Rider's Revenge (The Rider's Revenge Trilogy Book 1)

by Alessandra Clarke

  He was a warrior, lean and tight and deadly. He stood before her, bare-chested with only a thin strip of fabric wrapped around his hips. Everywhere she looked he was covered in scars, the marks of countless battles tattooed upon his skin.

  He had the tan skin and dark hair of the tribes, but his eyes burned like banked coals.

  Father Sun.

  The Scourge and Destroyer.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Yes."

  He nodded and stepped to her side. "Then find this caravan. Let them capture you. Let them take you as a slave."

  She turned to see a line of men, horses, and wagons crawling across the sand. In the lead was a man with skin as dark as burnt wood. He had a scar running from the inner corner of his right eye to the top of his left lip, like someone had slashed him across the face with a sword long ago.

  It gave him a permanent sneer, but that was nothing to the blackness of his eyes. He was a man who cared for no one, who'd kill without thought or hesitation.

  She shivered at the thought of giving a man like that power over her.

  Behind him were three wagons, pulled by sturdy desert ponies, each one on a set of skids that allowed them to slide along the surface of the sand. They were followed by two camels walking side-by-side with a fabric contraption strung between them that bumped and swayed with each step.

  And behind that…

  Were slaves. A hundred or more dirty, tired humans stumbled through the sand, struggling for each step as men rode alongside them, lashing out with whips and cruel words when the slaves faltered.

  The slaves never looked up, never tried to run. Most had their eyes closed to mere slits as they trudged along in a ragged line, the dust from the passage of the wagons hazing the air.

  As she watched, a slave fell, too tired to continue. One of the men on horseback watched the slave for a long moment. He waited to be sure the slave wouldn't rise again and then rode on, leaving the man to die under the hot desert sun.

  K'lrsa turned away.

  "There has to be another way. I'm a Rider. I could never be a slave. I could never let anyone treat me like…like…that."

  Father Sun shrugged. "Then go home to your mother. Revenge isn't the path for everyone."

  K'lrsa stared at him. Didn't he care about her father and the tribes? Didn't he want to see the men who'd done this punished?

  "I'm a Rider. I can't just let men…"

  His eyes flashed red, the banked coals inside suddenly sparking to life. "No. You aren't. You forswore all vows." He stepped closer and the heat from his flesh burned her. "You can find that caravan, let them take you as a slave, and follow the path of revenge to the heart of the Daliphate. Or you can go home." He turned away from her, watching the caravan once more. "My wife is fond of you. I'll release you from your vow for her sake."

  K'lrsa watched the caravan as it made its slow way across the sands. Another slave fell and one of the men on horseback struck him with a whip.

  The man's scream echoed in her mind long after he'd struggled back to his feet and continued onward.

  "Is this my only choice?"

  "Yes."

  Could she do this? Could she allow herself to be taken? To be chained and whipped?

  Could she hold herself back if someone lashed out at her? Could she bow her head and trudge along, obeying whatever command they gave her?

  Was avenging her father worth that?

  Father Sun stepped closer, his voice almost gentle. "Not everyone can tread the path you've chosen, K'lrsa dan V'na of the White Horse Tribe. There's no shame in knowing your limits."

  "I can." K'lrsa glared at the caravan, arms crossed tight across her chest, shivering at the thought of what was to come.

  "Can you, truly, child?"

  She nodded, afraid to speak again.

  "Then follow your moon stone to the caravan."

  "What then?" she asked, but Father Sun was gone. So was the caravan.

  She was once again alone in the midst of dead and barren sands.

  She shuddered, suddenly cold even with the midday sun beating down upon her.

  Chapter 15

  K'lrsa stroked Fallion's nose as they watched the large cloud of dust on the horizon come closer. It had taken most of the day and they were well into Black Horse lands by the time she'd found the caravan.

  She still couldn't see the actual caravan, but from the dust and the gentle pull of her moon stone, she assumed she'd found her target.

