Wynter, Razi, Christopher and Sól were soon hard upon his heels.
DAY ELEVEN: THE MACHINE
THEY TORE through the forest, spurring their horses brutally onward until the poor animals’ flanks were lathered, their mouths streaming with foam. None of the other horses could match the two royal mounts, and while the King and Razi raced ahead, Wynter, Sól and Christopher made up a trailing rear guard, dodging and weaving to keep up as best they could on the increasingly dense forest paths. It was a horribly dangerous way to ride. They stayed low in the saddle to avoid overhanging branches and prayed to their various gods that their horses did not break a leg.
Wynter risked a look at Christopher. He glanced her way, questions and fear in his eyes. Razi travelled straight as an arrow on the path before them, his head low to his horse’s neck, his eyes fixed on his father’s back. Sól was slightly behind them, bringing up the rear. There had been no time for explanations, and though they all rode together, each was separated into their own frantic bubble of anxiety.
Boro tried to keep pace, but even his valiant determination could not match the horses’ speed. Wynter heard him bay in horror as his master drew ahead, his howls quickly fading beneath the drumming hoofbeats. She glanced back to see the poor hound, already far behind, still running frantically to catch up.
A branch swept perilously low, almost knocking Razi from his saddle. Christopher yelled, and Wynter ducked only just in time as it swooped past. She tore her attention from Boro and focused forward again, her eyes on the path and the figure of the King forging the way ahead.
Goddamn it. She should have known that Jonathon would never have given in. He had not been sitting in sullen acceptance, awaiting his heir’s arrival. How could she ever have thought it? Rather he had been stewing in guilt and despair while his men waited elsewhere in ambush for his son. It is a better prospect than that which lay before me this morning. Wynter could only imagine what lurked in waiting for Alberon – but she was fairly certain, now, that it involved the King’s small, highly trusted squad of personal guards; and she was fairly certain it involved her father’s Bloody Machine.
The narrow path broadened and the watery forest light brightened. Daylight streamed through the thinning trees ahead, and the King was a broken silhouette against them as he charged up the widening path. They broke into the open on a slight rise as the King pulled to a halt, looking down: to their left, perhaps a hundred yards from them, the shambolic remains of an abandoned forge house; to their right, lower ground and another loop of the overgrown road cutting through the dense forest. They clustered together at the tree line, panting and breathless, their panicked horses stamping and breathing hard. Wynter’s heart was thundering in her ears. The King stared anxiously to the road.
‘There!’ he said. ‘Oh, God! There!’
And here they came! Alberon and Oliver, trotting warily from the darkness of the trees. Behind them, astride his own shaggy pony, followed the little servant, Anthony. His small face aglow with his own importance, his pots and pans a-jingle, the child looked all about him, full of glee. Four wary soldiers flanked the Prince, their crossbows drawn and ready, their eyes on the forge.
‘Good Lord!’ cried Razi. ‘Mary!’
Wynter snapped her attention to the last pair of riders emerging onto the road and gasped in disbelief at the sight of the Lady Mary riding from the shadows. Dusty and uncomfortable on a stately dappled horse, the lady looked exhausted, her tired face very pale. Grave as ever, Hallvor pulled her painted mare to the lady’s side and looked keenly around.
‘Mo mhuirnín!’ whispered Sól, startled by his friend’s unexpected presence.
‘Why on earth—’ Wynter gaped at the lady in horror. Why? Why would Alberon have dragged that poor woman with him?
‘That damned pup!’ hissed Razi. ‘Did he think to hide behind her skirts?’
‘He took the little boy, too,’ said Christopher, staring at Anthony. ‘Perhaps he could not stand to leave them with the Wolves.’
Alberon was squinting up at the forge house, his eyes blinded by the sun. For a moment, no one noticed the King’s party swaddled in shadow at the edge of the trees. Then Jonathon broke from his trance and trotted his horse into the sunlight.