My legs are aching, my jaw clenched against the cold. A howl in the distance echoes across the barren land. I shiver, pulling my vest a little closer around my chest, as another follows. Soon it has become a cacophony. Coyotes? Wolves? I pause to gauge how close the sound is.
They say the only thing faster than wolves is the wind, and the only thing that ever traveled faster than the wind was the First Rider, who rode his black stallion across the empty world and spoke it into existence, tree by tree, mountain by mountain, until there was Montane.
Hurriedly, I crouch and fumble in the dirt for a rock large enough to use as a weapon.
Like Mads taught me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the image of his face and the hurt in his eyes away. After another moment of grappling in the darkness, I find a jagged stone slightly larger than my fist and grip it tightly at my side.
I really could have planned this better. Or at all.
That’s your problem, Shae. You never think things through. I push away Fiona’s voice. Hearing it only brings me more heartache.
Another howl sounds upsettingly near. I consider finding shelter—a large boulder or tree to climb—to keep me at a safe distance from whatever predators might be lurking in the sloped plains. But there’s nothing.
Then: a movement of shadow on shadow. I start to run.
My breath is coming heavy, and the howling has gone strangely silent. Are they on the move? The road curves near the jutting ledge of a steep cliff, and as I hug the side of the road, I see it: a wink of brightness.
At first, it looks like a fallen star, tiny and trapped in the underbrush of the slope. I quicken my pace along the road as it continues to bend, heading downward again, feeling the decline under my feet, and wary of stumbling on loose dirt and losing my balance.
I didn’t imagine it. It’s a small cluster of buildings. A little town, even tinier than Aster. More of an outpost, from its look of abandonment. There are no town guards, and I realize, crestfallen, that it is likely a deserted army station. I wonder if Bards ever camp here. But the squat little lean-tos look like they’re about to collapse, and I nearly choke on another gasp when a mangy-looking animal—it could be a cat, but is so bony and damp-looking it might be a weasel—skitters across my path.
At the end of the grouping stands a somewhat larger building. Unlike the others, a light emanates from inside. A single burning candle. Hope and dread wage a war inside my chest as I creep curiously forward like one of the moths battering into the windows.
There is no marker, but it must be some sort of inn; it appears to have a chimney poking out the top, and it’s too large to be a store or home. With a panicky sense of hope raging through my shaky arms, I try the handle on the door and it yields, opening into a dusty entry hall. I squint to make it out. The floor is lined with a weathered rug, woven in patterns of horses and swords. Off to one side is a dormant fireplace, charred black like a burnt-out wound in the wall. And there, around the corner, behind a table littered with stained, empty cups, sits a man.
I startle before realizing he’s upright, but asleep in his chair, a stream of drool trailing down his chin. The candle I’d seen from afar burns low at one end of the table. It’s an odd sight, as if the man has been waiting years for someone to arrive. I suddenly have the chilly, irrational thought that he’s been waiting for me. Like some kind of savior.
“Sir?”
The man gives a snort and settles back into sleep, and I wonder if I even spoke aloud.
“Hello?” I try again, as much to test the reality of my own voice as to wake him. But he’s an even heavier sleeper than Ma ever was.
Behind him are rows of shapes against the wall—hooks, each bearing a simple iron key hanging in its shadow. I move away from the sleeping innkeeper—that’s what he must be, I reason—and toward the wall. It would be so easy to take one and sneak into a room … maybe I’d find one with an actual bed. I could leave in the morning before anyone was the wiser. My limbs and head feel heavy. If I could only rest for a few hours. Just until dawn …
I reach up and feel the dulled points of the hooks, plucking down one of the keys. It slips into my palm with a tiny jingle, when …
Howling breaks through the silence. It’s right outside the door.
I spin around in alarm and freeze, my back to the wall, the hooks pressing into my neck.
It’s not howling. Not exactly. Howling and hooting … and raucous laughter.
It is not wolves, but men.
I cower in the shadows, the key tight in my fist, as the door bursts open.
“What! What!” The old man at the table startles awake at last. “What is this?”
Three burly men in dusty, disheveled clothes and patchwork armor have sauntered in, the first carrying a swaying lantern in his giant fist. Each one is heavily armed with a startlingly vast array of blades and crossbows. At their heels are a pair of massive, snarling dogs much bigger than even Constable Dunne’s back home. They look practically feral.
“Settle down, sir,” the second one says with a laugh. He plants a meaty hand on the old man’s shoulder and grips.
The man struggles, and before I know what is happening, the traveler has brandished a rusty-looking knife, slashing it across the old man’s throat. The innkeeper chokes, body shuddering, a glassy, surprised look on his face. A spray of blood arcs from the wound, and he topples forward onto the table with a sickening thud.
I let out a scream. Time slows, and they all grin nearly in unison. Their teeth are various shades of the same murky yellow. My skin wants to crawl off my body and run away without the rest of me.
I’d only heard stories and rumors about the bandits and thieves that prowl the open roads. I never thought I’d come face-to-face with any, and I certainly never imagined they would be this truly terrifying.
Run! You need to run! I think, but my feet are rooted to the floor.
“Well, look here, boys!” the man in the middle who seems to be the leader drawls. “Maybe we’ll have some fun in this little backwater town after all!”
“Who are you? What do you want here?” I ask, trying to sound braver than I feel, which is not at all.
The leader chuckles, a drawn-out, terrible sound from deep in his throat. “Who, us? We’re humble tax collectors.” He leans menacingly toward me; a grin nearly splits his grimy face. “And your old pa here’s behind on his payments, you see. Can’t have that, can we?”
They know I’m scared. They know they have the upper hand. I look around frantically, and my gaze falls on a small wooden lockbox tucked under a tufted old chair in the corner.
If they take the money, they’ll leave. My heart thunders as I gesture to the chair.
“There. That’s where he keeps it,” I say, hoping I’m right. “Take it and go.”
“Smart girl,” the leader says, easily finding the lockbox and handing it to the lackey on his right. “Nice doing business with you.”
I feel a wave of relief wash over me as they turn and head for the door. Feeling begins to creep back into my fingertips. I release the breath I was holding.
Then they stop at the door. The leader grins at me over his shoulder.
“Burn it down, boys.”
Bright flames lick the torch, lighting up the cruel joy on their faces. Without a second glance, the one holding it drops the flame onto the carpet. It ignites instantly and covers the floor in red heat. The men disappear out the door, lost behind the rising wall of fire, and I think, The stories were wrong. There is something that travels faster than the wind, faster even than the First Rider. And that is flame.