Mortal Heart (13 page)

“I am traveling east, along the same road to Guérande. You are cold,” he says. There is a crunch of leaves as he takes another step toward me.

I cross my arms so that the daggers at my wrists are within easy reach. “Yes, well, it is winter and the nights are cold.”

“You cannot risk building a fire. The light and heat will call the hunt back this way.”

“You will be pleased to learn I have no intention of doing anything so foolish.”

“How, then, do you plan to keep warm through the night?”

Gods’ wounds! Could he be any less subtle? Sister Beatriz warned us often of men of his ilk. “Shall I guess at what you will suggest? You think we should close this distance between us so we may share our body heat, no?”

“We would not be the first to do so,” he says.

While I have spent many an hour wondering what it would feel like to lay pressed close against a man, all that curiosity has fled under the weight of my current predicament. I reach openly for my knives, letting my sleeves ride up so that the handles of my daggers show. “I think I will take my chances with the cold, for I am no lightskirt to warm your bedroll. If you attempt such a thing, you will find only the kiss of sharp steel to greet you.”

“I have no intention of forcing you.” He sounds faintly aggrieved. “I wanted only to point out that two are stronger than one and more able to guard against the unexpected, that is all.”

“You would make your camp elsewhere if I ask it of you?” I say flatly, making no attempt to keep the disbelief from my voice.

“No,” he says, and it is all I can do not to crow, but he continues before I can speak. “They will double back at least once before dawn. I cannot in good conscience leave you to fend for yourself until then.”

“I do not need your help. I am well able to defend myself.”

His head tilts to the side. “What manner of maid are you,” he muses, “that you can defend yourself against an entire hunting party? Not to mention heave a man nearly twice your size over your shoulder?”

I open my mouth to proudly tell him of my lineage and use the reputation of Death’s handmaidens to keep him from attempting any mischief, but then hesitate. I have no earthly idea who he is. And as strong and skilled as I am, he is at least twice so, for all that I was able to toss him over my shoulder. He will not be caught off-guard so easily again. I have no idea if Mortain’s name will even be known to him, or known in such a way that he would take it as a deterrent. “I am someone who was raised to be the equal of any man and know well how to defend myself.”

“Against a horde of fourscore or more?”

As many as that?
I think, somewhat dismayed. “Of course not,” I snap. “No man can defend against that many.”

He leans back against the trunk of the tree and folds his arms across his chest. I cannot help but remember the rock-hardness of that same chest pressing into my back but moments ago. “Not even if that man is one of their own and therefore has the power to protect you?”

He is one of them? “Why would you do that? Protect me?”

He shrugs. “Let us just say I believe I know the manner of your upbringing and why you claim to be a match for any man. I have a . . . debt I owe to those who raised you, and I would pay some small part of it by seeing you safe.”

His confession robs me of speech and all I can do is gape at him like a caught fish. Who is he that he would owe the convent such a debt? And how did he guess who I was? But I let none of my confusion show on my face. “What manner of men maraud through the countryside eager to do others harm? Surely there are other, better, targets for them to fight. I hear we are recently overrun with French troops. I would suggest they start with them.”

He narrows his eyes, studying me anew. “How do you not know the nature of the hellequin’s hunt? Have you sprouted from the earth wholly formed, like some miraculous cabbage?”

There is a faint clink of chain mail as he leans forward, eager to impress upon me the seriousness of the situation. “For that is who will be pursuing you if you do not come with me. Hellequin’s hunt.”

A sharp ribbon of unease snakes along my spine, and I must work hard to put a note of disdain in my voice, lest it tremble instead. “You must truly think me wool-witted to believe that, for they are otherworldly creatures, not fashioned of bone and blood. They ride steeds of smoke and moonlight, not the pounding horseflesh that horde was riding.”

“Did they appear wraithlike to you? Did the force of their horses’ hooves sound unearthly?”

