Princess of Thorns (8 page)

“You obviously need a keeper,” he says. “It’s probably best if we stay together.”

I bite my tongue, knowing better than to argue with someone who’s given me my way.

“Come on,” he says, nudging Alama forward. “If we’re lucky, the ogres will take the steep trail instead of coming up through the woods and we’ll have a nice head start.”

Niklaas clucks his tongue and Alama takes off toward the ridge road at a trot, with Button close behind. I give Button his head—knowing he can see much better than I can—and concentrate on staying low over his back, avoiding being swatted by the branches that smother this portion of the trail.

I stroke his neck and tell him how grateful I am that he’s ready to ride again after such a long day. He whinnies his appreciation and, by the time we reach the ridge, seems ready for more adventure, breaking into a canter to catch up with Alama.

He’s a wonderful horse, much more amiable than Spirit, my horse back home. But Spirit is the offspring of a mainland horse and a wild island pony and has the feral, stormy blood of everything on the island of Malai, the Fey paradise hidden in the shadow of larger volcanic islands off the southern coast of Norvere. Everything on Malai—from the animals to the ancient fairy plants to the Fey who call the island home—is wild.

I know that’s why I’ve grown up as untamed as I have. Back home, I’d think nothing of falling asleep near a jungle waterfall and waking up when it suited me—fairy wards protect the island from observation by the ogre queen, and there are no enemies or predators to worry about aside from a few scuttlebugs as big as my hand—but I’m not back home. I have to make smarter choices, and allowances for things like exhaustion. I’ll be no good to Jor if I run myself into the ground. There is still time before autumn creeps in. At least three weeks, maybe more, and it’s better to use the time I have wisely than to rush and make foolish mistakes.

“We’ll both have a long rest as soon as we’re safe,” I whisper to Button, who pricks his ears back at me but doesn’t slow down.

We ride for another half hour through the silver night, the cool light of the moon transforming the road into a more magical place than it was during the day. With the constellations spinning dreamily overhead and dew-kissed spiderwebs glistening amidst the leaves, it’s almost impossible to believe that a battalion of ogres is pursuing us.

It seems even more unlikely that we’ll meet anyone on the road, but not forty minutes into our ride I hear hoofbeats from down the ridge.

“Niklaas, wait!” I call out.

Niklaas pulls Alama to a stop, and I rein Button in beside her, pulling my staff from its sling. “Do you hear that?”

He nods but doesn’t speak, his entire body tensed with listening.

“More ogres?” I ask, too anxious to keep still.

Niklaas waits another moment before shaking his head. “Not enough riders to be ogres; moving too fast to be innocent travelers.”

“Boughtswords.” I curse beneath my breath.

“That would be my guess.” He turns Alama toward the woods to the left of the road. “Follow me and keep moving. If they get too close, I’ll send you ahead. If we’re separated, go to the grove.”

I follow him into the forest. There is no trail to follow, only a steep decline and loose dirt where the plants of the forest floor have begun to lose the battle against the eroding hillside. Button hesitates, but I urge him on with a squeeze of my thighs, praying to all the gods my mother warned me not to believe in that our luck improves. If one of the horses falter or we meet more enemies on the low road, we’ll be killed or captured for certain and I will never be able to thank Niklaas for his help.

Or to insist he find another princess to dream about. I may admire his spirit—when he isn’t driving me mad with frustration—but I will never be his girl.

I will never be anyone’s girl but my own.

The darkness beneath the trees is alive with dangers—low limbs, hidden rocks, horse-crippling holes in the ground—and those are only the things I’m certain are there. There could be other perils as well, unseen enemies lurking in the night. I’m not sure how many breeds of carrion-eating creatures there are, but even three or four is too many.

The forest could literally be crawling with Ekeeta’s spies.

I can’t get the damned buzzards out of my mind, the way they crowded around Ror like Reformers at a witch hunt, ready to tear the thing they fear to shreds. It was unnatural. And those cursed things could be following us, flying overhead, keeping Ror in their mistress’s sight, leading the ogres straight to our location.

We have to reach the low road. We have to make it to the next fork beyond the mill before riders—ogre or mercenary—block our way.

“Faster,” I hiss, knowing Ror will hear me. He heard the riders approaching from down the ridge road before I did, he must hear that we’ve acquired a tail.

It’s only a horse or two, but a horse or two with a skilled archer in the saddle is all that’s required to put an end to us both. And only a horse or two behind could mean the rest of the Boughtswords are taking an easier path, aiming to be ready if the archers fail and we’re spit out onto the road.

At least he isn’t alone.
I urge Alama to pick up her pace, though the tension in her neck leaves no doubt she thinks we’re going plenty fast already. The only luck we’ve had is that we stayed together. At least if we have to fight, it will be two against ten or twenty.

Or forty or fifty, if the ogres take the low road, instead of the more direct route to the petrified forest.

“Come on, girl, come on,” I murmur. Alama hits even ground and pours on a burst of speed, flowing like water over the obstacles in our path—leaping a fallen tree, crashing into a stream on the other side, and pushing on without a moment’s hesitation, her sides heaving beneath my calves.

