BRAVE SOUL

Amberhill led Goss along the confusion of hoofprints that disturbed the pine needles, dead leaves, and mosses of the forest floor. They went off in all directions, crisscrossing and turning round on themselves. Fresh piles of horse droppings revealed all the activity was recent. He concluded that a good many riders were in the area, not just Lady Estora and her captors.

He paused and scratched his head, wondering which direction he should go. He gazed up at the sun, estimating it was mid-to late afternoon. The sun set quickly this time of year—too quickly—and clouds were beginning to move in.

Lowering his gaze, he could see through the trees the rounded ridges of what must be the Teligmar Hills, which were, as he recalled, the most notable prominences in the west of Sacoridia. They’d come far, and Amberhill felt every step of the journey in his bones. Goss, though a tad thinner in the ribs, appeared to thrive on the extended running. It was all for the good, Amberhill supposed, but just went to show his stallion was more muscle than brains. He patted Goss’ neck.

“Which way?” he wondered.

After some consideration, he decided to keep traveling westward. That was the direction the captors had been heading all along, so perhaps they had not deviated, and the confusion of prints was coincidental. Amberhill doubted it, but he hoped.

A clearing brightened between the tree trunks ahead, and as he neared it, he realized it was a road. He paused on the edge of the woods, squinting in the brightness. Just to his right was an intersection with a signpost. It indicated Mirwellton to the south, Adolind Province’s border to the north, and the Teligmar Road leading westward. Though there was no eastward road, Amberhill knew this to be the Teligmar Crossroads.

“How am I to find them now?”

If Lady Estora’s captors used one of the roads, it would be next to impossible to know which way they went. Amberhill stood there despairing over what he should do, berating himself anew that he hadn’t caught up with them, that he’d lost too much time getting lost and stashing away jewels. He glanced at the dragon ring on his finger, the blood ruby fiery in the full sun, and he thought to tear it off his finger and throw it away when Goss jerked his head up and snorted, ears twitching.

Shortly Amberhill discerned what Goss already detected—hoofbeats pounding down the road at a great clip. Around a curve in the road she came, leaning low over her light-footed hunter’s neck, leaving a plume of dust in her wake.

Straight through the intersection she galloped, northward.

Lady Estora!

Goss started to rear and Amberhill grappled with the reins to keep him down. But even before he calmed Goss enough to mount, he heard more hooves, multiplied many times over, in pursuit. One, then five, then ten, then twenty riders altogether whipped by and spurred their horses after Lady Estora.

“Oh, no,” Amberhill moaned. Lady Estora showed tremendous courage and spirit in her escape attempt—however she’d managed it—but he had no hope it would end well with so many riders pursuing her.

His only choice now was to follow.

The plan, Karigan thought, was simple enough: distract the ruffians so Estora and Fergal could escape. Disguised as Estora and riding her white mare to complete the illusion, it was not difficult to lure the ruffians after her.

From there, it was supposed to be easy: outrun them. And pray for a quick nightfall so she could use her ability and vanish. She’d ride to a waystation on the Adolind border, hide and rest, then return to Sacor City to report.

Unfortunately she erred by not taking Falan’s ability into account. The mare lacked the speed and endurance of Condor, and the poor thing had been cruelly pushed on her journey west. She tired rapidly.

Karigan should have waited until closer to sundown to make her move, but the ruffians were so close to their hideout she was certain they would have been trapped if she waited. At least this way Estora and Fergal had a chance at escape.

Her own chances? She glanced over her shoulder and saw the riders several horse lengths behind her, and gaining. Not good.

Falan stumbled and Karigan lurched forward, but the pommel held her leg securely and she didn’t lose her seat. The mare recovered her footing, but Karigan knew it meant the pursuers were even closer.

She hurtled through the intersection of the crossroads, willing the mare to run faster. The farther she led the ruffians on, the better chance Estora and Fergal had of escaping.

Odd, but it wasn’t all that long ago Karigan had felt hurt every time she saw Estora around the castle after the betrothal announcement, and she’d rejoiced to leave on a message errand to get away from all the wedding frivolity. And now here she was, disguised as Estora; Estora who was to marry King Zachary, the man Karigan had fallen in love with.

When she’d seen Estora at the crossroads, all the resentment and hurt had fallen away, and she had not hesitated to aid her. Her actions here and now would, if all went well, allow Estora to return to King Zachary so they could marry as planned. She appreciated the irony, but she also knew her duty. Estora’s safety came well before her own, and no matter that Karigan had tried to distance herself from her and end their friendship, she was still a friend.

But why did Estora have to be such a lady and ride sidesaddle?

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.

But here was a puzzle. This was Lady Estora’s hat, and the dead mare was hers, too, but if that was the lady being carried off, there was a dimension to her he had not even imagined existed. She killed a few of the men, and injured others—he’d watched them ride back down the road with their dead. Definitely not fighting skill he expected from a noble lady.

Whoever it was, then, had done Lady Estora a great service, must have helped her escape when he’d been incapable of catching up with her captors.

He was of two minds. One was to go in search of the real Lady Estora, the other was to follow the band of cutthroats and try to help the brave soul who had taken her place. She—or possibly he?—would at least know what became of the lady, and he owed this person any aid he could render.

He walked over to Goss, who had scented the dead mare and wanted to bolt. He made the stallion stand still long enough for him to mount.

He cantered back to the crossroads and reined Goss west, on the road that led into the Teligmar Hills. A little way along, he hung Lady Estora’s hat on a branch as a clue to any force King Zachary might have sent out behind him.