“No,” I say, my mind scrambling furiously. “They did not.” The ribbon of unease turns into a cold trickle of fear as all of the nuns’ scoldings and warnings come back to me. Who is to say the nuns’ tales of the hellequin hunting down those who dare to defy Mortain are not real as well? Ismae’s mention of the hellequin that appeared at the Yuletide festivities rises up in my mind.

Which means they could, in truth, be hunting me.

Could my absence at the convent already have been noted? Or in leaving, have I broken some sacred binding that has called the hunt upon me? And if I have, are they to return me to the convent or simply to hunt me down?

Almost as if my thoughts have called the hunt back, I feel a distant rumble that begins in the ground beneath my feet. I glance accusingly at the stranger. “I cry foul,” I say softly.

He gives a single shake of his head as he pushes away from the tree. “I did not call them.” He turns to peer out into the darkness, as if judging their distance. “But you’d best decide what to do swiftly.”

“What are my choices?”

His head swivels around and he pierces me with his black gaze. “Come with me and allow me to protect you from the others, or be hunted.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?”

“Let us just say that I have a good idea what awaits you out there on the open road alone, and I am not certain that you do. And remember”—he flashes a grin that could only be described as morose—“I am a hellequin. I am hunting for redemption as much as for prey. Perhaps saving you will bring me closer to that end. Besides, we are traveling in the same direction.”

In games of politics and maneuvering, Sister Eonette has always claimed it is best to keep one’s enemies close. If the hellequin are really such a threat, then it seems wise to do as he suggests and ride into their midst, keeping my true identity hidden from him, just as he tries to hide me from the hunt. Then, once I have become a part of their routine and earned some small measure of their trust, I can slip away when the opportunity presents itself.

He cocks his ear, listening, then holds out his hand to me. “Now, unless you wish to be caught . . .”

“Very well.” I ignore his hand and turn to pick up my bedroll. While I hastily roll it up, the stranger plucks my saddle from the ground with no more effort than plucking a flower from a bush, then settles it onto Fortuna’s back. She stomps briefly in unease, her ears twitching nervously, before she calms under his touch.

The sound of the approaching riders grows louder, and my heartbeat starts to match the pounding of their hoofbeats.

“We must hurry,” he says.

I slip my quiver over my shoulder, then grab my bow. “I am only waiting for you to get out of my way so I may mount,” I tell him. It is not wholly true, but it gives me some small sense of being in control of a rapidly crumbling situation.

He lifts one mocking brow, then steps away from Fortuna. I ignore his cupped hands and mount without his help, another small but important declaration of how I intend our relationship to progress. Fortuna catches the scent of the approaching riders just then and tosses her head. Before I can ask him what he plans to ride—he is not riding with me on Fortuna!—he moves to the edge of the copse, where his own mount is tied to a tree. He leaps gracefully onto his horse, then wheels the demented-looking beast toward me. In truth, the horse looks as if he has ridden straight from the Underworld itself. His eyes are wild, and his nostrils wide, as if he is taking in all the scents of the night around him. His neck arches proudly and he paws at the ground, eager to be on his way.

And then they are upon us: one of the great horses breaks through the edge of trees surrounding our clearing. Before I can react, the stranger reaches out and grabs my reins. I do not even have time to protest before the jolt forward forces me to grab hold of my saddle lest I tumble off, then both his horse and Fortuna leap forward as the rest of the riders emerge from the trees and surround us. Shadowy black hounds nearly as big as ponies lope along the edges of the pack.

The galloping horses are an unholy sight that raises goose flesh along my arms. They are the color of midnight with churning hooves, their lips and nostrils seeming to glow red with their efforts. They engulf us like a river, swirling around us like water around a boat. We join them, causing barely a ripple.

The riders are as unsettling as their horses. Some wear hooded cloaks, so I cannot see their features. Others are garbed in dark chain mail and boiled leather. One rider has spikes on his vambraces, and another wears a bandolier of knives across his chest. I have an impression of dark eyes and unshaven faces that are fierce with the thrill of the hunt. They do not react to my joining their ranks other than to shift slightly to make room for Fortuna.

I do not know how long we ride—hours, it seems, although time has taken on an almost ghostly form so it might have been only minutes that passed. Every once in a while, the group breaks into four sections and appears to quarter the countryside, looking for prey.

