CHAPTER 5
I was no stranger to being chased. I'd fled from my share of angry shopkeepers and incensed guards, not to mention the odd mob. But those occasions had been a breeze compared to the hurricane I found myself in that night.
It was late when the hunt began in earnest, the moon near its apex. It was hard at first to separate the weaving torches from the conflagration of Reb Panza. It was hard to see anything much. The wind was from the north, and it wasn't long before a great cloud of stinking smoke had enshrouded us and the area all around. My eyes smarted and wept – though in truth, that was caused by more than just the smoke. I had a sick feeling rooted in my stomach, half numb horror and half disbelief. Why had they destroyed Reb Panza? It made no sense. Had the people been in it when it burned, those giggling children and their ancient guardians, the patriarch with his preposterous moustaches? And there was another question, even more urgent-seeming, which my mind kept returning to despite my efforts.
Had it been my fault?
Saltlick laboured on beneath me, feet pounding the dusty road, breath escaping in violent gasps. I'd lost track of how long he'd been running. I couldn't imagine what was going through his mind, or what pressures were tearing at his body. Behind us, that chain of fires commanded the near horizon. All I could see were flames weaving in the foggy darkness; but my imagination was eager to complete the scene. I saw a hundred riders, arrows notched, scimitars bared, grim determination on their faces. I saw their leader urging them on, screaming threats of grotesque punishment and promises of outrageous reward to the man whose blade first drank our blood. I saw my death encroaching, inescapably.
The wind rose, the smoke began to break up. The air still stank of charred grass, and at first retained a hazy thickness, lending an unreality to everything. Then a light rain began, and it was as though we'd been travelling within a chamber of grimy glass that was suddenly washed clean. The stars seemed very bright, the trees and rocks glistened. The bobbing torches behind us stood out like pinheads on a black velvet cushion.
That sight brought me back to the moment. I told myself that the men pursuing us must be insane, that they'd set fire to Reb Panza for no other reason than a love of destruction. It need only be the work of one madman, in fact, and the rest were simply following orders. There was no reason to think it had anything to do with me. Moaradrid's army probably burned villages every day. The best I could do would be to escape and carry word of their atrocity.
The issue settled, I tried to get my bearings. I wasn't sure how long had passed since we'd left the village. It might have been an hour or four. We didn't seem much nearer to the distant lights of Muena Palaiya. The town would have to be our destination now, if we could possibly make it so far. We were travelling southeast towards it, though the road continued to twist back and forth, never running straight for long.
Thanks to that serpentine course, a strange relationship began to form between our pursuers and us as the night wore on. They would draw very close, but be below us. Boulders, scrub bushes and loose shale littered the steep slopes between steps of the road. Their horses stood no hope of cutting the distance that way. Archers attempted shots, and some flew close enough that I heard them whistle by. I was convinced one of those shafts would plunge through my body, or wreak some catastrophic injury on Saltlick.
Yet it was probably at those times we were safest. Occasionally a glimmer of orange would be extinguished, as a rider tested the incline and went tumbling into the dirt.
At other times, they relied on their advantage of speed. There could be no doubt they had one. Even with Saltlick travelling at his fastest, they still gained steadily.
How long could the horses keep it up for? They'd been galloping for hours, and their brief break at Reb Panza hadn't been enough to rest them properly. We had a slim advantage there. But then horses were built for speed and stamina, and giants probably weren't.
By the time I got my answer, dawn was smudging the horizon like a drunken whore's rouge. Saltlick had slowed to a jog, and was weaving between the verges of the road. His pace had been slackening for the last two hours, and I'd been helpless to do anything except hang on and mutter occasional words of encouragement. The riders, forced by the expediency of not running their mounts to death, were slowing too. Even the archers had lost some of their fervour. The chase would have seemed comical to an observer: a bend in the road would bring us within sight of each other, a few arrows would be fired half-heartedly, only to clatter into the dirt behind us, and another turn would separate us once more.
