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40
For two days, we ride the slowest mount known to mankind. Like Aron said, the thing doesn’t need to take breaks. It can keep plodding endlessly, and it does. It plods over hills and down the muddy path. It plods through fork after fork of road, and the farmlands turn to scrubby trees and distant gray mountains begin to loom on the horizon.
My ass can’t take the endless riding, though. It doesn’t seem to bother Aron in the slightest—not much does—but my mortal butt cheeks are sore by twilight on the first day. That’s when I learn how people sleep on a woale—we pause to sling two hammocks against the woale’s fat, rounded sides. It goes from one end of the saddle to the other, and for the first time, I see why the woale saddle has two pommels in front, and two in back (that have been digging into my ass for the last bajillion hours). The hammocks are slung from one side to the other and then, like the world’s ungainliest saddlebags, Aron helps me slip into one side and he gets into the other to balance me out.
At first, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, especially not with my head bouncing so close to the woale’s hindquarters, but the next thing I know, it’s dawn, my ass is one big aching bruise, and my stomach’s growling. While the sun is up, we ride on the woale’s saddle. When the sun goes down, we sleep in the saddle slings, and the time—and miles—creep past agonizingly slowly.
I’m mentally gearing up for another crappy night in the swing on day three when Aron abruptly stops the woale, and we grind to a halt.
I yawn at him. “Bathroom break again? I don’t really have to go.”
“No.” He’s all tension as he slides off the creature’s back, his body alert as he gazes off into the distance. “I saw campfire smoke.”
All of my sleepy exhaustion instantly vanishes, replaced by fear. “Where?” I whisper, sliding off the side of the woale and landing (okay, tumbling) on the ground next to him.
Aron catches me before I can fall on my ass and helps me to my feet. “Look to the tree line,” he tells me, pointing.
Heart hammering, I scan the trees. Sure enough, there’s a thin plume of smoke on the horizon that would be impossible to notice unless I was looking for it. He must have been watching the skies constantly, ever alert, and I feel like a bad companion.
“Is it them?” I ask, clinging to his arm in terror. We’ve been talking about this for days but it’s too soon in my eyes. I don’t want to run into them. I don’t want to fight. I sure don’t want to lose.
I feel like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“One way to find out,” Aron says, and then moves to the woale. I think—stupidly—for a moment that he’s going to get out a telescope or something, but he hands me the reins. “Wait here.”
I let out a terrified squeak as he slings his sword and scabbard over his shoulder and then heads into the woods. “Wait,” I hiss, afraid to speak too loud.
He doesn’t wait, of course. This is Aron. I’m left holding the reins of the woale, who doesn’t bother to lift his head from his feedbag. The damn beast could care less if death is imminent. Me, I care. I half drag, half lead the thing toward the side of the road and crouch in the bushes, breathing hard. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t passed anyone all day and the road has gotten steadily more deserted the closer we get to the mountains. I’m terrified of the men waiting to kill us. I’ve never had someone want to murder me before I met Aron, and now it seems everyone wants to kill us.
I should have never taken his hand that first day we met.
I frown to myself. No, that’s not fair. If I hadn’t taken his hand, what would have happened to Aron that first night? He wouldn’t have lasted an hour with one of those milquetoast cowering girls, and no one else was volunteering to be his anchor. And me? I would have been sacrificed on his altar the next morning.
Remembering that calms me. Aron’s kept me safe so far. I need to trust him. I do. So I hunker down in the bushes, clutch the reins, and wait for him to return.
Time passes.
The forest grows dark. Insects chirp, the woale craps on the road, and birds rustle the leaves. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in this night so far, and my frayed nerves ease a bit. My entire body flares with pain for a brief moment, signaling just how far Aron’s gone, but it fades almost as quickly as it arrives, and that tells me he’s coming back.
I hear his footsteps before I see him, which tells me that he wants to let me know he’s arriving. Aron’s too careful to clomp through the forest. I get to my feet just as his dark hair catches a beam of moonlight and gleams. He looks strong and resolute, his mouth in a thin line of displeasure, his mismatched eyes intense.
I don’t need to be a psychic to understand that expression. “It’s them, isn’t it?”
He moves to my side and gives me a quick nod. “They’re camping a short distance away. I counted twelve heads, including the concubine and wizard. There are four tents, one for me, and one for the rest of them. I wasn’t able to tell if the wizard was a true one or not, but they do have several mercenaries that are heavily armed. We’ll have to be careful.”
“What do we do?” I ask him, worried. “Can we avoid them? Hide? Wait for them to keep going north and follow farther behind? What?”
“We’re going to confront them,” he tells me.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Faith.” Aron’s voice is calm as he puts a hand on my shoulder. The woale grunts and poops again, ruining an otherwise grim moment, but Aron’s focus is entirely on me. “This would have to happen at some point. I ca
I know. I know he’s got to do this, but I’m not ready. But I grit my teeth and force myself to nod, because at least right now, they don’t know where we are. We’ve got the upper hand and we need to use it. “I’m just nervous. All right, then. What’s the plan?”
He turns and gestures at the forest. “I circled their camp to see the best defensive spot, but there’s nothing we can use to our advantage but the trees themselves. So, you’re going to climb one of them close to camp, and throw rocks into the bushes. His mercenaries will come looking to see what’s causing the noise, and when they do, I’ll take them out one by one until they’re a more manageable group.”
I gape at him. “That’s your plan? Throw rocks while sitting in a tree?”
“Did you have a better one?”
“No,” I sputter. “But—”
“But nothing. A simple plan is sometimes the most effective. If you are in the trees, you will be safer than on the ground. I did not see any bows and arrows, just swords. If they are climbing a tree, they will not be able to use their swords.”
“I thought you said you could handle mercenaries,” I remind him faintly. “You said they weren’t a problem, remember?”
“And they are not a problem,” Aron says calmly. “But I also do not want to risk you. As you have pointed out many times, you are not a fighter. I do not want you anywhere near battle where you might be taken unawares.”
I sigh. “All right. Tree. Rocks. It’s a good thing I played softball as a teenager.”
“Soft…ball?”
“A game with clubs and tossing balls. Forget it.” I wave a hand in the air. “I’ll manage. Let’s get some rocks.”
“And mud,” he agrees.
“Why mud?”
He touches my cheek, sending a shiver (and a spark) through my body. “This pale skin and hair of yours will stand out, even in the dark, if someone is looking for you. The mud will provide more camouflage.”
“This is sounding better by the minute,” I mutter, but I move to the woale, empty one of the satchels, and start looking for rocks. Even as I do, I keep thinking about that touch, how he caressed my cheek.
It was almost like he wanted to touch me.