Then, for the first time, Alvantes struck back. He stepped deftly around a stab aimed midway up his chest, slid the scimitar aside, and lunged. His blade sliced against Moaradrid's thigh, drew a widening splash of crimson. Moaradrid howled — more with rage than pain, it seemed, as he renewed his attack with even greater fury.
Alvantes was once again forced to lose ground. Yet something had changed. Now he retreated with easy leaps and sideward steps, and an unexpected grace. Now every other block turned into a parry, sapping force from Moaradrid's offensive. The warlord's face was warped with rage. A deep-throated cry accompanied each swing. It did no good. Alvantes anticipated his every motion, was always in the wrong place.
His blade darted again. The blow wasn't so well placed this time; the edge glanced off the sash around Moaradrid's waist. Even from a distance I could see that Alvantes's sword had failed to find flesh.
He'd hit something, though — something that fell free, bounced, rolled to a standstill in the dirt.
It was the giant-stone.
Whether Alvantes had struck there deliberately, he seized the opportunity. He crouched, leaped, grasped the stone and rolled on, avoiding a swipe that passed not a finger's width above his head. He bounded to his feet and threw his sword around to ward off the inevitable next blow.
He was almost quick enough.
Moaradrid swung his blade in a wide upward arc, leaving his whole left side exposed. Alvantes saw the opening, moved to exploit it — and screamed. The scimitar flicked back, now trailing a slash of crimson. Something sailed into the air, geysering red. It fell into the mud half way between the fight and us.
I don't know what made me run for it. Suddenly I was on my feet, and though a part of my brain was ordering me to stop, I pounded down the slope with all my strength. Moaradrid twisted to look at me. His lips moved, but no words came that I could hear. Alvantes was staggering away, his face rigid and contorted. He was nursing his left arm in the crook of his right, the sword dangling loose in his fingers.
Moaradrid took a step towards me. He held his scimitar with the tip pointed at my head, and gave an indistinct cry. Then he began to lope towards me, hampered by the slash across his thigh. All his characteristic dignity was gone. He struggled on like a rabid dog, driven by hate and animal desire.
The distance was too great. I reached the spot well ahead of him, and slid to my knees. There, spattered with filth and gore, lying like an overturned crab that would never right itself, was Alvantes's left hand. The giant-stone sat next to it, its surface drizzled with scarlet.
Scooping it up, feeling its coldness against my fingers, I made a silent vow.
This time, it was going back where it belonged.
CHAPTER 22
Standing in the middle of what minutes ago had been a road and was now a lake of churned filth and freshly spilled blood, an odd thought struck me. If heroism meant making bold and ultimately suicidal gestures, I'd just proved myself every bit Alvantes's match.
I assumed there must be something more to it that I'd missed. Then, as I turned and sprinted towards Estrada and Saltlick, I remembered the sight of Alvantes cradling the bloody stump of his wrist.
Maybe I had the right idea after all.
Estrada had been busy in my absence. She'd freed two of our horses from the stand of trees where Moaradrid's men had tethered them, and stood with the reins knotted around one hand. If they were panicked from the sounds of violence, they were still a better option than an escape attempt on foot.
First things first, though. "Saltlick, get up!" I shouted, holding the giant-stone where he could see it. "You're free. You're going home."
Saltlick leaped to his feet, his face crumpling into the widest grin I'd ever seen. "Go home!" he roared.
Halfway there, I hazarded a glance behind me. Moaradrid was concentrated now on mustering riders from the mouth of the gorge. They in turn were struggling to force their way through the fighting, which had resumed as a series of isolated skirmishes. Alvantes was trying to loop back to where the Altapasaedans were making their last stand. Though his face was frozen with pain and his hauberk drenched with blood, he was still taking time to swipe at any nearby foe with the sword gripped in his remaining hand.
The man was astonishing. He had no idea how to give up and die. But there were Northerners all around him, and I didn't see how he could possibly keep it up for much longer.
