Dinah was terrified of the Hornhooves. Wardley swung open the pen, revealing the three Hornhooves—two white and one massive black beast. Morte, her father’s steed. He rode in on a devil steed. The creatures backed into the corner of their pen, snorting angrily, pawing the ground until it began to crack and break under their massive weight. Morte towered over the other two Hornhooves, a colossal figure of glistening black muscle, more like a dragon than a horse. His hooves were larger than Dinah’s head and covered with hundreds of bone spikes—perfect for impaling a head, knee, or torso.
Dinah’s knowledge of Hornhooves ran through her head; they were not just faithful steeds—they were bloodthirsty creatures, warriors of their own choosing. They loved killing and hunting and death. In their battle frenzy, a strong Hornhoov could kill forty men. There was a painting of Morte in her father’s study, rearing up before a Yurkei warrior, the heads of his fellow tribesmen decorating his hooves as her father raised the Heartsword from astride his back. This was the animal that Wardley wanted her to ride.
“No,” Dinah started looking around, bordering on hysteria. “There must be a place for me to hide, maybe in the hay, maybe in the rafters.”
Wardley grabbed her roughly and lifted her off the ground, his arms wrapped around her waist. Morte had backed into a corner and was snorting angrily, boiling-hot steam hissing out of his giant nostrils, his black eyes wide with confusion. The steam could scald skin.
“Shh . . . shhh there . . . ,” Wardley approached Morte slowly, still holding onto Dinah flailing in his arms. Morte tolerated Wardley, since he had fed him every morning for years as the stable squire. The animal’s eyes focused warily on Dinah. She could hear commotion outside the stable now, the clanking of boots and armor, the yelling of townspeople.
“Damn it, Dinah, GO NOW. Step up. Now, NOW!”
Her hands trembled as Wardley hoisted her up to his chest, her hands on his shoulders. With a rough shove, he vaulted Dinah onto Morte’s back with so much force that she almost ended up on the ground on the other side. Morte snorted and backed into the stall door. Dinah let out a cry. She was kneeling now on his back, an ocean of glistening black muscle and bone. He was so wide—twice the width of Speckle. Her legs couldn’t fit around him.
“How do I . . . ?”
“Straddle his neck, not his back.”
She edged forward and placed her legs on either side of Morte’s neck as he nipped down at her with his sharp white teeth. He bucked once, twice, and Dinah clung desperately to his mane to keep her balance.
“He’s restless. Your father kept him locked up inside for years. He’ll run for you.”
Wardley threw her bag at her. Dinah wrapped the straps over her shoulders. The noise outside grew louder. Cards were flooding into the stable; they would be on them in minutes.
“Come with me!” she cried.
“I can’t leave,” answered Wardley, avoiding her eyes. “Not yet. Someone has to protect your people when you are gone. What about Harris? And Emily?”
Dinah felt a whisper of doubt. “I don’t think I can do this without you.” Morte bucked again. Wardley reached up and put his hand on Dinah’s shin. He was barely able to reach her because of Morte’s towering height.
“I will find you. Head for the Twisted Wood. You should be able to hide there. I promise Dinah, I’ll find you, you have my word.” Morte reared up and kicked his front legs, narrowly missing Wardley’s face with a razor-sharp spike. Dinah looked down at Wardley. He did not seem afraid. He believed in her. It made her feel stronger, even if just for a second.
“Wardley, I—”
“Stab me.”
“WHAT?”
Wardley handed her his sword, inlaid with a ruby pommel. “Take this, leave me your rusty one. Now, stab my shoulder.”
He patted the fleshy part of his upper arm. “Hurry up. Gods, Dinah, don’t think about it! STAB ME!”
With a cry, Dinah brought the point of her sword down into Wardley’s arm, feeling his muscle separate and tear. Crimson rushed out of him, his blood, the boy she loved, splashing onto the ground, splashing onto her hand. Wardley let out an agonizing scream of pain.
“Arrggghh . . . Dinah, you didn’t have to do it so well!” He staggered out of the pen and began throwing open one stall door after another with his other hand. Dinah heard voices from the outside ring of stalls. The Cards were making their way in. They were trapped. She would die here, Wardley as well. Here in this stinking pen, in the scents of manure and hay. Morte was almost dancing now, his hooves coming up and down, excited by Wardley’s blood. Dinah looked over at Wardley, unlocking every stall door he could. She told herself to remember the curve of his brow, the color of his hair, the tilt of his spine . . . but she didn’t have time.
A Heart Card burst through one of the stall doors. His eyes widened with fear when he saw Dinah on Morte.
“She’s in here! The Princess! She’s on the King’s—”
He didn’t have time to finish. Wardley had pushed the rusty blade through his back. The man fell face first into a drinking trough. Wardley glanced at Dinah, their eyes meeting.
“It’s time.”
Dinah opened her mouth to object. She heard men shouting orders outside the stalls. Morte began to pound the ground with his huge hooves.
“I can’t, Wardley. . . .”