“We need to go vey-we fast,” he whispered to Naraspur. “Do you un-da-stand? I’m gonna be holding on fo’ my life, so you’ll have to handle most of the stee-wing. But we gonna want to go that way.” He pointed up the river where, just as Malcolm had said, an early morning mist grew. “You paying attention, wight? I’m just saying this because any way that isn’t up that bank will get us both killed. You don’t want that, do you? Do you even un-da-stand Whunic?”
He saw no movement in the camp. The fires were down to embers with no one near them. Most everyone was asleep, lying under blankets in the open or in tents. Gifford’s bare feet hugged the horse’s body as best they could, and as he reached the far side of the bridge, he lay down low and once more hugged Naraspur’s neck. Now that he was to it, now that he faced the end, he felt a sickness in his stomach. He was scared.
I really don’t want to die.
He thought once more of Roan, of her in the smithy as some monstrous Fhrey broke in. He might not kill her. Why would he? She wouldn’t fight. She’d cower. No. He’d take her and make her his…slave.
Gifford’s teeth clenched. “Wun,” he told Naraspur, and gave her a kick with his feet.
He was glad for the strength in his arms as the animal lunged forward. Another kick sent the horse from that already familiar but agonizing trot to a gallop. He held tight, squeezing with arms and legs. The gallop was better than the trot, smoother, but the speed was terrifying.
Naraspur cleared the bridge but was still heading due east—she hadn’t been listening at all! He had to turn her. Risking a horrible fall, he drew his left hand up and, grasping the rein on that side, pulled her head toward the riverbank, aiming north.
Turn!
With reluctance, the horse finally got the hint and left the road. A moment later, he was in the elven camp, dashing between tents and smoldering fires. Gifford didn’t look. No point in it. He stayed low, hugging tight to Naraspur’s neck. He heard shouts and a horn. Something hit them. Something hot. He saw a burst of light. Smothering warmth enveloped them both. No pain, just a sound like a flock of birds taking to the sky. While Gifford thought Naraspur had been running at top speed, at that moment he discovered he was sorely mistaken. Leaping over a sleeping Fhrey, she bolted forward, faster than he ever thought possible. The rhythmic thrump, thrump of her hooves became peals of thunder as she advanced to a full, eye-watering sprint.
After the initial jolt, Gifford found it easy to stay on her back. They were moving at an impossible speed, and yet there wasn’t any bouncing nor jerking—just a steady back and the rushing wind. Nevertheless, Gifford clung to Naraspur in life-loving terror. They were going too fast for him to see grass, or rocks, or dirt; everything was a smear of lights and darks. Gifford was moving so fast he could have been flying.
One day you’ll have to run faster than any man ever has.
Two more bursts of fiery light exploded around him, which only served to drive Naraspur faster. He could hear her snorting, breathing hard, driven by fire and fear. With the river gorge on her left, she couldn’t go that way, and the attacks coming from the right drove her north.
More shouts erupted, and everything became incredibly cold. Ice tried to form around them but faded as quickly as it appeared. Then wind swirled, kicking up dust and tearing down nearby tents. Elven soldiers raced toward them, but they were too late to catch the panicked Naraspur, who understood quite well the idea of running for her life.
Spears were thrown. At that speed, the odds of hitting him were impossible—he thought—only these weren’t men. The Fhrey were maddeningly accurate. Strangely, this saved them both. A miss might have killed Naraspur, but of the five who tried, all aimed for Gifford, and all hit him square. Four struck Gifford’s back, and one exceedingly well aimed javelin hit his head. The blow rang off his helm, but Gifford continued to hug tight to Naraspur, both arms around her neck as she flew.
The shouting grew fainter, their course less erratic. And gradually, little by little, Naraspur slowed down. Soon she was back to a trot and finally a walk.
Gifford opened his eyes and looked up.
He was in a field illuminated by the rising sun. He was also alone.
Looking back over the rump of the horse, he didn’t see the elven camp. He’d made it through.
Ha! I survived!
Then he cursed his idiocy.
“We need to keep wunning!” he shouted at Naraspur, who was puffing for air. “Maybe not quite so fast, but mo’ than this.”
He gave her a few minutes to rest, and then turned her toward the rising sun and kicked her once more. Off they raced across the high plain toward the High Spear Valley and Perdif—riding as the first rays of morning light filled the sky.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Drawing Swords
So often I have heard that war is a noble and necessary thing, the answer to many problems. But I have found that when war becomes a reality, peace becomes the noble and necessary thing because there is no problem greater than war.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Malcolm walked into Nyphron’s bedchamber as the lord of the Rhist was using the chamber pot.