Irenya inhaled dust and crunched on grit. Hunched over the horse’s mane, she flinched at the clods and small stones flying from the hooves in front. Wind tangled her hair. All afternoon, the two men had seemed edgy, unusually watchful and muttering to each other.
On the crest of a slight rise, the leader gave a shout, ‘Imlac ahead!’
At the same moment, Archer roared. ‘They have us! Ride!’
Irenya looked over her shoulder and saw, through her wildly streaming hair, a plume of dust rising from a low hill. A cry of hope choked in her throat. Archer cursed her and whacked her horse into a faster pace. His last strike lashed her upper arm. She willed her mount to founder on the uncertain ground while praying for her rescuers to grow wings. Every fibre in her screamed to turn aside, or simply
