She scanned the scene, her breath sharp in her throat. Suddenly Firefly appeared, Muir lying low along his neck. There was something wrong: one arm hung limp down Firefly’s forequarter. A soldier pounded over the rise behind, crossbow levelled. At that range he couldn’t miss. Risha cried out as the bolt flew.
Firefly stumbled and broke stride then somersaulted forwards, carrying his rider spiralling with him.
Thrusting her heels into Torfell’s flanks, Risha urged the mare onto the bridge. In a clatter of hooves they were across and through the gate. There was a shout from the guardsman as she passed; at the same time a cheer went up from the men on the tower — she couldn’t spare a glance to see what was happening. In her mind she was watching Firefly fall, trying to calculate where they … There!
Firefly hadn’t risen. Risha spurred Torfell to a gallop and streaked towards the fallen horse. Where was Muir? The soldier who had felled him circled lazily to face her. Reality struck her like a blow — she was no match for a soldier. Her crossbow was in the guardhouse, her sword strapped out of reach behind her saddle. Torfell’s hooves pounded beneath her. Slipping her knife from its sheath, Risha laid low over the mare’s neck and rode directly for the man.
She didn’t stand a chance. He was a seasoned fighter, well-armed. She had neither bow nor sword, and Torfell was an untrained mare against his battle-hardened horse. Despite it, she kept on. Risha was close enough to see the man’s grin as he took the measure of his opponent; close enough to see his expression turn from triumphant snarl to disbelief. His sword hit the ground as his hands gripped the crossbow bolt protruding from his ribs. In slow motion he toppled sideways from his horse. Only then did she see Muir.
He was kneeling a little way from Firefly, hunched forwards, the crossbow tipped nose-down in his grasp. She yanked on the reins and Torfell obediently turned, raising clods of wet soil.
‘Muir!’ she cried. He seemed to waver, then forced himself upright using the bow as a crutch. He staggered and nearly fell. Clutching for his arm she tried to pull him up. He was too heavy and Torfell shied at the sudden weight and the smell of blood. ‘Try!’ she screamed.
With an effort of will Muir pulled himself up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. Soothing Torfell, Risha circled and looked back towards the bridge. They were cut off: Fratton’s soldiers had rallied in a last desperate attack. She caught a glimpse of Cantrel, still mounted — two guardsmen were fighting to reach him. There was no sign of Barc or Harl.
It would be suicide to try to get to the bridge, or to aim beyond it to the trees. She had only one option. Risha turned Torfell’s head downriver and kicked her into a canter. If they could find shelter and elude capture till nightfall, they might work their way back. Dusk was two hours away — three at most. The rain-laden sky hid the sun. If they were followed it would at least lessen the pressure on the men holding the bridge.
There was a shout from behind. Risha drove her heels into Torfell’s ribs. If she was caught by Fratton’s men — she turned her mind from the thought.
‘Veer inland,’ Muir muttered, voice distorted by pain. ‘When you reach a ravine, look for a split oak — there’s a path down to the stream.’
She nodded, feeling how heavily he slumped behind her. ‘Are you all right?’ There was no reply.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that they’d dropped out of sight of the bridge and, so far at least, there was no one following. Obeying Muir’s instructions she followed the lip of the ravine until she reached the oak. The path was a thin track, steep and slippery with rain. She would never have found it on her own — perhaps the soldiers wouldn’t either.
The stream at its foot was a torrent. Risha pulled Torfell up, staring in dismay.
Muir roused. ‘There’s a raised ford,’ he said. ‘Keep in line with the piled boulders on the far side.’
She nudged Torfell forward. The water rose almost to the horse’s belly and frothed around her legs. Midway across, the mare, sidling in the pull of the current, lost her footing and icy water swirled over her rump. Risha felt Muir’s arm tighten around her waist as the current tugged at him. She twisted her hands through Torfell’s mane and clenched her knees to the mare’s sides. Torfell bunched her haunches and plunged, regaining the causeway. In half a dozen panicked leaps she was across. As the little mare lunged up the bank, Muir slithered to the ground.