Nevertheless, nothing in the situation made me hopeful. Saltlick would grind to a halt eventually, and I'd have to continue, alone and on foot. My pursuers were sure to be faster, were vastly more numerous, and probably weren't half crippled with bruises. I didn't stand a chance.
Then, as we turned yet another corner, an alternative suggested itself. A large estate stood directly ahead, back from the road, a two-storey villa surrounded by corrals and outhouses. It was one of the many prosperous farms that clustered around Muena Palaiya. A line of lemon trees stood between it and the road and behind I could see fields of corn, with orchards mounting the hillside beyond. Either its owners were already in the fields or they were still lazing in bed while their labourers did the work, because it was past dawn and no lights shone.
I noticed other details. A hay barn extended from the right of the house, and abutting that were two fenced areas. The first, nearest the house, contained a herd of somnolent cattle. A pair of stallions stood in the second, taking an early breakfast on strands of grass that had slipped between the slats.
"Saltlick, head towards that barn," I said.
He slowed a little, and tried to angle his head to look at me. Finding it impossible, he mumbled something instead.
"What?"
This time he said it more clearly: "Run."
His voice was hoarse, and as painstaking as a dying man's last gasp. I realised how utterly exhausted he must be. He hadn't lost his knack of communicating much with a minimum of syllables, though.
"It's all right," I said. "They won't catch us. I have a plan."
Saltlick didn't seem very sure, but he took the turn-off between the lemon trees. He loped through the low-walled courtyard fronting the villa and came to a halt outside the barn. I clambered down the netting without waiting for him to kneel and dropped the last distance to the dirt, gasping as the impact jolted tortured muscles.
"You see the hay, Saltlick? You have to bury yourself in it, as quickly as you can. Then stay quiet, whatever happens."
"Hide?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yes, hide. Stay hidden as long as possible. They'll chase me. They won't be looking for you. The moment they've gone past, you head up into the hills. I'll come back and find you, as soon as I can."
I've always been an excellent liar. Still, something caught in my throat as I spoke those last words. To regain the initiative I shouted, "Hurry, Saltlick! Do it now, or we're both dead!"
I'd estimated we had about a minute's lead. Most of that was already gone. Our pursuers would turn the last corner at any moment. So though there were other things I might have said, I neglected them in favour of turning and sprinting from the barn. I momentarily forgot the battered state of my body and vaulted the first fence, ran through the first paddock – drawing lows of alarm from the cattle – and clambered over the second fence.
The stallions turned from their meal and eyed me distrustfully. I slowed to a jog, hoping that would seem less threatening. Even so, they backed away skittishly when I came close, and shared a neigh of distrust. I had no time for niceties. I kept moving forward. The worst possibility was that one of them would panic and kick my head off, and I wouldn't be any deader than if Moaradrid's troops found me.
Luckily, they were well broken. They merely continued to neigh anxiously and retreat. I didn't have time for that either. I darted forward and swung up onto the back of the nearest before he had time to react, then clasped my arms around his neck and dug in with my knees as he tried to shake me off. It was a brief, half-hearted effort. The horse really had been broken, probably with more than a little cruelty. Though he was clearly on the verge of panic, he quickly accepted that he had no say in his own destiny.
I urged him towards the corral's gate with a sharp tap of my heels. I could hear the rumble of hooves in the near distance. When I looked, the lemon trees obscured my view. I reached for the looped rope that served as a latch, pulled it free, and gave the gate a push. It swung outward on well-oiled hinges. My mount seemed calmer, as though comforted by the familiar circumstances. I urged him through the gap, glanced over my shoulder – and my heart lurched up into my mouth.
I could see past the line of trees now, along the road, all the way to the corner, where twenty or more riders were tumbling into view, amidst a whirling sea of dust. I knew they saw me too. For an instant, it was as though the distance between us was non-existent. They were near enough that I could make out details of armour and weapons, even the expressions on their faces.
