It was so vile, it had to be a joke.
Myal laughed queasily. The men laughed, loud and long, riding around and around him, making his head spin. Then one spurred his horse straight into the pool. The animal looked fearsome as it leaped, eyes rolling, mane flying, the ivory counters of its teeth bared. As the forehoofs hit the water, the rider’s hand whirled up, gripping a cleaver of sword. Myal saw Ciddey’s white face flung back and the sword crashing down on it. He imagined the impact of skin and bone, green-cinder eyes, kissing mouth, with honed excruciating steel. Someone threw a colourless bag over his head and her scream became a long thin whistle, or a long thin wire, and ceased to matter.
He came to, lying face down in a horse’s mane, legs either side in an uncomfortable riding posture, hands securely tied under the beast’s neck.
The horse was running. Two other horses ran, one on each side. The right-hand horse had two riders, the left seemed strangely overcrowded too, but its nearer rider held the reins of Myal’s horse firmly in his fist.
Everything had ended, inevitably, in misery, mistake and injustice.
Surely when they killed the girl, they had become aware she was not a ghost? Maybe that made them more dangerous. Was it her corpse over the second horse? Supposedly, any who lived at all close to such a legend as the Ghyste, would be unreasonably wary of apparitions. Myal should have thought of that, so should Ciddey.
Ciddey....
The idea of her filled him with fright. Not because of her death by the sword, suddenly, but because—because—Could it be these madmen had been correct? Perhaps the sword was holy in some way and could effect exorcism—Myal had heard, even sung, of such things. If she had been dead.... He felt himself on the verge of passing out again, and struggled to keep hold of reality.
“Where are we going?” he asked the men, those courtly riders. The question was familiar. He had asked Dro, the morning he had had the fever, also slung over a horse, the same thing. Dro had not answered. One of the men did, in his fashion.
“It’s a surprise. Excited?”
The horse bounced over a gap in the ground. Myal slid, the instrument slammed him in the spine and the animal’s withers slammed him in the face.
He cursed the instrument with hysterical relief that it was still with him.
Everything else was horrifying and Myal was helpless. He might as well pass out again, there was nothing he could do. The colourless bag swung up once more and he rolled over into it.
“No,” someone said.
Myal’s head was wrenched around. A black fiery juice trickled into his mouth. He swallowed, gagged, swallowed. The horses were static. There was an undeniable sense of arrival. Somewhere.
Myal opened his eyes.
He could not see very far, or very much, from his sideways face-down position, but they seemed to be on some kind of bridge or causeway. Beyond lay open night, towers and turrets of forest shearing away. Forward, there was light.
One of the men bent over Myal, obscuring the limited view completely.
“No, you mustn’t faint anymore.”
“Sorry,” muttered Myal.
“We want you to ride in proudly. There’s no pride for us having caught you if you snivel and swoon and sprawl all over the horse like a bundle of washing.”
“No, I can see that.”
“If you’re good, we’ll let you sit upright.”
“And when we get through the gate, you could shout and thrash about a bit,” said another, smoothly. “The notion being that you’re brave, and furious at capture. Do you see?”
“Then we’ll cuff you, beat you into submission. It’ll look fine. So will you.”
“I’d rather—” said Myal. A voice cut him short.
“I’ve a better idea,” said the voice.
He could not twist his head any farther, could not see. Then he no longer needed to.