Turning the quivering mare in a tight circle, Risha slid from the saddle and tumbled to her knees on the sloping bank. ‘Muir, open your eyes.’
He obeyed, though his eyes were hazed. His right arm was soaked red, blood pooling on the stones beneath. Risha’s hands shook as she tore the sodden sleeve away from the wound. The muscle of his upper arm had been slashed open in a deep twisting gash. Fumbling her knife from its sheath, Risha cut strips from his sleeve and bound the wound tightly, the bandage reddening as fast as she could tie it.
‘Muir, tell me where to go: somewhere safe.’
‘Leave me. You’ve more chance on your own. The horse can’t carry us both.’
‘Get up.’ She pulled at him till he staggered to his feet. ‘Now get on Torfell.’
The mare shied as his weight pulled heavily on the stirrup. Risha steadied her till he was seated then turned towards the path that led up from the ravine.
‘Not there.’ His voice was gravelly. ‘Walk her in the water, upstream. There’s a branching gully. Follow it till you reach a waterfall.’
Ignoring the clenching cold of the water Risha waded upstream, Torfell’s reins gripped between her shivering fingers. Muir sat slumped in the saddle, eyes closed.
The path that led out of the gully was less steep and Torfell climbed it without difficulty.
On the uplands west of the ravine Risha stared around. The sky above the rolling farmland was streaked in heavy grey-pink clouds that carried the promise of rain and an early dark. ‘Is there somewhere safe we can stop for the night?’
Muir didn’t answer. His face was ashen and he swayed as he sat, seeming to right himself by force of instinct alone.
Ahead of them a stone wall crested a hill. Using a boulder as a stepping stone Risha swung herself up behind Muir, reaching around him for the reins. Muir’s knowledge of the landscape might have bought them a little time, but not much. If Fratton’s men knew of the ford and the tributary — even if they didn’t — they wouldn’t be far behind. Risha scoured her memory for everything she’d read or been told of the country north of the River Othar. It wasn’t much. She wasn’t even sure whether she was in Fratton or Caledon. Either way she daren’t risk approaching a farmstead, even supposing she could find one. Resting her cheek against Muir’s back, Risha briefly closed her eyes.
It was nearly full dark when Torfell plodded to a halt. Risha lurched awake. She had no idea how far they’d come or how long she’d dozed.
The wall they’d been following had come to an end, butted up against another. She looked left and right along its length but could make out nothing beyond its bulky shape. At the junction where the walls met, a triangular shieling had been built. She stared at it. The timbered roof was low and there was a wooden hurdle instead of a door. It would keep the rain off at least.
Risha slid from Torfell’s back and led her inside the small enclosure. It was barely high enough to clear the mare’s head, and stank of damp and animals. Torfell stamped uneasily as Risha pulled the hurdle in place behind them.
There was a low platform of packed earth against one wall. Leading Torfell alongside she tugged Muir from the mare’s back. He was a dead weight and fell heavily. Ignoring him for the moment she removed Torfell’s saddle, rubbed her down briskly with the saddle blanket, then spread it on the platform. It smelt strongly of horse but she pulled Muir onto it.
Guided by touch, Risha felt for the bandage she’d knotted around his arm. Impossible to tell whether the bleeding had stopped. She continued her exploration. Muir’s right side was sticky with blood but, though he groaned, she could f
ind no other wounds.
Pulling her flask from her saddlebag — it was only half-full — she lifted Muir’s head and held the flask to his lips. He coughed. She couldn’t tell whether he swallowed. Defeated by the dark and her own helplessness, Risha capped the flask and stretched out beside him, hoping her body might have a little warmth to share despite her shivering. She hadn’t the means to light a fire, and couldn’t have risked it if she had. Spreading her cloak across them both, she closed her eyes.
Moonlight woke her, filtering in through the open doorway and chinks in the stonework. She sat up. Torfell turned her head, whickering in reply to Risha’s whispered greeting. Muir’s breathing was shallow and his face looked unnaturally pale — she hoped it was the moonlight.