I stay low and hold on tight, grateful for my saddle, fearing any second I’ll hear Ror lose his seat behind me. It’s too dark for a ride like this one. I can’t see what’s coming in order to prepare for it. Only the barest moonlight penetrates the foliage, and the ground is shrouded in darkness. Alama’s abrupt shifts in direction come out of nowhere. I have only a split second between feeling her muscles tense and the instant she springs into the air to prepare myself for her jumps.

By the time we reach the base of the ridge, I’ve nearly fallen more than once, but when we hit even ground, I no longer hear riders behind us. On the flats, Alama opens up, charging toward the low road as if she understands how much every moment matters. It’s only then—with my horse devouring ground like a racing dog drugged on Elsbeth’s Rose—that I relax for the whisper of a second.

A whisper is all it takes.

Alama darts to the left and I fly to the right. She shrieks as I leave the saddle; I hit the ground before I can make a sound, shoulder slamming into the dirt before I go rolling across sticks and stones. Something jagged rips through my shirt and blood runs from torn flesh near my hip, but I know instantly that the wound isn’t bad. I’ll survive, so long as I’m not run over before I get back on my feet.

Ror is close behind. If his horse doesn’t see me, I could take a hoof to the head and die before I set eyes on Aurora, three weeks before my birthday, the gods’ punishment for attempting to change my fate.

With a groan muffled by my startled ribs, I draw my knees to my chest, rolling over until my forehead is pressed into the dirt. I do my best to walk my feet beneath me, but I’m not even halfway there when hoofbeats rattle the ground. I try to call out, but my cry emerges as a croak I know Ror can’t have heard.

I’m squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my jaw, bracing for impact and praying the beast will stomp me someplace survivable, when Button slows and the horse lets out a deeper version of Alama’s startled whinny.

A moment later Ror is beside me. “Niklaas!” He grabs me beneath the armpits and heaves me upright, summoning another gravelly cry from my throat as my spine protests the sudden movement. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“F-fine.” The word becomes a cough as my chest releases the breath it was holding captive.

“I thought you’d been shot. I thought—”

“Get Alama,” I say, struggling to stand. “Before she runs off.”

“She’s stopped up ahead.” Ror shoves his shoulder under my arm, helping me stagger to my feet before reaching back to grab Button’s reins. “She’s too sweet on you to run off.”

I look up, searching the dark wood ahead. I hear Alama’s swift breath but can’t make out so much as her shadow. “You can see her?”

“She’s there. By the double tree. Can you ride?”

“Yes. Help me over. Hurry, the other riders aren’t far behind.” I wince as Ror’s hand wraps around my waist, brushing against where the skin has torn.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, sliding his fingers higher on my ribs. “Are you—”

“It’s nothing. The bruises from the fall will be worse.” I try to shift my weight away, but a flash of pain in my hip make me reach for Ror again, wrapping my arm around his narrow waist.

He flinches and pulls my arm back to his shoulders. “It’s easier for me to bear your weight this way. Watch your step. Big rock.”

I stare at the ground but can’t make out the rock’s outline until we’re on top of it. I can feel Ror’s staff snug in its sling beneath my arm, so I know it isn’t the stick he’s using to test the ground, which begs the question “How did you see that? From so far away?”

“I don’t know. Back home the girls always beat the boys at hide-and-seek when we played at night,” he says, clearing his throat as we reach Alama’s side. “But of the boys, I did the best. Do you need help getting up?”

“No, I can do it.” But when I try to pull myself into the saddle I find my left side unwilling to cooperate with my right and my torso too stiff to bend.

“Let me help.” Ror grabs me around the legs and shoves his shoulder into my rear end, giving me enough of a boost that I’m able to slide my leg over Alama’s back with a pitiful groan.

“You’d better take the lead,” I say, wincing as I reach down to rub Alama’s withers in comforting circles, thanking her for stopping. “If we find trouble on the road, you’re better equipped to fight. I’ll do what I can, but—”

“If it comes to a fight, we’ll lose, with your sword or without it,” Ror says, vaulting onto Button’s back. “Stay close, and I’ll try to find a path through any resistance. The mercenaries have been riding all day and the ogres breed their horses for sustained speed, not short sprints. If we can get past them, we should be able to outpace either group and find a place to hide.”

“All right,” I say, knowing he’s right. The Kanvasola-trained fighter in me shouts that we should make a stand and fight to the death, regardless of our odds, but the survivor in me knows better. Honor is well and good, but sometimes it’s more important to do what it takes to stay alive.

Ror leads the way, setting a swift pace, but not quite as swift as the one that led to my fall. Still, we stay ahead of our pursuers and, not twenty minutes from where I fell, emerge onto a clear stretch of the low road lit by blue moonlight. A glance in either direction reveals we are alone, with not an ogre or a mercenary in sight.

Ror glances over his shoulder with a relieved smile.

