Lies is meant to conquer Arrogance, then there is nothing I can do.”
The thought makes me sick. I’m not ready to die. I’m not ready for him to die. “I refuse to lie down and give up, Aron. Not without doing as much as I possibly can to stop it from happening.”
“No one is saying we are going to give up,” he tells me. “But perhaps our time would be better spent trying to think of a trap for them, since they will inevitably be setting one for us.”
“Fair enough.” It doesn’t make me feel much better, though. Aron’s life is tied to mine, and mine to his. If the other Aron decided that he needed a posse to protect himself…why aren’t we doing the same?
40
For two days, we ride the slowest mount known to mankind. Like Aron said, the thing doesn’t need to take breaks. It can keep plodding endlessly, and it does. It plods over hills and down the muddy path. It plods through fork after fork of road, and the farmlands turn to scrubby trees and distant gray mountains begin to loom on the horizon.
My ass can’t take the endless riding, though. It doesn’t seem to bother Aron in the slightest—not much does—but my mortal butt cheeks are sore by twilight on the first day. That’s when I learn how people sleep on a woale—we pause to sling two hammocks against the woale’s fat, rounded sides. It goes from one end of the saddle to the other, and for the first time, I see why the woale saddle has two pommels in front, and two in back (that have been digging into my ass for the last bajillion hours). The hammocks are slung from one side to the other and then, like the world’s ungainliest saddlebags, Aron helps me slip into one side and he gets into the other to balance me out.
At first, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, especially not with my head bouncing so close to the woale’s hindquarters, but the next thing I know, it’s dawn, my ass is one big aching bruise, and my stomach’s growling. While the sun is up, we ride on the woale’s saddle. When the sun goes down, we sleep in the saddle slings, and the time—and miles—creep past agonizingly slowly.
I’m mentally gearing up for another crappy night in the swing on day three when Aron abruptly stops the woale, and we grind to a halt.
I yawn at him. “Bathroom break again? I don’t really have to go.”
“No.” He’s all tension as he slides off the creature’s back, his body alert as he gazes off into the distance. “I saw campfire smoke.”
All of my sleepy exhaustion instantly vanishes, replaced by fear. “Where?” I whisper, sliding off the side of the woale and landing (okay, tumbling) on the ground next to him.
Aron catches me before I can fall on my ass and helps me to my feet. “Look to the tree line,” he tells me, pointing.
Heart hammering, I scan the trees. Sure enough, there’s a thin plume of smoke on the horizon that would be impossible to notice unless I was looking for it. He must have been watching the skies constantly, ever alert, and I feel like a bad companion.
“Is it them?” I ask, clinging to his arm in terror. We’ve been talking about this for days but it’s too soon in my eyes. I don’t want to run into them. I don’t want to fight. I sure don’t want to lose.
I feel like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“One way to find out,” Aron says, and then moves to the woale. I think—stupidly—for a moment that he’s going to get out a telescope or something, but he hands me the reins. “Wait here.”
I let out a terrified squeak as he slings his sword and scabbard over his shoulder and then heads into the woods. “Wait,” I hiss, afraid to speak too loud.
He doesn’t wait, of course. This is Aron. I’m left holding the reins of the woale, who doesn’t bother to lift his head from his feedbag. The damn beast could care less if death is imminent. Me, I care. I half drag, half lead the thing toward the side of the road and crouch in the bushes, breathing hard. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t passed anyone all day and the road has gotten steadily more deserted the closer we get to the mountains. I’m terrified of the men waiting to kill