Handbook for Dragon Slayers (19 page)

He stalked around my small chamber as I described the moment again. He heard nothing to his particular liking, and stormed out.

F
RAU
D
AGMAR SHOWED UP
about an hour later, and she guided me down to the garden. When I skidded on frost-slicked flagstones, she grasped my arm with both of her hands, holding me upright. Before we broke apart, she passed to me under the cover of our cloaks an oilcloth-wrapped package, just the right size and shape to be the
Handbook
. Then she nodded to me.

Moving as stealthily as she had, careful that no one watching us should know what I had, I slipped the book inside my robe and enjoyed how it felt pressed against my ribs.

I walked around the garden, holding tightly to the stone walls. Sir Egin was not wrong—snow was coming. A chill wind bit my cheeks, and the trees thrashed restlessly beyond the castle wall. The world smelled rich with earth and fresh with snow. I took a deep breath and despaired. Winter was no longer on its way—winter was
here
. It made escape even more unlikely and infinitely more difficult.

I strove to stay upright as I wandered farther into the garden. Eventually, I made it to the edge of the wall overlooking the drop-off, but instead of gazing down at the steep, forested hill that lay between the castle and the Rhine, I faced the garden gate.

“Tilda?”

I turned at Father Ripertus's voice, unable to believe it was really him. We embraced.

“Are they treating you all right?” I asked.

“Sir Egin is a delightful host!” Father Ripertus said.

Oh, no. Father Ripertus was enchanted. Like I was when I didn't wear the horsetail necklace.

A trio of squirrels ran toward us, playing a game halfway between chase and follow-the-leader. The two lead squirrels veered off nimbly when they approached me, but the one in last place stopped, confused, then tried to go two ways at once. I laughed a little, noticing this squirrel was much smaller than the other two. A late-born baby, perhaps? But not a baby any longer—Judith and I had raised a squirrel from blind, pink puphood on goat's milk, and this was no pup. She was about half grown—my age, in squirrel years.

The squirrel shook her fuzzy little tail at us thrice and ran off, over the garden wall and up into a small window. The squirrel chattered—and then I heard Joyeuse respond with an interested nicker.

The stable was right there, behind that wall!

“Father Ripertus, take my arm. I want to go over toward that gate. . . . Careful, the stones are slick.”

Ripertus guided us to the gate that led into the stable yard. “Joyeuse?” I called.

With a noise like an earthquake, Joyeuse destroyed the stable wall. Shining like the Christmas star, my horse bounded over to me and knelt.

Another earthquake, and out popped Durendal.

Neither had their saddles. I swung onto Joyeuse's back with ease born of need. I yanked at Father Ripertus's robes, shouting at him to mount the horse with me. Whatever Egin's enchantments were, the horses were immune and made us immune, too; as soon as Father Ripertus touched Joyeuse, he was yelling in my ear, “Go!”

Joyeuse rose to her feet and we were practically airborne, she took off so fast over the low garden wall to the courtyard, across the courtyard to the castle gate.

A mass of men-at-arms was forming up before the gate, facing this way and that, seeming not to know where the threat was coming from, just that there
was
a threat. Durendal dived into the knot of men and started kicking indiscriminately. There were cries of pain, and I buried my head in Joyeuse's neck.

I thought Durendal would kick down the castle gate for us—what couldn't these horses kick down, after all?—but the spiked iron portcullis must have been too daunting, because the next thing I knew, Joyeuse was in the air, leaping
over
the gate. I was holding on with just my knees and fingers, and I really couldn't scream long enough or loud enough to fully exhibit my terror at finding myself so high in the air on Joyeuse's back. Father Ripertus's arms clutched my waist, and his screaming was even louder than mine.

But then we were on the ground, and Durendal was beside us. The horses ran out into the forest. Behind us, in Thorn Edge, hounds bayed and men shouted. A clamor rose—warning bells, hunting horns. I leaned backward and urged Joyeuse down, down, down toward the Rhine.

W
E'RE FREE
. I
WANTED TO SHOUT IT ALOUD, BUT
I was keenly aware that it would be a very short freedom if I did not spend every moment of it wisely. And if I did not hold on very, very tightly.

The horses dashed between the trees almost as if the trunks didn't exist. Not a single branch brushed us in our passing, Joyeuse was so adept at weaving in and out even in her headlong rush. She leaped a stream; I nearly screamed as my rear end came off her back for a long moment, even though it was as nothing compared to the leap over the gate. Then we were down again, as lightly as a bird landing to catch a worm.

We crossed a path, then another path. The horses jumped a fallen log, then bolted over a road. And then we skidded to a halt at the narrow, stony beach of the great river.

The Rhine flowed with winter sluggishness, though it was hard to see the thin floes of ice that churned up to the surface. It was still faster than any other river I'd seen.

Father Ripertus gasped in my ear. “We have to get to Alder Brook!”

“Yes—get down, take Durendal. Tell me—Parz and Judith?”

“Both alive and well, last I saw them,” Ripertus said, sliding to the ground.

My sigh of relief came out a little ragged, and I closed my eyes. “All right. Alder Brook. Horrible is our only hope now.” Even in the thick of things, Father Ripertus had time to give me a disappointed look for that nickname.

Joyeuse's ears scanned the forest. Castle Thorn Edge perched high above us, and I could see no activity near it—but the trees obscured much. I strained to listen.

Father Ripertus climbed creakily onto Durendal's back. “Are you ready?”

“No—we're splitting up. Egin is going to come after me. He wants to know something I know about the Wild Hunt. Don't wait for me. I'm going to try to draw him off. Get to Alder Brook as fast as you can. Make sure Horrible—Hermannus, I mean—ransoms Judith and Parz from Egin. And me, too, if I get recaptured.”