I hurried on. Estrada was leading the horses towards me, dragging them as fast as she could without alarming them further. Saltlick trotted behind, still overjoyed, oblivious to the carnage.
I was badly winded by the time we reached each other. As I stopped to gasp for breath, Estrada thrust reins into my free hand.
"Rest later, if we're not dead."
She swung into the saddle. I jammed the giantstone into a pocket and followed her example. I recognised my steed, a pitch-black stallion with a demented gleam in his eyes, as having belonged to Alvantes. He didn't seem happy with his new circumstances. He whinnied frantically and pawed with his front hooves. I threw my arms around his neck, certain he'd rear. However, Estrada chose that moment to drive her own mount forward, and perhaps mine took the action as a challenge, because before I knew it we were moving too.
But "moving" does that first wild burst of speed no justice. Anyone who'd weathered a typhoon in a coracle might have an idea how I felt. I clung to the fiend, fighting the urge to clamp my eyes shut.
I gave up when we reached the first turn. I opened them again when the sickening sense of being at the wrong angle and too near the ground had passed, to see a long straight stretch ahead. The horse saw it too. To my disbelief, he actually accelerated. My stomach bobbed into my mouth and stayed there.
"Rein him in," cried Estrada from somewhere behind, the words almost torn apart by the wind shrieking in my ears.
"He'll murder me!"
"He'll exhaust himself, and they'll catch us."
I knew she was right. That didn't make the idea more realistic or my horse less crazy. It seemed far more likely he'd throw me off and trample my skull like an eggshell than submit to any sort of control. Yet if I didn't try, he'd be spent in minutes. Without letting go my grip around his neck, I tried to snare the loose-hanging reins. I only dared slacken my grasp a fraction when I had them firmly tangled around my fingers.
He didn't even notice. Whether through fear, excitement or sheer viciousness, he seemed determined to run himself to death. Moaradrid would arrive to find me sat on a dead horse, and perhaps he might even smile for once before he chopped my head off. The thought gave me courage enough for a tentative yank on the reins.
"Wooah, Killer!" I cried, as loud as I dared.
The newly renamed Killer whinnied deep in the back of his throat, tossed his head, and picked up speed. I could feel his flanks shuddering between my legs, jerking in rhythm with his labouring lungs. He was beginning to tire already. All it was doing was making him madder. What was he so angry about, anyway?
Maybe he missed his master.
I jerked back on the reins with all my might and, summoning my best impression of Alvantes, bellowed, "Stop, damn you!"
Though Killer didn't stop, he slowed dramatically. He'd been expecting Alvantes, and nothing could have confused him more than a timid rider. He was used to authority, to knowing his place in the world.
Saltlick picked that moment to trot up beside me and, remembering him sat stock-still at Moaradrid's command, I couldn't help drawing a comparison to the animal labouring beneath me. I knew it was unfair. The giants' system of leadership had probably worked perfectly for centuries when only giants were involved. It wasn't designed to cope with power-hungry warlords, or self-absorbed thieves for that matter.
Saltlick actually looked well. His wounds had knitted faster than a man's would, and his expression remained cheerful. It was as though the morning's carnage had been a mere preamble to his starting homeward. I couldn't find it in me to blame him for that. He'd suffered m
ore than most because of Moaradrid, and with least reason.
Maybe making sure he got back home was the only worthwhile way left to end this. Moaradrid was bound to catch us eventually. I'd been so close to death so many times over the last few days that it was hard to work up much excitement over the idea. Anyway, we had to run somewhere. Perhaps the near-mythical hideaway of the giants was as good a place as any.
Estrada caught up on my left side, and called, "They're close."
I dared a glance over my shoulder. There were riders, sure enough, though Moaradrid wasn't amongst them. They'd just passed the last corner, and would still have been out of sight if this section of road weren't so straight. It was impossible to tell if they were gaining.
"Is this the right way?" I asked Saltlick.
He tried to nod, realised the gesture was futile when his whole body was bobbing with each stride, and pointed ahead. If I remembered the area rightly, we were near the Cancasa Bridge, the southern border of Castovalian civilisation. The road veered outward to avoid an outcrop of the mountainside, just before the point where it met the river. It was there that Saltlick indicated.
