Blackbrand neighed in terror in a scree of dust and gravel. He reached the first outcropping and turned the horse to the other side, scrabbling desperately for the next foothold.

The voices above shouted an alarm. Gaelin could only guess what they might be seeing, but he knew that the rockfall and the horses’ panicked whinnies made it fairly obvious that they were here. Erin gasped in fright as her horse lurched and slid. “Gaelin! This is madness!”

Behind her, one of the remaining guards lost control of his horse. Both animal and man toppled forward, their descent turning into a lethal plunge. Gaelin ignored them, since every ounce of his attention was devoted to keeping himself alive.

Then the slope leveled, and in a few heartbeats Gaelin and Blackbrand were plunging downhill through the pines that clung to Shieldhaven’s flanks. The castle seemed impossibly high and distant, and the forest now screened them from view.

At the foot of the hill, Gaelin reined in Blackbrand and looked around. Erin was still with him, along with two guardsmen.

He was stunned. That’s it? he thought. Twenty of us rode into Shieldhaven, not half an hour ago. The brilliant white madness that had preserved his life through the ambush and the wild escape died as quickly as it had come, and the pain of his injury – the bolt that transfixed his hand – came surging back.

Erin trembled in terror, pain, and exhaustion. “I don’t believe I did that,” she said, looking back up the hillside.

Gaelin winced. “When I was fifteen, I made a bet with Cuille Dhalsiel that it could be done. I killed the horse trying it.” He met her eyes and added, “What other choice did we have?”

In the distance, he could still hear the clatter of the castle readying a pursuit – horses whinnied, and men shouted orders at each other.

“We’d better go, and quickly.”

One of the guards spoke. “Which way, my lord?”

Gaelin swayed in the saddle, suddenly dizzy and weak. As the brilliant fire died in his heart, exhaustion flooded his body and clouded his mind. “Anywhere but here,” he said.

High on the battlements overlooking the sally gate, Tuorel stood impassively, his arms folded across his chest. Down in the shadows of the forest, he thought he could catch a glimpse of motion or the glint of light on armor, but it was too dark to be certain. The guards who surrounded him kept their silence and their distance. Quietly, he grated, “Are we in pursuit yet?”

One of his officers nodded. “Yes, my lord baron. A squadron of cavalry is riding down the causeway this very moment.”

“Good. No one will rest until the prince is recaptured.” He waited patiently, and after a few minutes was rewarded by the footfalls he’d been expecting, a light tread punctuated by the sound of a staff striking the stone.

Bannier peered down the hillside after the fleeing Mhoriens.

His mouth tightened in disgust. “Bah! A simple bard’s trick. If you hadn’t insisted on holding me at swordpoint, I could have dispelled it easily.”

Tuorel turned slowly, watching the wizard from behind his wolf-mask visor. “It’s your own doing. No one trusts a traitor, after all.”

“I warned you Gaelin would return, didn’t I? I made certain that a messenger lured him here. Your own oafish soldiers covered me with their crossbows, when I could have worked a spell to stop Gaelin in his tracks.” Bannier’s eyes blazed. “Call me a traitor if you like, but you owe me your thanks, Tuorel, not your contempt. Without me, your army would be bottled up in Riumache. Without me, you’d not have taken this castle, and the Mhor would be leading his troops against you.”

Tuorel smiled in a dangerous way. “Who am I to fathom the heart of a wizard? For all I know, it suited your purposes to let Gaelin escape.” He shrugged. “I’ll say this for the lad: he has courage. Riding through the castle and down that hillside, that was inspired. I’ve more respect for Gaelin than I did an hour ago.”

Bannier looked down into the forest and scowled. “Call it what you want, once again my part of our bargain remains unfulfilled.”

“My men have orders to capture Gaelin and avoid killing him at all costs. If you’re concerned that they might not have your best interests at heart, maybe you should follow them.”

“Indeed.” Bannier wheeled and strode away. Tuorel didn’t watch him leave.

Dawn was approaching, and the four of them – Gaelin, Erin, and the two guards who survived from Toere’s company – rested in an old barn in some farmer’s field, twenty miles from Bevaldruor.

“Think they’re on our trail?” Erin asked quietly.

“Tuorel must have trackers or scouts in his army. But there are only four of us, and we know the countryside.” Gaelin winced as she tugged at the crossbow bolt that had penetrated his hand. “I know that I would have had a hard time following our trail, but it would not be impossible. Especially if Bannier has some magic he can use to find us.”

Erin handed him a piece of leather. “Here, bite down on this,” she said. “I’m ready to take out the bolt.” She called one of the guards over. The fellow took a strong, sure grip on Gaelin’s forearm, and turned his torso so that Gaelin’s upper arm was locked under his own arm.

“Sorry, my lord,” he said. Gaelin didn’t reply – he had the leather strip clenched between his teeth. He raised his eyes to the barn’s dilapidated roof, fixing his sight on the patches of dark sky overhead.

Without warning, Erin grasped the head of the quarrel and drew it through his broken hand in one smooth motion.

Gaelin gasped and jerked away, but the guard held him securely, and a moment later Erin held up the bloody bolt.

“Your hand’s bleeding again, but it won’t kill you,” she said.

“I’ll bind it for now.”

The guard released him with a sympathetic look, and stood up. “Thanks, Boeric,” Gaelin said, spitting out the leather.

“Thank you for getting us out of that fix, Lord Gaelin,” Boeric replied. He was a plain, stoop-shouldered man with lank blond hair and a round face. He looked like a cobbler, not a soldier. “A lot of my mates didn’t get away, but none of us’d be seeing the sun today if you hadn’t led us out of Ghoere’s trap.”

“I wish it were that easy, Boeric. We’re not out of the woods yet.” The guard nodded and resumed his watch of the fields nearby. The other guard, a young, stocky lass named Niesa, was already snoring soundly, having drawn the second watch of the day.

Erin finished wrapping his wounded hand. Gaelin examined her work and decided that she knew what she was doing. His fingers remained free to grasp with what little strength they had, but the injury was covered and dressed.

“Let’s have a look at your leg,” he said when she finished.

Erin arched an eyebrow. “Your calf,” Gaelin amended. “We should clean and dress the wound.” She looked like she was considering an argument, and then sighed and sat down. “No one ever shot at me before I met you,” she complained.

Gaelin carefully began cutting her fine riding boot to pieces. In a few minutes, he was able to draw the lower twothirds of her boot away and let the rest drop to the ground.

Blood soaked the leather, and Gaelin frowned. “It didn’t strike the bone, and I don’t think you’ve injured any tendons, but it’s bleeding freely. We should have looked at this before.”

“I wasn’t going to stop to deal with it last night, not with Ghoere’s soldiers a quarter-hour behind us.” Erin grinned widely. “But I’m glad your escape plan allowed us to keep the horses. I couldn’t have walked a mile on this leg.”

“Some plan. Four of us left, out of twenty? I’d have been better off going to Endier. My guards and friends certainly would have been.” Gaelin bound the wound and cinched it tight to help stanch the bleeding.