I cannot help but be grateful that they are not hunting me. Or if they are, that they do not yet know it.

W
HEN WE FINALLY SLACKEN OUR
pace, I realize that my rescuer and I have moved toward the front of the pack. He raises his hand in the air, and the hunt slows to a walk. A small knot of hellequin break off from the others to ride forward. “Why are we stopping?” a giant of a man asks. He wears a boiled-leather breastplate and his arms are bare except for long gauntlets that reach almost to his elbows. An ax is strapped to his back, and a long sword affixed to his saddle. His hair is long and flutters faintly in the night breeze. He is utterly terrifying.

“I’m calling a halt for the night,” my rescuer says.

A faint grumble begins among the other riders, building into a growl of discontent.

“But there is at least another hour until dawn!” A tall, lanky youth speaks. He is loose-limbed and fairly bouncing in his saddle, so I assume he was not accustomed to riding before becoming a hellequin. His most riveting features are his easy smile—unusual enough in this group—and his eyes, which are like those of a child who is convinced that everyone has gotten a larger sweetmeat than he has.

A third man, who wears fine armor and is strikingly handsome but for the fact that his eyes seem to hold nothing but emptiness, shoots me an unreadable glance. “It is because of her, isn’t it?”

Slowly, my rescuer turns and looks at the speaker, his manner so chilled that I am surprised frost does not appear on the ground beneath his horse. “It has nothing to do with her. It is because there is nothing out there. If you had not been so caught up in your riding, you would have realized the hounds have not brayed in hours.”

That quiets most of them, although one lone voice in the back is still grumbling, reminding me of nothing so much as a petulant child. “Stay here, and do not speak to anyone,” my rescuer orders me, then rides off to deal with the malcontent. That is when I realize he is not just one of the hellequin, but their leader.

As I wait, the nearest hellequin drift closer. I do not see them move, but become aware that there is less space between us than before. In addition to the giant, the armored knight, and the lanky youth, there is an elegant, sharp-featured man whose face is tinged with the unmistakable arrogance of nobility. He is an exceptional horseman and carries a well-wrought sword at his side and wears fine leather gloves.

To my other side is another truly terrifying figure. He is just as tall as the first giant, who now sits to my right, and even broader across the shoulders. He wears spiked vambraces and an armored breastplate, and in his left hand he carries a mace. His horse wears an armored faceplate, the only one of the hellequins’ horses to do so. It gives him a most unnerving air. Just looking at him calls to mind the hacking of limbs and the scent of blood, and it is all I can do not to shudder.

They say nothing but study me intently, some with hunger and others with dispassion. I force myself not to fidget, but Fortuna, sensing my unease, grows restless beneath me.

Just as I decide it would be safer to move than to obey my order to stay put, the giant to my right, the one with the long hair, speaks. “You’ve nothing to fear. No one will harm you.” He grunts in what can only be disgust. “Not with Balthazaar’s scent all over you.”

His words bring a hot flush of embarrassment to my face and I want to explain how his scent came to be all over me, but that desire wars with the command not to speak with any of the men. Then righteous indignation flares and I want to throw my true identity before them all like a gauntlet and tell them I am one of Mortain’s own and they’d best treat me with respect.

Except, if they are hunting for me, it would be beyond foolish to dangle my identity in front of them like raw meat before a wolf. Instead, I swallow my pride—which burns mightily as it goes down—and try to look like the sort of woman who would allow a man (a hellequin!) to make her his. To distract myself, I turn my attention to the rest of the hunt. While dawn is still a way off, the sky has begun to lighten enough that I can see the whole of them somewhat better than before.

They number between sixty and eighty, all of them men. Some look like outlaws and brigands, unkempt and bearing every manner of weapon. Others are concealed in darkness, their black cloaks and hoods the only things giving them form and substance. A handful of the riders are striking in their beauty, looking almost like the fallen angels the Christian priests speak of. Some look like fallen warriors, rough, scarred, and gruff of manner.