Wynter was no great lover of bareback riding, but she did the same. As she galloped past, Sólmundr released Boro and the warhound shot ahead of Razi’s mare, streaking across the grey rocks like a shadow of the wind.
It did not take a moment for Sól and Christopher to catch up: before Wynter was even halfway up the rocky path, the thunder of their horses was a reassurance at her back.
Upon the ridge there was one rider, astride a tough little horse built for speed and endurance. The man was yelling and lashing out with his sword while a snarling Loup-Garou forced his mount to back towards the cliff face. Unknown to the rider, the second Loup-Garou was slinking around behind him. Wynter was alarmed to see it making its way up the rocks to the shelf over the man’s head, obviously planning to drop on him from above.
‘Watch out!’ yelled Razi, kicking his mare over the uneven ground. ‘Watch out! Above you!’
The rider did not hear, and he kept valiantly lashing at the Loup-Garou, his terrified horse falling back with each of the Wolf ’s snarling leaps forward.
‘Look up!’ screamed Wynter.
Boro came into view then, shooting from between the rocks, and just as the first Loup-Garou leapt again for the horse’s throat, the giant warhound flew through the air and tackled it. The two creatures rolled to the side in a savagery of teeth and fur, and the rider was left swiping at empty air for a moment. Thankfully, his horse shied sideways, away from the fighting creatures and out from under the ledge.
Behind Wynter came the familiar thwack of Christopher’s crossbow. The bolt shot to the ledge above the rider and plunged itself into the ground next to the creeping Loup-Garou. Christopher spat a ripe curse as the creature leapt in fright and ran away, unharmed. At its companion’s yipping retreat, the other Wolf broke free of Boro’s clutches and raced, howling, into the jumbled rocks. Boro followed.
Wynter saw the man’s relief turn to fear as he registered the four riders thundering towards him. He pulled his terrified horse around to face them, and she did not blame him that he crouched in his saddle and lifted his sword. She could not speak for herself, but her companions certainly made a wild spectacle. Dishevelled and fierce, they had their swords drawn and their unshaven faces were wicked with aggression. They were the very illustration of the word ‘bandits’. The poor fellow, his back literally to the wall, scanned their ranks for an opening through which to flee. As he readied himself, his intention obviously to barrel through their horses and take his chances, Wynter recognised him from King Jonathon’s court.
‘Andrew!’ she yelled. ‘Andrew Pritchard! Hold!
’ At the unlikely calling of his name, Pritchard pulled his horse to, regarding them with wide-eyed amazement. Almost immediately, he recognised Razi’s distinctive face. That seemed to terrify him even more than the thought of bandits, and, with a cry, he kicked his horse forward, hoping to shoot the gap between Christopher and Sól and escape down the path before they could turn.
‘Stop him!’ screeched Wynter, and in an act of quite astounding agility, Sólmundr threw himself from his horse’s bare back and tackled Andrew Pritchard to the ground.
Pritchard fought and struggled, but Sól pinned him down, his strong forearm pressed to the man’s throat. ‘Be good, now!’ Sól warned. ‘Be good!’
Christopher leapt from his horse, kicking the man’s sword aside, and Wynter ran across to stand over him. At the looming ring of assailants, Pritchard yelled, trying in vain to push Sólmundr from him. Christopher grinned, wickedly amused at the poor man’s panic.
‘Calm down, friend,’ he said. ‘Pretty and all as you are, we ain’t about to violate your chastity.’
‘Jesu!’ screeched Pritchard, and he kicked and writhed with extra ferocity.
‘Lord Andrew!’ snapped Wynter. ‘Be still! We shall not harm you!’ She tapped Sól’s shoulder with her sword and said in Hadrish, ‘Sól! Get off the poor man!’
Sólmundr leapt back, grinning, and he and Christopher levelled their swords at Pritchard’s head.
‘I will not talk,’ cried the lord, staggering to his feet. ‘You may save yourself the trouble of your barbarian tortures.’
Razi came to Wynter’s side, his face curious. Wynter leapt in before he could speak. ‘Lord Andrew,’ she began, but Pritchard’s eyes were on Razi, and he spoke across her as though she were not there.
‘We might have known it wasn’t your head in that sack,’ he spat. ‘What poor black bastard did