Her breath frosted on the chill air when she led Torfell outside to graze, but at least it wasn’t raining. Leaving the mare to crop, Risha returned to Muir.
His arm and side were caked with blood. Dampening a corner of his shirt she sponged away the worst, revealing a dull smear of bruising across his ribs and chest. The blanket beneath him was soaked with blood, but the wound seemed to have stopped seeping. When she tipped the flask to his lips, his throat moved. She sat back, staring at his face. That was the best she could do, and it seemed not enough.
Swallowing her frustration and fear, Risha went outside. All colour had been leached from the countryside. From the rise where the shieling had been built, a network of fields spread outwards, the grass showing silvery in the moonlight, the stone walls dark, with here and there a copse or shadowed fold of hill. The moon passed behind a cloud and Risha shivered.
Turning her back on the night she pulled handfuls of grass and led Torfell inside, stroking the mare’s neck and trying to absorb a little of her warmth before crawling back beside Muir. Listening to the wind and the shallow gasp of his breathing, she fell asleep.
20
Silent saviour
When she woke it was light and Torfell’s warm breath was on her face. Risha pushed the horse away. Muir hadn’t moved. The water flask was almost empty and she limited herself to a single sip.
Emerging cautiously from the shieling, Risha scanned the empty landscape before tethering Torfell to graze and returning to Muir. His breathing was fast and shallow, his skin clammy beneath her fingers. He didn’t stir when she spoke to him. Moistening his lips with the last of their water, Risha gave way to her fear. Without help, Muir would die.
There was a jingle of harness as Torfell shook her head. Risha sprang to the doorway. A child stood watching her.
Slipping her knife back into its sheath, she smiled. He was young, about seven or eight, and very dirty. His eyes flicked between Risha and her horse. Beckoning him, she reached for Torfell’s bridle and patted her neck. The child sidled forward. Torfell dipped her head to sniff him and he leapt back.
‘It’s all right. She’s being friendly.’
The boy’s expression was disbelieving but he came a step closer.
‘Hold out your hand, so she can smell it.’
Torfell snuffled at his palm. His eyes were huge in his dirty face.
‘I’m lost,’ Risha said. ‘I want to cross the river. How far to the bridge?’ The boy pointed back the way she’d come. ‘The other bridge. The one by the marsh.’
He shook his head.
‘Is there a road?’
He nodded.
‘Do your parents live near?’
He watched her without moving.
She tried another tack. ‘There were men chasing me. Soldiers. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them?’
He turned to point in roughly the direction she supposed the River Othar lay. Which meant that her pursuers had crossed the stream — but perhaps climbed the ravine near the ford? ‘Did you see them today?’ The boy nodded. ‘Are they far away?’
He put his head on one side, considering, then shook it.
From inside his tattered jerkin he pulled out a crust of bread and held it out. Risha hesitated. The child looked half-starved. ‘You have it.’
With great solemnity he tore the bread in two, placed half in his mouth, and proffered the remainder. She took it. It was stale but she chewed it gratefully.
‘Did you see which way the soldiers were going?’
He mimed a man searching the ground, leaning forward and casting in circles.
They were hunting her. Tension thrummed through every muscle. With the soldiers between her and Othbridge, her only choice was to go west, to the bridge at Lacstone Marsh. It couldn’t be more than a few days’ ride … if Torfell could carry them both. If Muir could ride at all. Risha swallowed. ‘How many soldiers?’
The boy held up three fingers.
He must be mute. Torfell suddenly lifted her head to sniff the wind. Risha muffled her nose. The mare’s nostrils quivered and she could feel the gentle huffing of breath against her palm as she led her inside the shelter. The child watched. There were hoof prints in the damp earth outside the shieling. The boy trod carefully over each one, smearing them out of recognition, before trotting away up the curve of hill.
Risha didn’t doubt it was other horses Torfell had smelt. Keeping one hand on the mare’s nose, she set her eye to a chink in the stonework. Her heart lurched. A horseman sat on the horizon.