“But Tilda—”

“Go!” I shouted.

I think he might have argued more, but Durendal listened to me, not him.

I leaned low over Joyeuse's neck. “Let's give Egin the chase of his life, love.”

She wheeled to the left and we pelted back up toward the castle, while Durendal and Ripertus headed north.

We had been under way for less than five minutes when Joyeuse seemed to pivot on one hoof and whisked us in a new direction. Moments later, I heard dogs baying behind us. We had been about to run into an ambush.

“Dumbhead!” I muttered beneath my breath. Joyeuse's ears flattened. “Me, not you,” I said. “I should have been expecting that!”

Joyeuse was fast, but the thickness of the forest slowed her, and the hounds remained close on her heels. The noise of our passage and the yelping of the dogs obscured any other sounds, and I couldn't tell how many humans and horses pursued us. Then the sound of a hunting horn filled the air, low and dulcet and frightening.

We were on the path upward, away from the Rhine, and the sounding of the horn seemed to come from all around us. Was it ahead or behind? I couldn't tell. I panted in fear, in time with the bellows breath of the running horse beneath me.

“Whoa, whoa, don't go this way, that's back to the castle.” Joyeuse slowed but didn't stop. The baying of the hounds grew closer.

Ahead, in the trees, for one brief moment, I saw Sir Egin sitting atop a nervous bay horse, horn in hand. He saw us—and blew three short blasts. The chorus of hounds behind us grew louder; another horn echoed Sir Egin's in the distance.

Joyeuse spun downhill.

In moments, Joyeuse and I were back at the shore of the Rhine. We paused at the river's edge. “North or south?” I asked. Had Durendal and Father Ripertus put enough distance between us to make it safe to follow them? I couldn't see how.

South then.

I turned Joyeuse upriver and we flew along the Roman road for several long breaths—until I saw him ahead of us.

Sir Egin.

From the forest up the mountain, a stream of hunting dogs poured.

Not south, then. And not uphill, either. And I wouldn't lead them north after Father Ripertus.

That left one direction. “Into the river,” I whispered, and Joyeuse turned instantly, rushing down to the rocky shore once more. I twined my fingers in her mane and held on.

Joyeuse did not hesitate. She plunged into the icy river.

Frigid water poured into my boots, and I sucked a scream in backward. The water rose to my knees, and pain shot through my legs. I turned my head and buried my teeth in the fabric of my cloak.

But there was no rethinking this. I could only hope that we wouldn't be swept apart by the current. If I lost Joyeuse . . . I would die. I wove my fingers tighter into the horse's silvery mane, wishing I had reins to tie around my wrists.

Then I remembered the
Handbook
, tucked inside my dress. It had an oilcloth wrapping, but that was hardly tight enough or thick enough to be waterproof. I fumbled inside my clothes and pulled it out, holding it high above the waterline.

I bit my lip as the cold water rose, to my thighs, then my waist, then my chest. . . . The chill pierced my flesh like a hundred arrows. I bit my lips harder, and small whimpers spilled out of the corners of my mouth. I had thought cold was numbing. Why wasn't I numb? My arm and shoulder began to ache with holding the
Handbook
high.

“Tilda, come back!” A voice floated across the water, pleasant, cajoling, warm. I looked over my shoulder and spotted Sir Egin. Neither he nor his horse showed any sign of planning to join us in the river. We were, for the moment, safe.

Well. Safe from Sir Egin. My flesh was finally beginning to numb—a welcome relief from the stabbing prickle-pains from the cold water—but I could no longer really tell where the fingers of my right hand were, or what they were doing. I prayed they were yet twined in Joyeuse's mane. My left hand was still above my head, clenched around the
Handbook
.

Seen between Joyeuse's ears, the far shore didn't seem any closer. Joyeuse was swimming all out, but it seemed as though we were never going to make it across, even with Sir Egin diminishingly small on the shore behind us.

If it had been any other river, we would have reached the opposite shore already. But the Rhine is vast. They say no one has bridged it this far downstream since the Romans, and even then, people doubt that the Romans built a real bridge—maybe just a series of floating rafts or something. Not a stone edifice, nothing that had lasted like so many other things had lasted from the days of the great Empire. The unconquerable Rhine was a reason that the Romans had been content to let this river be their border . . . and we were in the middle of it in December.

Currents buffeted us, tried to remove me from Joyeuse's back, but my fingers were locked on her mane. I couldn't have moved them if I'd wanted to. An occasional chunk of wood or ice struck my legs. The pain was both distant and intense—distant because of the numbness I felt, but it also hurt so much more because of the cold. I guessed other branches and such must be striking Joyeuse, but she swam on, flowing with the current but moving swiftly forward. Her steady, steaming breath was my only source of hope and sanity. I wanted to panic. We had so far to go, and I was so cold.

My arm began to tremble with the effort of holding up the
Handbook
, until I thought to rest it on my head.

I closed my eyes, hoping that by the time I opened them again, we would be across. But then I opened my eyes, and we were still in the middle of the river. So I closed them again. And again, opened them to the middle of the river. I did this over and over and over, and the world seemed a little less bright every time it reappeared.

There has to be a way, there has to be a way, a way across
. The words galloped around my head over and over. There was no telling the words to go away. I couldn't think of anything outside the words, and the water, and the cold, and the current, and the rhythm of Joyeuse's swimming legs as they rocked her body beneath me.

. . . a way, way, way across . . .

I closed my eyes, ordering myself to think of something else. Anything else. Declensions:
Minimus. Minim
. Minim
. Minimum. Minim
. Minime
. I imagined writing the words, imagined the satisfying scratch of pen on parchment.