The Lioness

Bueren screamed. Her father, entering the room, shouted, and the youngest of the Knights darted in close. “She’s mine! Give her over!”

Barg laughed. Kerian kept perfectly still. Against her throat pressed a blade with the taste of her blood still on it. In her hands, unseen and covered by gravy-stained napkins, she gripped another. Without moving, she tried to see the Kagonesti prisoner, spotted her sagging on the floor, looking worse than she had when she’d come in. Long elf eyes met, flashing. The woman had been beaten, surely worse, but she remained undaunted.

Kerian’s blood sparked. Swiftly she squirmed in the Knight’s grip, flung back and jammed her knee into his crotch.

Barg howled. In the same moment, Kerian pulled away. She grabbed the prisoner by the wrist, yanked her hard. The woman came up groaning, but she came up. On her feet, she stumbled, and Kerian pushed her toward the side door leading out to the privy.

A mailed hand dug into Kerian’s shoulder. She felt breath hot on her cheek as Barg dragged her back, a long knife in his hand.

“No!” the prisoner cried.

Kerian ducked and turned, trying to free herself. The Knight’s grip dug into her flesh.

Blood ran down her arm. Roaring her pain, Kerian leaped toward her captor, her knife suddenly alive and glinting bright sparks. She lifted, she plunged, and she saw shock turn Barg’s eyes glassy.

The steel slid softly into muscle, slipped between ribs. The blade scraped bone. Barg’s eyes went wide, and he dropped away. The tavern swelled with voices as Knights swore and cried murder.

Kerian shot for the door, hot blood on her hands, and grabbing the gaping prisoner.

Chapter Seven

The woman’s name was Ayensha, “Of Eagle Flight,” she said, gasping the information as they ran out into the yard.

Ayensha pointed up the hill. “The forest.”

Kerian cursed under her breath. In moments she was lost, blind in the night and falling over rocks. Ayensha slipped ahead of her, still groaning to breathe. Behind, the night filled with outraged shouts, with torchlight and the sound of horses stamping and bridles ringing.

“North!” cried the dark-haired boy, his voice high with skittery laughter.

“No, south!” shouted Sir Egil.

Kerian tripped. Ayensha of Eagle Flight pulled her up. Over their shoulders, down the hill, they saw torches like little red stars. Furious voices carried up the hill.

“Keep running!” Ayensha pushed Kerian ahead. “Use your hands, use your eyes.” Her voice dropped low. She pulled her torn shirt together, shivering in the chill breeze.

They ran the climbing forest in darkness. Kerian tripped over stones. Often she stumbled into trees; brush snared her, and tangling roots. Cold air stung her cuts and scratches. Her right arm stiffened, throbbing with the pain of a knife cut. Behind them and below, the lights of torches ran along the road, swift in the night. Sir Egil and his men searched south, then turned to search north.

“Look,” said Ayensha, pointing. The lights stood still, bright and sharp. The Knights had returned to the Hare and Hound, unable to find their quarry on the road. Small in the night, the tavern’s windows showed as orange gleams. “We have to put distance between us and them.”

Panting, Kerian said, “Why? They don’t dare follow us. Their horses won’t be able to take this slope in the dark.”

“No,” said Ayensha, leaning against a tree. She wrapped her arms loosely around her middle. Sweat ran on her face, plastered her hair to her forehead, her neck and cheeks.

More than sweat, Kerian thought. Silver tears traced through the dirt and blood and bruises on Ayensha’s face. She seemed unaware of that.

Like fire, the woman’s eyes shone fierce and desperate. She shoved away from the tree. “Let’s go.”

Kerian hated the darkness as though it were her enemy. She hated it with each step she took, despised it each time she fell, each time she staggered up again. A woman of the city, she was used to kinder nights and darkness tamed by hot, high, warming fires on streets outside the taverns, the cheerful flames of torchbearers leading a lord or lady’s litter through the streets, the glow from windows of houses high and humble. Here night was complete, blinding.

Ayensha was not troubled. Kerian began to think the woman had the eyes of a cat. Night-eyes, the Wilder Elves called that. Kerian herself used to have the same skill, a long time ago in Ergoth. She fell again, this time so hard the breath left her lungs in a loud whoosh. Fiery pain shot up her right arm, blood sprang from the knife wound again.

“Up,” Ayensha ordered between clenched teeth.

Kerian rose, and they traveled on. When she stumbled, she righted herself. When she hurt, she closed her lips tight to cage the groan. Once she fell and did not rise quickly, and saw Ayensha watching. In the woman’s eyes, pity.

“Come on, you’ve got to keep going,” she insisted.