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“Stay quiet,” Whitehorn hissed. “Don’t move a muscle.”
A cloth gag was pushed into my mouth and tied behind my head. I felt Whitehorn’s hands on my back as he shoved me onto my side, pulling my hands loosely behind me and tying them with rope.
It was night. The stars were out. The fire had nearly burned out.
My eyes darted across the campsite. Draven was a large shadow on the ground. He lay on his side. Was he sleeping? Or worse?
“We’re leaving,” Whitehorn muttered. “Nice and quiet. I’m not going to hurt you. Once we’re far from here, I’ll take the gag out. I promise.”
I nodded because it was clear he expected me to. But in my mind, I had my doubts. I didn’t trust Draven, but that didn’t mean I trusted Whitehorn either. He’d been willing to let me die if that meant following orders.
He tugged me to my feet and began to lead me to where our horses were already saddled and waiting in the clearing nearby. Draven’s horse stood nearby, still tethered.
Haya and the packhorse had been tied behind Whitehorn’s piebald.
Good, that would slow us down. Give Draven time to catch up.
If he was even still alive.
We reached the piebald. Evidently I was to ride with Whitehorn.
I turned my head to try to look back again at where Draven lay but Whitehorn gave me a rough yank and pulled me forward.
“Enough gawking. Get up there.” Whitehorn began hoisting me up.
A growl came out of the dark. The sound was so low I thought I must have imagined it at first. But beside me, I felt Whitehorn freeze.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
Plainly he had forgotten I was gagged.
Whitehorn was quiet, listening, waiting. When the sound didn’t come again, he made a noise of frustration, then resumed lifting me onto the horse.
The growl came again. Closer this time.
Whitehorn cursed and let go of me, his hand going to the hilt of his blade. He was so close to me I could swear I felt the man trembling.
But the forest returned to its former quiet. Whitehorn swore under his breath.
Without even attempting to be gentle, he hoisted me onto the piebald. My face hit the pommel, knocking me hard in the cheek. I tasted blood in my mouth, but managed to sit up and get my balance.
Whitehorn was moving away. He walked over to Draven’s tethered horse.
I knew what he was about to do. I squirmed in the saddle, pulling at my bindings, but it was no use.
I watched as Whitehorn pulled a sharp knife from his belt and raised it in a swift motion, the metal gleaming in the starlight.
The stallion made a soft startled sound and then the knife slid across its throat.
As Whitehorn turned away, the horse fell to the ground.
I screamed against my gag, but the only sound that emerged was a muffled groan. I twisted my body, wrenched at my bound hands, horrified and helpless as Whitehorn walked quietly across the campsite and over to where Draven lay, the bloodied knife still in his outstretched hand. It was no use, the bonds were too tight.
I lowered my head to the pommel, shifting my body back in the saddle as far as I could go, pushing my gag against the rounded knob.
The gag loosened slightly. I pushed against it with my tongue, my teeth, spitting the cloth out just enough to be able to widen my jaw.
Whitehorn was crouching down, the knife hovering over Draven's still form.
