The woman was full of surprises.
There were two of them, I thought, one edging forward over the roof, the other hanging back. Sounds of a scuffle came from the driver's seat. The whole carriage veered sharply, hurling us flat. We left the road, skidded on loose ground. I glimpsed a line of trees, far too close. Then we curved back, with another hard jolt. There was a cry, and a loud impact. The carriage bucked, but held its course this time.
The left side door sprang open. A foot swung into view, followed by a leg. I glimpsed a figure: black leather armour, a short tuft of beard, pin-bright eyes full of fear and rage. He was clutching the rail around the carriage roof. As I watched, he let go with one hand, clasped the inner edge of the doorframe.
Estrada thrust with her stiletto. A lurch of the carriage amplified her strength; the thin blade hammered through flesh and an inch of wood. The scream from outside was appalling. One of the horses added its voice to the racket. We flew into a turn, and straightened with a shudder.
Estrada fought to free her stiletto, without success. She levered it up and down, and every time the Northerner outside yelped pitifully. I could see tears starting in her eyes. He'd managed to lodge one foot inside the door. Now he gripped the frame with his free hand and swung his whole body into the entrance. He was broad enough to fill it. He swiped at Estrada, almost losing his grip as she ducked aside.
The Northerner leaned further in, anchoring himself with a shoulder wedged against the doorframe. His eyes darted between his skewered hand and the sword at his belt, as he struggled to choose between attacking and trying to free himself.
Rather than wait until he decided, I chose to stamp hard on his nearest foot.
He snarled, and went for the sword. Estrada picked that moment to make another grab for her stiletto. This time she managed to wrench it loose, with an awful sound of tearing meat. She swung the thin blade in a raking cut. The man howled, leaned away, and realised he had nowhere to go. He threw out a hand to steady himself. He picked the wrong one, and screamed once more.
I stamped again. He flailed for an instant, and was gone. I heard him pitch into the dirt with a crunch.
I fell back, fighting the urge to vomit. Estrada's chestnut skin was white as snow. She stared at the stiletto clutched in her fingers, its blade dripping red up to the hilt.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"What?"
"Did we kill him?" The words were almost a sob.
"He would have killed us."
"But he didn't."
The carriage swerved again, though not so sharply. I was certain it was back under the control of the driver, and that the sound we'd heard was him fending off his own assailant. Sure enough, I saw that we were only moving to allow the cart to fall in next to us. I watched it pulling alongside, with Saltlick hunched in the rear.
We were deep into the wilds now, a rocky, treeflecked region that would soon give way to the foothills of the southern mountains. This road was the less-used route between Altapasaeda and Maedendo, most southerly of the eastern bank towns. It would widen beyond the bridge that capped the southern tip of the Casto Mara, but here it was narrow as any country road. With the cart beside us, we blocked it entirely.
It was absurdly risky. While it kept us safe from further attack, only the skill of the drivers stopped us from spinning into a ditch. The first turn ground the two vehicles together with a crunch of splintering wood. When they tore apart, the cart's near side was crumpled inward.
They couldn't possibly keep this up for long.
Soon, the whole near half of the cart was riven with cracks that spread with each impact. Yet the frame held through the abuse. Estrada and I found positions where we could brace ourselves and hung on for dear life, teeth gritted, oblivious to each other. Concentrating solely on not being thrown from my seat, I grew barely conscious of my bruises, the incessant tramp of hooves, the hammering of rain. I only stirred when a wheel slipped off the road and the whole carriage threatened to tip, or when we skidded and it seemed we'd carry on until a tree or rock obliterated us.
Two things roused me from that stupor. The first was noticing how flattened the shadows were on either side of us. That meant the sun was directly above. Hadn't Estrada said something about noon? Before I could finish the thought, we started forward, with a fresh burst of speed I wouldn't have thought possible.
I didn't see what good it could do. If our horses had that much life left in them, our pursuers' would have too. They'd close the gap in moments. I looked at Estrada, saw that she was staring out the left side window. A flash of recognition lit her eyes. I did my best to follow her line of sight, and realised we were approaching rock formations that encroached on either side, and beyond was a stretch of canyon where the road dipped sharply below the level of the land. Shallow banks of shale and low scrub rose to left and right, topped with knots of dense foliage. It was a perfect ambush point.
Even as I thought it, we slowed, sharply enough to slam me against the carriage wall. Estrada tumbled into the gutter between the seats. Our horses shrieked in protest.
We'd pulled up at an angle to the highway. Back the way we'd come, I could see the mass of Moaradrid's forces bearing towards us. They'd be on us in seconds.
"Is this it?"
"Help me, Damasco."
Estrada was struggling with the door on the opposite side. It was battered and buckled from its altercations with the cart. The clasp and hinges had crumpled into shapeless lumps that locked it firmly in place. I added my efforts to Estrada's. Though it rattled and shook, it came no closer to opening. A glance behind showed me riders almost within spitting distance. They were already slowing, drawing their weapons.
I rolled onto my back, kicked with both legs together. My feet whistled past Estrada's head and struck the door with a crunch… and nothing else. I tried again, again. The sound of hooves skidding in the dirt and of horses whickering filled my ears.
I kicked with all my strength.
The latch sprang loose. The door flew open.
We tumbled out, Estrada first, and fell into the road. Glancing back, I realised the drivers had used their vehicles to blockade the road. Though it wouldn't stop our pursuers, it would force them to dismount, or slow them at least. Why were the horses still in their harnesses, though? It seemed needlessly cruel with a battle pending. I looked around for the drivers.
"Oh no."
The words fell from my mouth. It was impossible.
Ahead, a couple of hundred men sat in the dust. I recognised a few of them from the encampment above Muena Palaiya. Their hands and feet were tied. Moaradrid's men stood guard in a circle around them.
Moaradrid himself waited close by. Beside him, glaring at us from his one good eye, stood Castilio Mounteban.
CHAPTER 21
"Why are we still alive?"
As usual, it was up to me to say what everyone was thinking. Yet all it got me was glares, from Estrada on my left and Alvantes on my right.
I couldn't tell how long we'd been sitting there. Though it was probably only a few minutes, it seemed far longer. My ankles throbbed where the thick cord bit into them. My wrists itched maddeningly, and every movement seemed to make it worse. The cloud-laden sky was still leaking a cold drizzle and my clothes were sodden. Overall, I was starting to wonder if a quick execution wouldn't have been more merciful than this protracted torment.
Not even Alvantes had tried to put up a fight, though his eyes had blazed with loathing as he handed over the giant-stone to Moaradrid. That done, he'd unstrapped his sword, and at his terse command his men had done the same, piling their blades in the road. There they'd remained, scabbards glinting dully in the grey light, left just out of reach as another small torture.