They looked pleased to see me, on the whole.
The moment we were clear of the gate I rapped hard on my mount's flanks, and shouted something indistinct in his ear. He surged forward, bewildered and terrified, narrowly avoided a tree, and then swerved when he struck the road, almost hurling me loose. An arrow thunked into the ground between his front hooves. Another ricocheted from the road ahead. Suddenly they were everywhere, lightning of wood and metal spitting up dirt in every direction. Something tore across my shoulder; it felt as though someone had carved the meat with a hot knife. I screamed, and my horse reacted with another terrified burst of speed. I didn't dare look at my wound. I lay as flat as I could, my face mashed into his mane, blind to everything but a small, blurred patch of road ahead. I had no idea what kind of lead we had. In my mind's eye, they were right upon us. At any moment, I'd be so riddled with arrows that passers-by would mistake me for some deformed, leafless bush.
The seconds passed. I remained alive. In fact, the cascade seemed to be slackening. Moments continued to stumble by, and with each, the rain of arrows lessened, from tempest to shower to drizzle. Finally, their clatter vanished altogether, to be replaced by distant shouts and curses.
I dared a glance over my injured shoulder.
I'd forgotten how the speed of our chase had been slackening for hours. It all came flooding back with the joyous sight of a horde of riders massed behind me, each trying to drive his horse to something faster than a trot. They had no hope of catching us. An expert archer on peak form would have had difficulty hitting us across that rapidly expanding distance. No one seemed inclined to humiliate himself by trying.
"Fools for ever crossing Easie Damasco!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.
Not only did that make my wound hurt more, it shocked my steed into another panic. Once again, I barely resisted being thrown. I realised I was better off concentrating on my course and on staying in one piece.
I couldn't help noticing one last detail, though, before I turned back. A detachment was peeling off from the main column, in the direction of the barn.
My wound didn't seem severe. That isn't to say it didn't hurt astonishingly, or that I was any less appalled to have received it.
The cut on my shoulder was really just a scratch, the arrow having grazed the flesh and carried on, but it was bleeding profusely and looked worse than it was. I could still move the arm, though it was already starting to stiffen.
I took a calculated risk on the lead I'd regained and drew my horse up by the side of the road. I climbed down, trying to favour my hurt shoulder. Pain still jarred through me when my feet struck the ground, from that and my countless bruises. I cried out, and a flight of crows erupted, cawing madly, from the roadside foliage. My horse winced, but thankfully didn't try to bolt. He seemed to have exhausted his supply of fright, and become indifferent to the whole business.
I cut a strip from the hem of my cloak and used it to make a tourniquet around my shoulder. It was next to impossible to tie the knot, or once tied to tighten it, and what I ended up with was little more than an embarrassing accessory. I could hear the rattle of hooves again by then, closer than I'd like, so I swung back onto the horse and drove him to a canter. Feeling suddenly sorry for him, I tried to be gentler, and even whispered some encouraging words in his ear. Perhaps my concern was misdirected, but I didn't feel like wondering what had happened to Saltlick.
It wasn't long before we'd outdistanced our pursuers once more. To my relief, I saw that we'd also come almost to Muena Palaiya. Though it was a while since I'd been there I remembered the area well. The road, having run roughly southeast for the last few miles, was forced aside by a cliff of grey-white stone and baked red mud, the western rim of the mountains. It continued in the shadow of the rock face, while the land sloped steadily down on our right. A line of stubby trees cut off my view, which otherwise would have been spectacular in the pale dawn light.
Not that I felt much like sightseeing. Muena Palaiya meant the end of my acquaintance with the horse, which I was starting to grow attached to and – perhaps through slight delirium – had nicknamed "Lucky". There are few more serious crimes than horse-thievery in the Castoval; a man can steal another's wife or rob his gold and still hope for leniency from the law, but if he's caught on a horse that isn't his he may as well lock himself up and throw away the key. It wouldn't pay for me to try to ride into Muena Palaiya.