The Ambush

The falcon screamed again, a piercing sound that cut through the wind and made the horses sidestep nervously. The escort formation tightened as the riders drew closer together. Loren saw the Lietuentant turning in his saddle.

Behind him, Mariselle’s voice, pitched higher than usual. “Lieutenant, is this normal?”

“Nothing to be concerned about, m'Lady,” the Lieutenant answered. Then, “How many?”

The Duke’s gaze never stopped moving. “At least a dozen. Possibly more.”

The horse beneath them shifted, circling tighter. Loren found herself tightening her arms around the Duke's waist, pride forgotten in the face of immediate danger. The landscape felt threatening. Entire armies could be concealed in the long grass without revealing their presence until it was too late.

The wind carried the whisper of movement. 

Whatever was out there was closing in.

The horses felt it too, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring. Every rider’s attention was fixed on the grasslands around them. The Duke's horse wheeled sharply as he drew his sword. Around them, the formation broke into controlled chaos.

“What’s happening, what’s happening?” Loren demanded, clinging to him as the horse surged beneath them.

“We’re being ambushed.”

Loren registered this as a profoundly bad development.

Before she could even process the thought, the grass erupted. Figures rose on both sides of the road, men in rough clothes with weapons catching the light. Their numbers were enough to make the eight-soldier escort look dangerously insufficient.

“Hold tight,” Alix said sharply.

The horse surged forward.

Loren barely had time to gasp before the world became motion and wind and speed. The ground blurred beneath them as the Duke rode them straight through the narrowing gap in the road. She twisted in the saddle, catching flashes of movement behind them. Riders breaking, reforming, striking. Red and gold clashing against rougher shapes spilling from the grass.

Loren’s breath caught. “Mariselle!”

Another burst of movement erupted from the grass ahead, cutting across their path. The Duke swore under his breath. The horse shifted direction violently, banking hard as he forced it off the road entirely and into the open steppe. Grass whipped at Loren’s legs as they left the narrow track behind.

He kicked the horse hard in the ribs.

Loren’s body slammed against him as the stallion broke into full flight, tearing through the grasslands in a straight, relentless charge. Wind roared in her ears. The ground vanished into a blur of colour and motion. Behind them, the sounds of fighting grew distant.

Loren twisted in the saddle again, her voice breaking free before she could stop it.

“Mariselle!”

The name tore into the wind.

***

Thunder rolled across the steppe like the voice of an enormous, displeased god. Then the rain began, heavy drops striking Loren’s face. Within minutes it became a relentless assault, running down her neck and soaking through her travelling cloak.

Beneath them, the horse laboured through mud and flooded grass.

Loren had lost track of how long they had been riding. Her teeth chattered despite every effort to control them. Her hands, locked around the Duke's waist, had gone numb with cold. She had never been so thoroughly, miserably wet in all her life.

“Where are we going?” she called over the wind.

“Shelter.”

Nothing more.

“What about Mariselle? What about the others?”

The Duke didn’t answer. He looked up at the darkening sky and  urged the horse forward, following the pale line of a track winding through the sodden grassland.

Through the curtain of rain, shapes slowly emerged from the steppe. A cluster of low buildings with steep roofs, huddled against the weather like sheep against a fence. Smoke drifted from chimneys in pale threads. Warm yellow light glowed behind narrow windows.

“Here,” the Duke said, the second word he had spoken since they fled the road.

He guided the horse into a stable yard. Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of hay and damp leather. Other travellers’ mounts stood quietly in their stalls, coats steaming.

The Duke dismounted, Loren noticed he favoured his left side slightly. The ambush had not left him entirely untouched after all. He turned and extended his hand toward her.

She regarded the offered assistance with the same expression she might have used while contemplating a snake. Unfortunately, the day had stripped her of several comforts already, and pride was quickly becoming another.

Loren placed her hand in his. His gloved palm was warm despite the cold.

Her boots hit the stable floor with a miserable squelch. Relief swept through her at finally being off horseback, though her legs nearly buckled beneath her. The Duke steadied her elbow before she could collapse in an undignified heap.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, pulling away at once.

He gave a nod before turning his attention to the horse.

Loren stood dripping onto the straw, trying to comprehend how completely her life had changed in the span of a single afternoon. This morning she had been a princess travelling to meet her betrothed. Now she was soaked to the skin, standing in a stable, entirely dependent on a man she barely knew and already disliked.

She did not approve of how quickly things were going downhill.

Nothing about this situation made sense. Least of all the man who had brought her here.

The Duke had said almost nothing since they arrived.

“Why did you bring me here?” Loren demanded. The words emerged sharper than intended, but she was cold, frightened, and had reached the limits of gracious acceptance.

"It's not safe to travel on the steppe at night." The Duke continued rubbing down the horse with steady strokes.

Considering the escort had just been ambushed on the eastern road, Loren was of the opinion the steppe was not safe in daylight either.

“Where is Mariselle?” Worry sharpened her voice further. “Where is the rest of the escort?”