flowed with it . . .
This was probably what they had warned her about: the crazed mindlessness of the firelust.
Her strides were huge, light as a feather, and quick. She was flying. Flying. The sounds of her pursuit receded behind her.
Could she go even faster?
An alarm sounded in her mind. With a great effort she tried to reign in her flow, but it would not respond. She tried again. Focused. Bent all her might.
And she realized why the firelust was so dangerous—she didn’t want to rein it in. She wanted to soar. A tiny fear shot through her. She was at the edge. She was right at the precipice.
She fought harder although she did not want to. This time her Fire diminished ever so slightly. The road flew beneath her. She shook herself and tried again, fought to rein in her Fire, and the Fire shrank back.
Lords, she had almost lost herself. And she was still in danger of doing so, for the joy still surged through her. The wild delight still ran along her skin like the electric caress of a lover.
Slower, she thought. Slower. And she fought to reduce the flow yet again.
She risked one glance back. The dogs were still behind her, flying over the road. Three riders galloped behind them.
You could run your body, just as you could a horse, to death. Or to damage. Long-lasting damage. She didn’t know how long she could run like this. She didn’t feel pain, but they’d warned her about that as well—the firejoy buried the pain.
It didn’t matter. She had to maintain this speed.
The fields raced past. The wind made her eyes water. More shouts rose from behind, but she focused on her breathing, focused on her lungs working like bellows, focused on the ruts and patches of good ground along the road which bent in a great dogleg to the next village.
She realized that someone racing a horse straight across the fields would get there before she did. He would rouse the inhabitants. He’d make sure they got their bows. When that happened, those that wanted her dead would then be both in front and behind her. And even though she was fast, she wasn’t running fast enough to outrun a storm of arrows.
Ahead and to her left stood the beginning of the plum tree tangles the village was named for. Those thickets would stop a mounted rider, but they wouldn’t stop the dogs. In fact, the dogs would probably gain the advantage there. She needed terrain that would eliminate the advantages of both the horse and the dogs. She needed to get to moving water.
The Lion River was close, just over a mile away. If she immediately cut through the woods at the edge of the fields on her left, she could slow the horses. Her path would take her to the trail that led to the shacks of the river folk. She knew the
river, and there wasn’t a ford for a few miles in either direction. Which was perfect.
With her next step, Sugar slowed, then took one leap, flying up over the lip of the sunken lane and into the field on her left. The field had been mown, and the stubble was hard. Sugar rarely wore shoes, so the calluses on her bare feet were thick. But she was running faster and harder than she was used to, and before she’d taken a dozen strides, the hard stubble stabbed her on the inside of her toe where the callus was thin.
Behind her, the dogs leapt up out of the road and onto the field.
The field was a few hundred yards wide, and Sugar raced across, the hard stubble stabbing and cutting her feet. Just before she exited the field into the wood, she trod upon a sharp rock that surely broke something in her foot. She cursed, favored her foot for a stride, then continued to run despite the pain. Obviously, her calluses weren’t sufficient for these speeds. But she couldn’t stop. She crashed through the woods toward the main trail leading to the river folk. And then had to slow, for while this wasn’t a thick wood—the villagers felled trees for firewood here, as they did in all the woods around the village—there were still stray branches that could poke out her eyes, thicker ones that could skewer. There were rocks and uneven parts.
The dogs entered the woods behind her. They were not barking now, just running with deadly intent. She knew if the dogs were going to catch her, this is where it would happen. Fear rose along her back, but she couldn’t increase her speed.
Sugar kept to the clearest parts where the moon could give some illumination, but the dogs with their galloping strides and awful breathing were coming closer. She risked another glance back. They saw her fear and increased their speed.
A branch whipped her, and she snapped her attention back to her path ahead. Through the trees she thought she saw a break, a lighter ribbon of moonlight cutting through the woods. As she ran, the ribbon of light grew larger. It was the main road to the river folk snaking its way through the trees. Just a little farther, she told herself. Just a little more. She sprinted for the road, but the dogs closed the distance behind her. One growled deep and low, anticipating the first bite. Then Sugar broke from the wood onto the trail.
Curse: The Dark God Book 2 Page 4