Finally he was free, the last broken body fallen behind him. He glanced about to see Tarrant break out of the crowd, and gestured for him to take the lead. The black horse broke into a fevered gallop down the dark street, and Damien followed. He could see blood streaming along his horse’s neck and could only pray that the wounds weren’t too deep. The black flesh of Tarrant’s mount, glistening with sweat, made it impossible to assess its condition, but it seemed to be moving all right. God forbid either horse should lose its footing now.
Two blocks beyond the mob Tarrant slowed, and focused the fae before them into a picture. Now they could see clearly, as if on a map, where the harbor lay. And they could see just as clearly that they had been sent in the wrong direction, into a trap that had almost killed them.
“Come,” Tarrant said, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. Down through the dark streets they rode with desperate speed, across a broad avenue, onto a smoothly cobblestoned road. The few townspeople who were abroad that late fell back from them as though they were demons. At least there were no angry mobs here, Damien thought. God willing Calesta was arrogant enough that he never considered they would escape him. Or desperate enough that he had focused all his manpower at that one four-pronged trap, leaving no backup to cover their escape.
And then they turned right instead of left. “Gerald-” Damien called, but the Hunter waved off his protest and continued in that direction. Then he led them through another turn, equally mistaken. Damien struggled to remember the map Tarrant had conjured, and saw it all too clearly in his mind’s eye. “You’re going the wrong way!” he yelled. Heads appeared in the nearest windows as townies grew curious about the racket outside, then quickly withdrew. “Your map-” he began.
“Follow me!” the Hunter commanded. With a muttered curse Damien followed his lead. If Tarrant wouldn’t stop, then there was no other choice; he wasn’t about to let them be separated. Damn the man, he swore, as he urged his horse to even greater speed. The mob would never catch up to them now, not unless he and Tarrant did something stupid that would slow them down. Like getting lost. Like forgetting the goddamn map. Like turning left when they should go right, and maybe it was all Calesta’s fault, maybe Tarrant wasn’t seeing the right turn, but knowing who and what their enemy was, he damned well should have been prepared for something like that.
And then the houses gave way to an open road paved with flagstones, beyond which the moonlight glinted on surf. Damien could hear waves, and human voices, and the soft growl of a distant turbine. The Hunter rode to the end of the street and paused there.
“How-” Damien began.
“Later.” The road dropped away sharply at its end, down to the harbor some hundred feet below. A long flight of stairs and a switchback trail offered equally uncomfortable ways of getting down to the water. The
Hunter studied the boats splayed out below them, assessing each one’s potential for speed as well as its position in the small harbor. “That one,” he said at last, pointing to a small boat at the end of the easternmost pier. Its two masts flanked the exhaust pipe of a steam turbine. “I can raise a wind that will move it quickly, hopefully before anyone thinks to follow.”
“What if its owner-?”
“Its owner is irrelevant,” Tarrant said sharply. “If you have a problem with that, stay here and argue with him.” And he turned his horse toward the switchback path that led down to the water’s edge.
It was a nightmare descent, even for one as experienced in riding as Damien was. The path was covered with loose rocks and gravel, and the racing horses slid into several turns. At one time Damien’s horse actually missed the edge, and his heart nearly stopped as it half-staggered, half-slid, down to the turn below.
And then they were on flat ground, mud and gravel mixed, clumps of earth tearing up out of the ground as they galloped toward the pier. No secrecy now, nor any attempt at it. Calesta knew where they were headed and that meant the townspeople did as well. The only hope they had of making it out onto the water was to get there before the locals had a chance to stop them.
Out onto the wooden planks, their horses’ hooves beating emptily over the rocky shore below. Two men jumped back out of their way, and another few ran as they saw them coming. Good enough. Fear of a maddened horse could be just as effective as a direct assault, and in this case it proved even better. No one tried to stop them as they turned their mounts down the pier Tarrant had chosen, although Damien could see a few men running for help. Within minutes, no doubt, the whole harbor would be swarming with armed men.
Tarrant didn’t stop to lead his horse across the water, but urged it into a leap that carried it from the end of the pier onto the boat’s narrow deck. Damien saw it slide as it landed, and by the time Tarrant managed to bring it to a stop, they were nearly in the water. He slowed his own mount down as he approached, less than certain that he could manage the same feat. Sliding off the saddle, he moved quickly toward the boat with reins in hand. His horse was less than happy about stepping onto the swaying deck, but a hard jerk on the reins convinced it not to argue, and it managed a half-leap that got it across the water safely.
Damien cut through the mooring lines, not taking time to unbind them. Behind him Tarrant’s sword blazed with conjured coldfire, and in response a wind began to rise almost at once, blowing from the shore toward the Serpent. At the other end of the harbor Damien could see spots of light moving-lamps?—and he could hear the cries of would-be pursuers as they made their way down the slope. Faster! he urged the wind, as he drew up the sails singlehandedly to harness its power. The small boat shuddered and then drew away from the pier, its sails billowing out white and strong in the moonlight. One of the horses whinnied its discomfort, but Damien doubted that either of the animals would actually be stupid enough to go over the side in protest. Maybe stupid enough to trample their owners, but not that.
“The turbine’s below.” Tarrant pointed toward the stairs at the rear of the small boat. “Get it started.”
“I don’t know how-—”
“Then make an educated guess.”
With a brief glare for his companion he hurried down the stairs, into the cabin and its attendant cargo space. In the galley he located a candle and a pack of matches by moonlight. That lit, it was a bit easier to search. The turbine was similar to one he had seen before, the last time he had made this crossing, and he tried to remember how its owner had worked it. He looked about for fuel, located the furnace door, and started things going. It would be a short while before there was enough pressure to drive the boat, but until then the wind would have to do. He allowed himself the brief luxury of sitting down beside the small engine and of taking several deep breaths in succession. Tarrant would keep the wind going until the turbine kicked in, and then he would turn it around to slow their pursuers. If he could. Damien reflected on how hard it was to command the weather like that—even within such limited parameters—and the fact that Tarrant couldn’t use the currents for power, but must rely upon the limited amount of fae that was stored in his sword, surely wouldn’t help. Then he decided not to think about any of it. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to reflect upon what they had just done. But he couldn’t help it. The blood was still red on his sword, and a gory spattering covered his right leg and boot. The feel of his weapon cutting into human flesh was still hot in his palm, and he rubbed his hand against the thigh of his breeches as if somehow that could cleanse it. In his ears he could hear the sounds of innocent men screaming as the horses bore down on them, unseen but all too keenly felt—