Falan careened around a curve in the road, the poor mare huffing and lathered in sweat. Karigan glanced over her shoulder again, and there were her pursuers, still gaining. One had a crossbow.
Damnation. She could try veering into the woods to make it more difficult for the bowman to aim, but she saw no likely spots to enter.
A bolt skittered along the road ahead of her lifting puffs of dirt. Falan spooked but Karigan steadied her and kicked her on. The bowman would not be able to reload at a full gallop. She watched the roadside for an escape route that would not involve trees scraping her off Falan or tumbling down a steep embankment. If she could evade her pursuers for long enough in the woods, she could use her ability as the sun crept down in the west. She did not like to think what would happen if the men caught her.
Even as she renewed her determination and found a likely opening in the woods, Falan failed her.
One moment the mare was running full tilt, the next she stumbled, went down, plowed into the road on her chest, launching Karigan from the saddle, hurling her through the air.
Time stretched, Karigan seemed to hang in the air forever, awaiting the inevitable. And then—
She slammed into sharp gravel and hard dirt in front of the mare. She lay there, the fall not yet penetrating her mind. She shook her head and saw Falan trying to rise, but she could not. The mare emitted a plaintive cry unlike any Karigan had ever heard from a horse.
Gradually she became aware of a burning pain in the palms of her hands, her elbows, and her knees. She gazed at her palms. Estora’s fine doeskin gloves were shredded, revealing chewed flesh embedded with gravel and dirt, and seeping blood. She knew it must be the same for her knees and elbows. Then all at once, everything hurt, all her joints and muscles were crying out for attention, though nothing appeared to be broken. Unlike poor Falan.
The ruffians slowed their approach and came to a halt before her in a great cloud of dust. She couldn’t outrun them on foot even if she could make her limbs obey her.
Training took over, Drent screaming in her ear, berating her for being too slow, for thinking too much. She needed not to think, but to act. She drew the knives from her boots into her stinging hands. The first she threw did not hit the lead man as she intended, but went wide and hit the man next to him. He tumbled from his saddle. Before the ruffians recovered their wits to respond, she threw the second knife and took out another man, his expression one of surprise. Karigan was surprised as well. Fergal, she thought, would be proud of her.
Men dismounted and surrounded her. She couldn’t get her addled mind to count how many there were. Didn’t matter anyway. There were too many of them, and only one of her.
The leader walked over to her. “It appears, my lady, you have teeth.”
“Who is she, Sarge?” another asked. “That ain’t the real lady, is it?”
Something deep in Karigan’s memory stirred. Sarge…
“No, you idiot, this is not Lady Estora.” He squinted at her as though trying to recall something himself, then shook his head. “She’ll tell us soon enough where the lady is hiding.”
He reached for Karigan. Gritting her teeth against the pain of her raw hands, she grasped a handful of sand and gravel from the road and tossed it into his face. His hand went to his eyes as he cursed.
Karigan sprang upon him and wrested his sword from him. She went to strike him, but another man’s sword stopped her blow. Men shouted, were moving all around, raising a haze of dust. She swung the blade again, and again it was parried. The corset shortened her breath even though she’d told Estora not to secure it too tightly. Dust clogged her nose and throat, and her skirts whirled about her ankles. Each moment she kept her foes occupied won another moment for Estora and Fergal.
She focused on the swords, lost sense of her pain, and let the training take command of her. She’d trained to fight while well-attired, and this time she wore not fancy shoes, but her own boots, and the habit’s skirts were not so confining. She had those advantages, at least.
Her sword drove through the stomach of her foe. She withdrew it and went after the next blade, and the next. She nearly succeeded in killing the fellow when someone slammed into her from behind, knocking her to the ground and the sword from her hand, out of reach.
She wrestled with whomever knocked her down, biting, kicking, clawing. She grabbed at her hair, drawing out a pin and impaled her assailant’s arm. He fell away screaming.
She tried to stand, but someone kicked her feet out from under her. Several hands held her down, yanked strands of her hair out while removing pins, kicked her in the sides and hips if she struggled, clouted her in the head.
Sarge glared at her. “I know you,” he said. “I remember you.”
She started to speak, but Sarge ordered her bound and a cloak thrown over her head, and secured to her so she could not see. Rough hands settled her on a horse to which she was also bound.
“Let’s take her up the hill,” Sarge said.
Blinded and immobile, Karigan could only close her eyes. All around her were the sounds of the men and horses moving out. Her horse turned around and lurched forward, and Falan screamed somewhere behind her.
At least the brutes put the mare out of her misery, Amberhill thought. The road absorbed the blood pooled beneath the mare’s slashed throat. He knelt in the road and picked up Lady Estora’s hat. It was trampled, coated in dust, and a couple of the feathers were broken. He’d arrived toward the end of the melee, as they subdued her and trussed her to the horse—he hadn’t dared approach with anything but stealth, and once again he was too late.