Once we'd rounded the next bend, the road dissolved into a series of long curves. It was impossible to see the northern riders after that. The fact made me both glad and nervous. I'd no desire to watch them drawing closer, but knowing they might be and that I couldn't see it was almost worse. If Moaradrid's men were remotely typical of the northern tribes, they'd probably been born in the saddle, whereas my lack of control over Killer was severely slowing us down. He only seemed to understand going too quickly or too slowly, and convincing him to keep a steady pace was a constant struggle. I did the best I could, and willed the outcrop to appear, as though it would offer some miraculous safety.
Inevitably it was a disappointment. Saltlick had taken the lead, his easy strides more than a match for our horses. Where the road jerked aside to avoid a wedge of rocky ground, a rough trail led off to the right. Saltlick turned onto it without slowing, undaunted by the incline. Killer was more nervous, slowing almost to a halt before he got the measure of the looser surface.
It occurred to me Moaradrid's men might miss the turn-off. But there was no real hope of that. Even if there was no one in the party who could follow our trail, it didn't take a genius to guess where we'd be heading. Moaradrid himself had come this way only a month or so ago. I wondered briefly how he'd ever known about the giant-stone. Or had he simply planned to make some deal, or somehow force the giants into service? I didn't dare guess how that wolfish mind of his might work.
I couldn't resist another look back as we began up the hillside, clinging to the absurd hope that for once luck would take our side. The trail curled between slabs of grey rock streaked with chalk, or sometimes banks of hard-packed earth where gaunt thorn trees bent towards us. The main road was hidden from view, and all the perspective we had was the occasional glimpse of river to our left and the ramparts of the mountain rearing ahead. I couldn't tell if Moaradrid's men had taken the turn-off.
As long as I didn't know for sure, I could hope.
The path, which had been steadily worsening, became abruptly steeper. Killer nearly lost his footing, and whinnied irritably. He wasn't bred for this kind of thing. This was literally donkeywork, and torment for an animal born to run on the flat. As distressing as it was to feel him struggling beneath me, my greatest worry was that we'd have to abandon our mounts. After the travails of the last few hours, neither Estrada nor I were in particularly good shape. Having to leave the horses could only work to Moaradrid's advantage.
Of course, I was still clutching to the faint hope that we'd lost our pursuers. It wasn't until the incline took us out from the region of shallow gullies and onto the beginning of the mountainside proper that we had a clear view. There was the river, tumbling from the mountainside to wind into the blue haze of the distance. There was the Cancasa Bridge, looking hopelessly fragile against the backdrop of tumbling white-water, and the road traipsing across it and away in each direction.
Lastly, there was Moaradrid's small band. I was surprised by how far behind they'd fallen. They'd barely made the turn onto the trail. At that distance, they were little more than large specks standing out against the grey of the path.
Nor did they seem to be rushing. I thought about what Mounteban had said — that Moaradrid's unpaid and ill-fed army was close to rebellion. Were they taking their time through half-heartedness, perhaps discussing whether it mightn't be easier just to turn around and forget the whole sorry business? But another detail made me think twice. The party had grown by at least a half-dozen riders, and a couple of what from their outlines must be pack mounts. It was just as likely that they'd waited for support and supplies, perhaps even for Moaradrid himself. Wouldn't he want to see this through?
So maybe they weren't hurrying because they knew we had nowhere left to run.
A thought crossed my mind: If I ordered him to, Saltlick could kill them all. A dozen men — a thrown rock would probably do it. Maybe I should have done it days ago, in Panchetto's palace perhaps. Wouldn't Panchetto be alive now if I had? I glanced at Saltlick. He'd been running, or walking hard, for nearly an hour now, and his skin glistened with sweat. Yet there was no sign of tiredness in his face, only a look of steadfast pleasure.