His gaze swept over the shieling. Risha wrapped clammy fingers around the hilt of her knife. With a slap of the reins the stranger came on.
Halfway across the field he swerved, spurring his mount towards a small cluster of trees. Risha shifted to keep him in view. The boy was standing on the hillside.
Reaching him, the horseman bent forward in his saddle. The boy raised a skinny arm. A moment later the horseman wheeled and spurred away, along the line of the child’s pointing arm, back towards the river.
Risha sank onto the platform. She felt sick. Without the boy’s intervention she would be captive by now, or dead. It was a reprieve, but the soldiers would be back.
She shook Muir’s shoulder. ‘Muir, wake up. We have to go.’
There was no response. Slipping an arm around his back, she tried to pull him upright. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘I can’t get you onto Torfell on my own.’
A small sound alerted her. She spun around. The boy was standing in the doorway. He stared at Muir with enormous eyes then looked from her to Torfell.
She drew a shaking breath. ‘I have to get him on the horse.’
He took a step inside the shieling and held out a wizened apple. Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them roughly away. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy made a clucking sound in his throat.
‘Clik,’ she copied, as nearly as she could. ‘Do you have parents, Clik?’
No response.
‘I have to leave before the soldiers come back.’
He stared at her blankly. Tucking the apple inside her shirt, Risha led the mare close to the platform. Clik watched as she tugged Muir to sitting. ‘Muir, you have to wake up.’
‘Risha?’ His voice was slurred.
She nearly laughed with relief. ‘Can you stand? You have to get on Torfell.’
Muir tried to obey, groaning as she pulled at him. Clik darted forward to push from behind. Once they had him on his feet they let him fall forward over Torfell’s back, some unconscious habit on his part getting him around and seated in the saddle. The mare stamped a hoof then stood patient as Risha roped Muir’s feet beneath her belly.
Pushing her hair from her eyes, Risha smiled her thanks to Clik. He beckoned, then set off at a jog. Risha judged they were heading northwest, away from the river and Fratton’s men — away, as well, from LeMarc. She shrugged. She had few enough choices, and Clik had so far proved his worth.
Sometime in the afternoon it began to rain. Risha hunched into her cloak and trudged on. Beside her, Clik draped a piece of sacking over his shoulders and head.
The cessation of movement roused her. Risha opened her eyes and found herself leaning against Torfell, held upright by an
arm wrapped through a stirrup leather. She had pins and needles. She withdrew her arm gingerly, flexing her fingers as she stared up at Muir, slumped almost double in the saddle. There was no response when she shook his thigh. She held her hand close to his face, relieved to feel a faint whisper of breath against her palm. She looked around.
Clik was gone. They were among trees, but only just. Leaving Muir she walked stiffly to the edge of the copse. The valley beyond looked damp and cheerless, the harvest stubble flattened to brown pulp by rain. There were no houses, though a thin smudge of track twisted across a distant hillside.
When she turned, Clik stood a few paces away. He was passing something from hand to hand, blowing on his fingers. Taking up Torfell’s reins Risha followed as he trotted deeper into the trees.
It was dark when they stopped. The rain had eased, though the reprieve felt temporary. Clik made a series of signs with his hands but Risha was too tired to decipher them. With a low gargling sound Clik turned his back and began to gather moss and twigs.
He’d led them to the lea of a cliff. An overhang, partly hidden by a dense thicket of thorn, offered the promise of shelter. Risha began to fumble with the rope that bound Muir’s feet, her fingers stiff with cold. It was only as he slid heavily to the ground and Clik returned to help pull him beneath the overhang that Risha’s nose told her what the boy had been carrying.
The fire Clik made with his ember was compact and produced little smoke. Risha stretched Muir out and laid an ear to his chest. Though his breathing was shallow, his heartbeat seemed steady. Clik set water to boil in a battered pot he produced from a ledge, moving busily to and fro. Risha unwound the bandage she’d tied around Muir’s arm. Clik made a noise with his tongue then disappeared into the trees.
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