  She rubbed the smooth stone between her fingers as she watched the caravan come closer.

  She could still turn back. It wasn't too late.

  No one had seen her. No one would blame her for changing her mind, for returning to her family. No one even needed to know.

  But she didn't want to turn back. She refused to quit even though she felt ill thinking of what was to come. To allow herself to be taken by those men…

  She shook her head, chasing the images away.

  She'd left a message in the shelter before she left—a rough set of Rider's marks letting whoever came through next know that L'ral and her father were dead, swallowed by the desert sands, betrayed by the Daliph's men. She hadn't said where she was going, just that she was fine and not to follow her.

  She hoped they'd listen. Not that they'd know where to find her. No one would think that she'd ride into Black Horse lands. Or let herself be taken as a slave.

  No. Once she was captured, she was on her own. No going back. No rescue.

  She'd considered stumbling upon the caravan as if by accident and letting them capture her that way, but that would never work. Fallion could beat any horse they might have and they'd know immediately that she was letting them capture her.

  Maybe they wouldn't care, but if they did, she'd fail before she'd begun.

  She had to let them find her. And she had to make them believe that she'd had no choice but to let them capture her.

  K'lrsa shivered as she buried her face in Fallion's mane, fighting back the urge to cry. She didn't want to do this.

  But she had to. She didn't have a choice.

  Fallion was her other half. He was all she had now. She didn't want to lose him. But if she was going to take her revenge, she had to sacrifice everything, even him.

  Maybe if she'd had more time she could have thought of another plan, but she had to act before the caravan passed by. (Or she gave in to her fear and ran back home.)

  K'lrsa dismounted and gave Fallion one last kiss on his nose, scratching behind his ears. "I'm sorry, micora. You'll be okay, you will. I promise. It'll just hurt a bit."

  She bit her lip as she drew an arrow from her quiver. She ran her thumb along the sharp edge of the arrowhead as she stepped to his side, running a hand along his back. He nuzzled her ear, blowing a strand of hair against her cheek with his breath and she rested her cheek against his face for a long moment, closing her eyes and wishing she were anywhere but here.

  Fallion trusted her so much and now she was going to destroy that. She was going to use the bond they had to hurt him.

  She hated herself, but she had to do it. She had to avenge her father.

  And save the tribes.

  What was her life, or Fallion's, compared to that?

  K'lrsa broke off the fletched end of the arrow to remove the distinct markings of her tribe and then, before she could second-guess herself, she plunged the metal arrowhead into the meaty part of Fallion's back, careful to avoid any vital organs or muscles.

  Fallion bucked and screamed.

  K'lrsa fell to her knees. "I'm so sorry, micora. I'm so sorry."

  He fled, racing away in the direction of the caravan.

  K'lrsa closed her eyes for a moment, praying that it was just a flesh wound and that he'd run straight to the caravan where he could find help. She took a slow, steadying breath. If he did run to the caravan, then they'd find her soon.

  She didn't have much time.

  She removed her knife from its sheath, squinting
as it reflected the late afternoon sunlight. She took a deep breath, and, quickly, before she could change her mind, drove the knife into her left shoulder, just below the collar bone.

  She bit back a scream as the metal punctured her skin.

  She closed her eyes against the pain and forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths. The tangy scent of her own blood filled her nostrils as she struggled to master the pain.

  She knelt on the sand for a moment, swaying slightly as she tried to find the Core to take her away from the pain. It took longer than it should have, but finally, at last, she managed to float there, aware of the injury but in a place where it couldn't touch her.

  With a sharp jerk, she pulled the knife free. Blood flowed down her breast as she bound the wound with strips she'd cut from her shirt. She rolled in the desert sand, hoping it would look like she'd fallen from her horse.

  Blood seeped around the edges of the bandage, dripping down her arm and into the sand. She'd cut too deep. It shouldn't be bleeding this much.

  She prayed to Father Sun that the caravan would find her soon. But what if they didn't?

