Chapter Thirty-One

True, still panting hard from the fight just behind him, squinted and strove desperately to see through the swirling snow. No mistaking the scene—a tall man with a wild mop of yellow hair and a face contorted by hate held Barta fast against him, the stained blade of his sword hard at her vulnerable throat.

For an instant reality wavered; True flashed back to a similar scene, another place. The same man’s face and fierce demeanor—this person had swung his blade at Barta then also. Loyal had leaped in front of her and knocked her down. The blade had taken him, Loyal, instead. He’d fallen and covered Barta’s body with his own. The last thing he’d seen had been this man’s face as he drew Loyal’s head back to cut his throat, making sure he would rise no more.

Yet he’d arisen—with the help of the goddess—and had a chance for revenge. A chance he could not take if it endangered Barta. And it would.

Ignoring the wound slashed across his chest, he snarled again and met the gaze of the Gael who held Barta in a fierce grip. At that moment it seemed only the three of them existed. The snow still swirled down, and at a distance True could hear the cries of the dying, the victorious whoops from the Epidii tribe’s men. But what good a victory if Barta—the ruling star of True’s life—should be slain? One wrong move on his part and her life would end as had Loyal’s, by the same blade.

Tearing his gaze from the Gael’s, he looked into Barta’s eyes. He would gladly trade his life for hers again. He did not know how.

The Gael, wordless in his intentions, drew her more brutally against him. Then he threw back his head and emitted a shocking sound—a piercing whistle that cut through the storm.

At first there seemed no response; then, out of the darkness exploded a pony, one that must have refused to run. Shaggy gray it was, with a wild eye.

True spun to face it even as it tossed its head, dancing with alarm. The Gael spoke to it—called to it—in his own tongue, and despite its distress it came to him.

True edged closer, looking for a way to take advantage and get Barta free, but her captor shouted at him also and made a gesture with his sword that had Barta grimacing in pain.

True’s heart swelled with agony. His every muscle and sinew wanted to leap. Instinct bade him to caution. He could not risk Barta’s life.

The Gael hollered at him again before edging himself and Barta against the pony. In an incredible show of strength the man leaped onto the pony’s naked back, dragging Barta with him.

“No!” The protest came from True in a bark. This happened too swiftly; his choices were too few. Even as he leaped toward them the Gael, commanding the pony with his knees, bounded away. True had time to meet Barta’s panicked gaze—no more—before they charged off into the swirling snow westward.

With a snarl he threw down his long knife—he’d already broken his spear some time during the fight. He had still his dirk thrust into the loop on the side of his boot, and that would have to suffice.

Once he caught them.

The other ponies had scattered, and he had more faith, anyhow, in his own limbs. He scented the air, knowing he would need to rely on every sense in order to follow, and found Gant at his side.

“Victorious! We are victorious!” Gant’s face, sweaty despite the chill, shone. “Where is Barta?”

“Gone. The Gael leader took her.” Words very nearly deserted True in his rage. “Must follow.”

“Wait—we will all come. Let me rally the others.”

“They are on horseback. Dare not lose them.”

“But, man”—Gant seized True’s arm and his gaze dropped to True’s chest—“you’re sore wounded.”

“Let me go.” They were the last words True wasted. He shook free from Gant’s grasp and pelted off in the direction Barta and her captor had ridden, only Gant’s cry of protest following behind.

****

Barta’s captor stank. Or perhaps it was the reek of her own fear that flooded her nostrils—with the two of them pressed together so tightly, she could barely tell. She knew her body had been drenched with sweat that dried quickly as they rode into the cold dark.

She could smell other things as well—the sharp fragrance of the fire behind them, the scent of the pony. And blood.

Was her captor wounded? Was she? She tried to take stock of her physical condition and failed. She could feel only her heart beating suffocatingly up in her throat and what might be a trickle of moisture from the place where the Gael had previously pressed his blade.

She could see only the expression in True’s eyes as she’d been hauled up onto the pony. She’d seen that same look before—she knew she had. The circumstances—danger and pain—had been very nearly the same. But…

With sudden, blinding clarity the answer came. Loyal.

True’s eyes and Loyal’s were the same.

Why had she never realized that before? Because Loyal was a hound and True a man.

Wasn’t he?

And now with each pound of the pony’s hooves she moved farther and farther away from him. Every part of her protested that. And she could feel…

The bond between them stretching, drawing out painfully. But never breaking.

Never.

She caught her breath in wonder at the thought possessing her mind.

Impossible. And yet…

He’d told her from the beginning he’d been through a great transformative experience. That magic had sent him. And she believed to the root of her soul that magic could accomplish anything.

Yet now he’d been left far behind her. She found herself in the very clutches of peril with no means to ask True for the truth.

Dared she try and break free, to run back to him who, in any form, possessed her heart? For she knew herself linked with him—spirit to spirit. The rest was just the clothing they wore.

She shifted in her captor’s arms, and he grunted at her. He had put away his sword and held a dirk clutched in his fist instead—a sharp, nasty thing she knew could end her life in the wink of an eye. He wanted safe away; she was his hostage.

She tried to fight through her tangled emotions and think clearly. So very often in the past she’d acted too swiftly and foolishly. But she’d learned better. The costs could be unbearably high.

But where might this savage take her besides away into the night? Would he drag her all the way to Dal Riada, where she would spend her life as a slave?

Would he slit her throat as soon as he thought himself far enough away?

But…her inner knowing told her that might not be so easy as he believed. For she could feel quite distinctly the cord that bound her to True vibrating. And that told her he followed.

How? Surely not on foot—he’d been sore injured. Had he caught one of the other ponies?

It did not matter; he came.

“He follows after us,” she told her captor in her own tongue. Would he understand?

He grunted again and grated into her ear, also in her language, “Who does?”

“My mate.”

“He will not catch us. And if he does, he will then watch you die.”

Oh, True, oh, True—my love. Have a care, my love.