“Let’s not put our good shoes on yet,” I say, though I can’t help but return his grin as I urge Alama into a gallop down the road. Every hoof-fall sends a jolt through my aching body, but breathing is easier and my voice carries clearly through the still night.

“We’ll turn south at the fork and go into the water beneath the first bridge,” I say when Button pulls even with Alama, the pair of them running side by side like they’ve been traveling companions for years. “The water should be low this time of year. We can walk the horses up the bank and slip past anyone on the road.”

Ror nods as he leans forward, shifting his weight until he seems to hover, weightless, above Button’s back. He adjusts so perfectly to the horse’s movement that he becomes a part of the creature, like a centaur from the ancient stories.

Legends say the ogres hunted the centaur race to extinction in their lust for the creatures’ flesh, enchanted meat that gave the ogres extended life, allowing them to survive until the race of man grew plentiful enough to feed their hunger.

In those times—so long ago man still spoke the language of the beasts—the ogres looked very different. They were giants covered in hair from head to foot, with sharp claws and sharper teeth and bulbous eyes that glowed at night, transfixing any man unfortunate enough to encounter them in the dark. But as centuries passed and humans gained power over fire and forged weapons with which to fend off their predators, the ogres began to shrink, growing slimmer and softer, coming to resemble the humans they hunted, to use deception to hunt their prey when brute strength was no longer sufficient.

And when that trick, too, began to fail them, they stole magic from the human witches they consumed and learned to feed on human souls, to leave a corpse behind and no blood on their hands, no way to prove it was an ogre who killed the one you love.

They are relentless in their quest for survival, and have already outlived every creature but the Fey by several centuries. Ror wasn’t foolish when he ran to hide from the slightest hint of ogre presence today, but hiding was too little, too late. We both need to be more careful, beginning with making it more difficult for Ekeeta’s creatures to spot the boy with the golden warrior’s knot atop his head.

“Wait,” I call as the bridge comes into sight.

Ror reins Button in, walking the horse back to where I’ve stopped, while I dig into my saddlebag and pull out my tightly rolled oilcloth cloak. It’s not heavy enough to offer warmth—I bring it for protection from the rain—but it has a hood that should more than cover Ror’s small head.

“Put this on before we go down to the river,” I say, handing it over. “Cover as much of yourself as you can. Hopefully that will make things harder for Ekeeta’s spies.”

“I should have asked if you had something sooner.” Ror wraps the cloak around his narrow shoulders. It’s so large that it hangs past his waist to cover his knees and a good portion of Button’s rump. “I had a cloak of my own, but I lost it at the mercenary camp.” He pulls the hood forward, completely obscuring his features. “How’s this?”

“You’ve got a black hole for a face. It’s good.” I nudge Alama forward.

Button falls in beside, innocent of the fact that his rider now resembles the headless demons said to bear the plague into villages in their saddlebags.

“What?” Ror tugs the hood even lower. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re ominous-looking is all,” I say. “Like a plague rider. Or Death’s little brother.”

“Really?” Ror’s laughs drifts from the dark hole where his face should be, sending a prickle up my neck. “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, Niklaaaaasssss,” Ror hisses in a voice that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Death has not come for you tonight.”

“Stop that.” I shudder in spite of myself and urge Alama to move faster, past ready to be off the road and beneath the bridge.

“Why?” There’s a wicked merriment in Ror’s tone that makes his “Death” voice even more disturbing. “Death only wantssss to be friendsssss.”

“There’s something damaged in that head of yours,” I say, leading the way down the rock-littered incline on the south side of the bridge, holding my breath as Alama skips through the loose gravel to land lightly on the hard-packed dirt and larger rocks of the riverbank. Come the winter rains, this sturdy blue clay will be underwater, but for now it is the perfect makeshift road. The clay is too hard to take prints easily and the rocks should help conceal any trail we do leave behind.

“But has Death not saved your life tonight?” Ror asks as Button dances onto the bank. “Did I not shove your immense backside into your saddle? I shouldn’t scaaaaaare you.”

“Keep it up and you’re going to scaaaaare the horses,” I say.

Alama nickers in agreement, making Ror laugh as we set the animals to walking north, giving them a rest from the breakneck pace now that we’re off the road. We’re not out of danger yet—there’s always the chance the ogres will check the river—but it’s obvious we both feel safer down here, with the low water burbling over round stones, muffling the sound of our passage.

“And my backside is hardly immense for a Kanvasol prince,” I say. “
I’m
the runt back home. My brothers were all a hand or two taller.”

“Were?” Ror finally abandons his Death voice. “Did something happen to them?”

I open my mouth to lie, but for some reason the words won’t come. Maybe I’m too tired. Or maybe Ror has simply become enough of a friend that it feels wrong to lie to his face—even when I can’t see it.

“I’d rather not talk about my brothers,” I say. “It’s … a painful thing.”

We travel in silence for a moment, the only sounds the song of the river and the soft clop of the horses’ hooves, before Ror says, “I was only joking, you know. You’re not immense; I’m a runt, like you said. I’m only glad I was able to lift you.”