  She struggled to her feet, unable to move her left arm, and stumbled in the direction of the caravan calling Fallion's name.

  The sound should reach the caravan, but she didn't know if it would. The desert was fickle that way. In some places you could hear a sound for leagues; in others you couldn't hear the Rider next to you.

  As she made her slow, painful way across the sands, the sun dropped below the horizon behind her.

  Blood soaked the bandage and dripped into the sand with each step she took. The world blurred and shifted as dusk fell. The Trickster's time was upon her and still the caravan hadn't found her.

  She continued forward, hoping to find the caravan over the next rise, or the one after that, but she saw nothing, heard nothing.

  Had she walked in the wrong direction?

  Had the Trickster led her astray?

  She was so dizzy, she didn't even know which direction she was walking anymore. It was too dark to see the distant mountains staining the horizon.

  She tried to shout, but no sound came out; her throat was too dry from trudging through the sand.

  She'd lost her pack, including her waterskin. When had that happened?

  K'lrsa resisted the urge to continue. The caravan should be straight ahead. But she knew better than to keep walking during that deadly time between when Father Sun departed and the Lady Moon arrived. The Trickster was far too fond of his pranks.

  She had to find them, though.

  If she didn't find them before full dark, she might just disappear into the desert sands like so many before her, never to be seen again.

  The Great Father wouldn't let her come so far only to fail. Would he?

  She thought back to the cruel warrior who'd shown her this path and to the stories of the gods. No doubt they were real, but they were also capricious, mysterious, and not very inclined to save men from their foolish choices.

  She knew the truth then.

  If she failed, Father Sun wouldn't save her. Nor would the Lady Moon.

  K'lrsa stumbled forward in the deepening dark, her good arm stretched before her as if it would somehow help her see better.

  She slipped and fell, landing heavily on her injured arm. The pain was so intense she blacked out.

  When she awoke it was even darker, the sands cold under her body. She struggled to stand once more, but couldn't. The world spun around her and she lay back, defeated.

  She laughed and cried as the movement tugged at her injured shoulder.

  Her mother had been right. She was just a foolish girl, unaware of the dangers she faced.

  Well, now she knew.

  Too bad it was too late for her to do anything about it.

  She willed herself to rise, but couldn't even sit up, let alone stand.

  She sank back into the sands, exhausted. Later, maybe.

  When, if, the Lady Moon rose, she'd try again.

  But she knew, deep down, that it was already too late. She'd never rise again.

  "Fallion," she whispered, "I'm so sorry, micora. Please forgive me."

  Chapter 16

  K'lrsa awoke in the dark of early morning. She expected to be cold, but wasn't. Maybe she'd already passed on to the Promised Plains?

  No. There was a large, warm body pressed against hers.

  She turned her head, blocking away the pain that shot through her at the slightest movement.

  It was Fallion. He'd returned to her! And now he lay with his body curled around hers, his soft breaths ruffling her hair.

  "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you." She fought the urge to cry as a wave of sheer relief passed through her.

  She stroked his nose with her good hand and he snuffled her hair with a soft whinny of affection.

  "I don't deserve you, micora."

  K'lrsa's injury throbbed with pain, the bandage now dry and crusted with blood. She didn't dare move her arm and risk tearing it open again; not in the middle of the night when she could barely see her own hand.

  In the morning she'd use Fallion to help her stand and they'd go in search of the caravan. She just prayed the Trickster hadn't led her astray.

  If he had…

  She didn't know what she'd do. She was too weak to make it back to her tribe, especially since she wouldn't ask Fallion to carry her, not with a wounded shoulder.

  Maybe this had all been one great joke played on her by the Trickster. The dreams of the Hidden City and the boy with the bright blue eyes, her conversations with the Lady Moon and Father Sun. Maybe it had all been the Trickster seeing just how stupid she really was.

