“He’ll know we’re not taking the Kashe Road,” Samarkar said. “We’ll go west at the first opportunity. There are more trails open in summer. We can lose my brother’s men among the mountains.” She looked at Temur. “We can lose my brother’s men among the mountains?”
“Get us to the hills,” he said, a pang of determination sharp in his chest, “and I will get us to the steppe.”
“Ride,” Payma said. “And hope the mountain hawks are hungry.”
* * *
Samarkar and the others rode through the day and into the long twilight of the mountains, stopping to rest and water the horses briefly in the darkness after sunset. When their eyes had adjusted to the starlit brightness of the night, they mounted again—Temur lifting Payma into her saddle over her protests, when he saw that she could barely stand on her bloodied feet—and let the horses choose their way among the stones of the narrow, treacherous road.
Samarkar was exquisitely aware that each of their lives depended on the sure hooves and good instincts of their mounts. Fortunately, it seemed their forced trust was warranted. Even Buldshak, prone as she was to snorting and staring at nothing, dropped her head close to the trail and descended step-by-step with meticulous surefootedness.
And so they proceeded, exhausted but moving, barely refreshed by the little sleep they’d snatched, until the sky paled once more and a little more light filtered around the black shapes of unfamiliar mountains.
“Tonight we have to sleep,” Samarkar said, as they came to a sharp switchback curve. “Or we will die of stupidity before morning.”
Temur tugged his sleeves down as if to cover cold hands. “I know—”
A stone clattered down the slope behind them. Temur reined his bay mare to the inside of the road, away from a steep drop. In the shadow of several large boulders, he turned. Samarkar heard him hiss, “Go! Run!”
She gave Buldshak her head, and the mare broke into a canter, sharp and sure. It was faster than Samarkar would have traveled on the narrow road, but then these were not her feet beneath them, and the steppe ponies were nimble and strong. Behind, the mule fought the lead line for a moment before falling in, and Samarkar heard the tattoo of Payma’s mount’s hooves accelerating.
She was glad of Buldshak’s speed when the first arrow shattered on the rock beside her. Samarkar crouched in the saddle, head ducked, curled in as if to make herself part of the mare’s neck. Her first thought was to fling up a shield, a wall of dazzling light and hot wind that would deflect the arrows as they fell. But the dim light and speed were her allies–surely it would take an archer of incredible abilities to strike her by anything other than luck in this light while firing at a downward angle.
More arrows fell around her—volleys of three or four, rather than a steady rain. One brushed her thigh and left a burning line of wetness and pain. If it hurts so quickly, it isn’t serious. But she fought the urge to clap her hand to it, to probe it with her fingers. She needed her hands for the reins.
Behind her, Temur cried out, urging Bansh forward, and by the sound of hooves, the bay mare responded. Payma’s chunky gelding found another notch of speed when Bansh drove the mule up on his backside, and Buldshak, too, put her head down and ran. Stones showered behind them, rattled down the cliff on Samarkar’s right to vanish into empty space, falling until she could not hear them strike. Samarkar hunched herself over her horse’s withers and clung, gulping great breaths of fear, trying not to make any move that would throw the mare off balance.
A line of five figures in black crossed the road ahead, two mounted men behind them. The five raised bows, nocked arrows; Samarkar’s heart clenched in her chest. She yanked the mule’s lead line from the saddle and cast it away so it would not foul Buldshak’s feet, knowing the others would do the same behind her. The mules should follow. If they didn’t, and Samarkar and the others lived, they could come back and get the animals. If she and Temur and Payma died, they wouldn’t need the supplies.
A line of fire sprang across the narrow road, burning the intense violet of sorcery—or chemicals.
Now would be the time for sorcery. For a moment, Samarkar wished her wizardry was the magic of stories, to bring down lightning from a blue sky, or that she held a captive eagle’s soul in bond and could call it screaming into battle. If she had time, she could have kindled the rockets in her saddlebags and sent them to scatter the enemy, but for now, all she could do was urge her horse on and hope Buldshak had the strength to break the line—and the courage to cross fire.