I couldn't imagine what it would be like for going home to mean that much — enough to eclipse pain and tiredness, to wipe out days of fear and violence. I wouldn't see Saltlick reunited with his people with those bastards' blood still wet on his hands. Damn Moaradrid, let them catch us if they wanted.
Clearly, it was exactly what they wanted. His party were fractionally nearer whenever I looked back. They couldn't do much to narrow the gap with both of us travelling so slowly, but they didn't need to. If they gained a step an hour, it would be enough to overtake us eventually.
I became increasingly aware that I'd have to ignore that contracting gap if I didn't want to die much sooner. The trail was terrible, not really a trail at all. Apart from Moaradrid's force all those weeks ago, I doubted anything bigger than a goat had passed this way in years. There was no way he'd brought an army up here; I could only assume he'd camped them nearby. There was nothing under our horses' hooves but a narrow ribbon of rock, edging a precipice that fell steeply to the boulders below.
We came eventually to a section where the incline levelled out, and the gap between the cliff face to our right and the edge on our left was wide enough for the three of us to travel abreast. Saltlick automatically took the most dangerous position. He moved easily, unperturbed by the altitude or the lethally uneven surface. Estrada rode on the inside, and Killer and I were in the middle.
All fight had gone out of the poor beast. He trod anxiously, giving the occasional worried snort. More and more he expected constant guidance, and made no secret of resenting my over-the-shoulder surveillance of Moaradrid's men. He'd dance a little closer to the edge, as though my reassurance was the only thing keeping us from hurtling over. I realised I'd have to give him my full concentration if he wasn't going to sacrifice us both to prove his point.
That insight proved just a minute too late.
Estrada's mount screamed horribly. He'd completely lost his hoofing, and slid towards me. I reined Killer in, too roughly. Rather than retreat, he stopped dead. Estrada's mount struck his flank and he slipped too. My eyes fell to the cliff, which jerked nearer with nightmarish abruptness.
"Saltlick!"
He looked round to see both horses skittering towards him, hooves dancing out of control. He looked puzzled for an instant. Then he dug his toes in, gripping the very verge of the precipice, and held his palms out, just in time to brace against Killer's flank. That only scared Killer more. He reared, thrashing his forelegs, and I hurled my arms around his neck. Saltlick barely ducked out of the way.
Estrada, to my right, had restored enough control to drag her horse to safer ground. Killer, though, was half-mad with fear. He tried to bolt
forward. He might as well have tried to run on ice. The burst only propelled him nearer the edge. He whickered in terror. Beyond the precipice beside us, a landscape in miniature span into view, toy trees and rocks an impossible distance below. Killer tried once more to regain the path, drove himself sideways again. His forelegs kicked against nothing.
We lurched into the void.
I could feel the wind tearing at me. I could hear its screech. I felt myself plummeting.
At least, that was what my brain insisted. My eyes told a different story. They were anchored to the ground far, far below. Seconds passed, and for all that my mind was convinced I should be plunging towards it, it drew no closer.
Even when that eye-watering view swung away, even when the path drifted back into focus, I couldn't believe it. I felt a tug on my right leg. Since when did falling involve having your leg pulled? I looked aside. There was Estrada, one hand still on my knee. There was Saltlick beside her, panting with exertion.
"What happened?" I managed, the words thick on my tongue.
"Saltlick caught you."
"He caught me?"
"Your horse."
"Nobody's that strong."
She managed a thin smile. "Clearly Saltlick is."
We didn't try to ride again after that. Chips of shale littered the trail, and flowed like water under the slightest pressure. That was what had caused Estrada's mount to slip. Leading the horses was only slightly safer, but it calmed them a little at least. Killer had suffered some sort of nervous collapse, and wouldn't do anything without my guidance. I kept a tight grip on the reins bunched in my hand and whispered outrageous lies I thought might keep his spirits up. "Almost at the lake of sugar, Killer," I said, and "don't worry, your barn's just around the next bend."
The accident had occupied less than a minute. Still, it was valuable time lost. If Moaradrid's men fared better, if their horses were more familiar with this sort of terrain, then they'd be on us by nightfall.
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