  It would be just like him to lead a would-be hero to an ignoble death by her own hand. The tales were full of stories of how he'd used someone's pride against them, laughing the whole time as he watched them destroy themselves.

  "You haven't won yet, you sneaky little imp," she whispered as sleep took her once more.

  K'lrsa awoke to a boot kicking her leg.

  "Forget the girl for now. Can you save the horse?" a man asked from somewhere nearby. He spoke in trader speech and K'lrsa felt a moment's excitement. The caravan had found her.

  Fallion was still curled behind her. He should've risen when the men arrived.

  Oh, Fallion, she thought as she heard the man moving around to Fallion's other side and as Fallion continued to lie still against her back, the only sign he was alive his labored breathing.

  It was all her fault. All her stupid, arrogant fault. What had Fallion ever done to deserve this? Poor boy.

  She smiled when Fallion turned his head to snap at the man. At least he still had some spirit left.

  "Hiya. No call for that, you mangy cur." The man backed away. "I say leave 'em both. Neither one's worth the effort it'd take to stitch 'em up."

  K'lrsa tensed at his words. She'd come too far to fail now, but she had no choice but to wait and hope the other man wanted to help them.

  "What do you know of horse flesh, Reginald? That's one of the finest horses I've ever seen. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was an Amalanee horse. See the white mark on its forehead?"

  He walked closer until he was standing just behind Fallion. "Legend has it the things can fly."

  The first man, Reginald, spit. K'lrsa flinched at the foolish waste of water as he said, "I'm not a fool, Barkley. It's just a ratty horse and horses don't fly. I say we leave 'em both."

  Barkley walked around until he was standing in front of K'lrsa. All she could see were his scuffed leather boots, well-worn but carefully tended. "No. Wings or not, that horse is worth money. And I'm not leaving the girl either. "

  He leaned down, staring at her with soft gray eyes that belied the cruelty of his words. "Scrub the dirt and blood off and this one'll at least be good for a night or two. If she makes it as far as Crossroads, we can sell her off there. The brothels are always looking for new meat." He reached out to grab her braid an
d K'lrsa flinched back. "With this long black hair and pale brown skin, I know at least one man who'll pay for a night with her."

  "Ah, aye. That bastard would, wouldn't he? Just have to keep him away from her until Crossroads or she won't make it that far."

  White-hot anger flared inside K'lrsa; the moon stone at her neck burned with an answering light. She'd kill them. No man of the tribes would take a woman against her will. Never. If he did he'd find himself castrated and left to wander the sands until he died.

  She stumbled to her feet and reached for her knife.

  "Oho, what do we have here? Seems like she had a little more life than we thought." Barkley stood an arm's length away and studied her. "Good."

  He was so tall K'lrsa had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, but he wasn't looking at her anymore, he'd turned his attention to Fallion.

  Reginald came around on her left, moving like a copperhead snake—silent until the moment it strikes. K'lrsa turned to keep him within sight, fighting against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  He smiled, revealing a mouth of broken and blackened teeth. "Maybe we should break her in before we take her to camp. Whatdya think Barkley?"

  Barkley didn't even look at them. "Nah. Not my type."

  "Never are," Reginald muttered, glaring at him. "Well, I guess she's all mine, then." He rushed her, arms spread wide to tackle her. K'lrsa barely managed to react in time, dropping low and kicking out at his knee in Crouching Cricket.

  Reginald screamed in pain as her foot connected, but it was only a glancing blow. What should've shattered his knee cap and bent his leg backward had just pushed it to the side, probably tearing something vital, but not permanently crippling him like she'd intended.

  "You bitch. You tribal trash. I'll gut you for that." He came for her again.

  K'lrsa braced herself to fight him, blinking against the wooziness that threatened to disable her.

  Barkley grabbed Reginald's collar and threw him to the side like a child's doll. "Enough, Reginald. Leave her alone until Harley has a chance to see her."

  K'lrsa collapsed to the sands, her vision blurring as the momentary burst of energy drained away.