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She should have traveled farther, she knew… but moving during the day would have been risky. She couldn’t chance being recognized and returned to Rowan.
I will rest, then ride like the devil is on my heels.
Or a wolf.
She’d head for the port… perhaps cut off her hair before then to help conceal her identity.
Soon, complete darkness fell. The courser’s ears whipped toward the sound of a snapping branch. Within the canopy of night, it reminded Blanchette of the crunch a breaking bone might make.
More crunching. Rustling.
The hiss of a large body whipping through trees and brush and brambles.
She drew closer to the horse and inhaled a sharp breath. His hooves stomped uneasily, and she felt the tension rising off his warm body like steam off ice.
It came from the deepest shadows—a solemn, drawn-out howl that made her skin crawl. It sounded human in its grief. That howl swelled the wood like a fierce rising wind. The horse whinnied and stomped his hooves, its head nervously shifting toward the sound, which seemed to come from all directions.
It was everywhere.
Hanging from the trees.
Seeping out of the soil.
Whispering along with the Rockbluff River.
That sound filled every crevice of her being. Within her mind’s eye, she saw him standing there—the Black Wolf of Norland, donned in that crude armor and snarling helm, cutting through her father’s men with a vengeful deliberation…
His longsword would be hanging at his side, wet and dripping blood.
I need to follow the road. I cannot have him find me.
The road would pave her path to the port. Without it, the wood would swallow her whole and spit out nothing but bone and ash.
Quickly, she mounted, then wheeled the horse around and away from the rushing stream. She rode alongside the twisting, muddy road.
She ducked beneath canopies of leaves and branches, following the full moon’s glow.
Another drawn-out howl shivered through the trees.
A rush of movement again.
Snapping branches.
Is that the sound of breathing?
Blanchette kicked the horse’s flank. He lurched forward with an anxious whinny and galloped out of the trees and into a clearing.
She turned a corner, pointing her mount north, north to the port… north to freedom, north to a ship which would bring her to her sister in Demrov…
North, away from the wolves, the heartache, and the shadow of her loss.
She yanked on the reins a mile later and commanded the horse to a stop. He pawed at the ground and tossed his head, shrinking at the sound of movement.
I am surrounded.
Seven men emerged from the trees. They were mounted on half-starved ponies that looked like they were suffering from some skin disease. Even within the darkness, she could make out the hard lines of the men’s faces and the even harder gleams in their eyes. They carried rusted axes; one man slung a bow over his shoulder.
Brigands.
