mug was empty, and she was staring sightlessly down the road.
Until the nickering of the Krimathean’s horse brought her to full attention again. The gelding lifted his head, nostrils flaring. He had caught a scent, then—yet the air was so stagnant, whatever the horse smelled could not be far distant.
The road’s meandering path through the tangle of trees and ferns only allowed them to see to the next turn. Holding her breath, Lizzan listened. The jungle was so chaotically loud that the steady rhythm of one sound set it apart. Hoofbeats.
Riders, approaching fast. Lizzan’s armor was on Mevida’s wagon, but the speed of those hoofbeats told her she had no time to collect it.
She gripped her sword and began to rise even as the gelding loosed a rollicking whinny—and was answered by a trumpeting neigh.
The Krimathean shot to her feet, staring ahead. Her mouth opened on a deep breath before she snapped her teeth shut again. As if she’d meant to call out, but stopped herself.
A horse galloped around the curve ahead. Only a horse. No rider.
The Krimathean made a sound deep in her chest—then sprinted down the road. Heart jolting, Lizzan followed for two paces before spinning back to mount the Krimathean’s gelding instead. Racing after the woman was like chasing after a deer. Even her horse could not keep up.
Perhaps the horse ahead could. Never had Lizzan seen a stallion so fine. Breathtaking in strength and speed, his long and swift strides crossed the distance in a quarter of the time the gelding might have. Another of Hanan’s descendants, then. For that insatiable god had fucked everything, not only ancient queens.
The Krimathean seemed to know the stallion. They met in what appeared to Lizzan an urgent dance. The Krimathean threw her arms around his neck before pulling back to look at him, concern etched into her face as she glanced down the road. The stallion snorted and pranced, tossing a heavy mane.
Two creatures who couldn’t talk, but desperately trying to. Perhaps because the Krimathean knew who usually sat upon the Hanani stallion . . . and who wasn’t sitting there now.
Lizzan reined the gelding to a halt. There were more hoofbeats approaching—a large number of them. But were they chasing the stallion or traveling with him?
“The ones who come behind you,” she asked him. “Are they friend? Or are they foe?”
The stallion tilted his head to indicate the first, in the same way the Krimathean had when answering Lizzan earlier.
Friend. Tension easing, Lizzan slid from the gelding’s back. The animal promptly trotted forward to greet the stallion, nickering in the familiar way of horses who have been companions.
Despite the stallion’s reply, still the Krimathean’s features were lined with worry and fear. It was not difficult to guess why. If anyone from home sought out Lizzan, surely the reason would not be to deliver good news.
That news would be delivered soon. But if it were Lizzan, she would rather be prepared for it.
“Is Krimathe under attack?” Lizzan asked, and the stallion shook his head. “Has any of her family fallen ill? Or died?”
Apparently not. As Lizzan couldn’t imagine what else might send friends chasing after a woman on a quest, she had no more questions to ask. The Krimathean’s concern finally eased, at least. She gave Lizzan a grateful look before turning to face the length of the road again.
More riders appeared. Krimathean warriors, by the look of their dark braids and armored chests.
Splashes of crimson drew her gaze past them. Not only Krimatheans. A dozen Parsatheans followed, most of whom wore nothing over their chests at all, and their legs were only covered by a skirt of red linens folded over a wide belt.
The Krimathean rider at the head shouted out a joyful “Laina!” before signaling to everyone behind her. They all drew their mounts to a halt while the first rode ahead. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders. Like the other Krimathean soldiers, the only armor she wore was a cuirass of molded leather. Her heavily muscled legs were bare from midthigh to her boots, her linen breechcloth covered by strips of leather—likely in deference to the heat, for in the cooler, higher altitudes of Krimathe, most of their warriors wore leggings.
She leapt from her horse almost before it stopped, and the two Krimatheans embraced. “Look at your face. All is well, Laina, I promise you!” With a hearty laugh, she drew back. “Your cousin sent us after you. She said that although you trusted