Princess of Thorns

“Faster,” I hiss, knowing Ror will hear me. He heard the riders approaching from down the ridge road before I did, he must hear that we’ve acquired a tail.

It’s only a horse or two, but a horse or two with a skilled archer in the saddle is all that’s required to put an end to us both. And only a horse or two behind could mean the rest of the Boughtswords are taking an easier path, aiming to be ready if the archers fail and we’re spit out onto the road.

At least he isn’t alone. I urge Alama to pick up her pace, though the tension in her neck leaves no doubt she thinks we’re going plenty fast already. The only luck we’ve had is that we stayed together. At least if we have to fight, it will be two against ten or twenty.

Or forty or fifty, if the ogres take the low road, instead of the more direct route to the petrified forest.

“Come on, girl, come on,” I murmur. Alama hits even ground and pours on a burst of speed, flowing like water over the obstacles in our path—leaping a fallen tree, crashing into a stream on the other side, and pushing on without a moment’s hesitation, her sides heaving beneath my calves.

I stay low and hold on tight, grateful for my saddle, fearing any second I’ll hear Ror lose his seat behind me. It’s too dark for a ride like this one. I can’t see what’s coming in order to prepare for it. Only the barest moonlight penetrates the foliage, and the ground is shrouded in darkness. Alama’s abrupt shifts in direction come out of nowhere. I have only a split second between feeling her muscles tense and the instant she springs into the air to prepare myself for her jumps.

By the time we reach the base of the ridge, I’ve nearly fallen more than once, but when we hit even ground, I no longer hear riders behind us. On the flats, Alama opens up, charging toward the low road as if she understands how much every moment matters. It’s only then—with my horse devouring ground like a racing dog drugged on Elsbeth’s Rose—that I relax for the whisper of a second.

A whisper is all it takes.

Alama darts to the left and I fly to the right. She shrieks as I leave the saddle; I hit the ground before I can make a sound, shoulder slamming into the dirt before I go rolling across sticks and stones. Something jagged rips through my shirt and blood runs from torn flesh near my hip, but I know instantly that the wound isn’t bad. I’ll survive, so long as I’m not run over before I get back on my feet.

Ror is close behind. If his horse doesn’t see me, I could take a hoof to the head and die before I set eyes on Aurora, three weeks before my birthday, the gods’ punishment for attempting to change my fate.

With a groan muffled by my startled ribs, I draw my knees to my chest, rolling over until my forehead is pressed into the dirt. I do my best to walk my feet beneath me, but I’m not even halfway there when hoofbeats rattle the ground. I try to call out, but my cry emerges as a croak I know Ror can’t have heard.

I’m squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my jaw, bracing for impact and praying the beast will stomp me someplace survivable, when Button slows and the horse lets out a deeper version of Alama’s startled whi

A moment later Ror is beside me. “Niklaas!” He grabs me beneath the armpits and heaves me upright, summoning another gravelly cry from my throat as my spine protests the sudden movement. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“F-fine.” The word becomes a cough as my chest releases the breath it was holding captive.

“I thought you’d been shot. I thought—”

“Get Alama,” I say, struggling to stand. “Before she runs off.”

“She’s stopped up ahead.” Ror shoves his shoulder under my arm, helping me stagger to my feet before reaching back to grab Button’s reins. “She’s too sweet on you to run off.”

I look up, searching the dark wood ahead. I hear Alama’s swift breath but can’t make out so much as her shadow. “You can see her?”

“She’s there. By the double tree. Can you ride?”

“Yes. Help me over. Hurry, the other riders aren’t far behind.” I wince as Ror’s hand wraps around my waist, brushing against where the skin has torn.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, sliding his fingers higher on my ribs. “Are you—”

“It’s nothing. The bruises from the fall will be worse.” I try to shift my weight away, but a flash of pain in my hip make me reach for Ror again, wrapping my arm around his narrow waist.

He flinches and pulls my arm back to his shoulders. “It’s easier for me to bear your weight this way. Watch your step. Big rock.”

I stare at the ground but can’t make out the rock’s outline until we’re on top of it. I can feel Ror’s staff snug in its sling beneath my arm, so I know it isn’t the stick he’s using to test the ground, which begs the question “How did you see that? From so far away?”

“I don’t know. Back home the girls always beat the boys at hide-and-seek when we played at night,” he says, clearing his throat as we reach Alama’s side. “But of the boys, I did the best. Do you need help getting up?”

“No, I can do it.” But when I try to pull myself into the saddle I find my left side unwilling to cooperate with my right and my torso too stiff to bend.

“Let me help.” Ror grabs me around the legs and shoves his shoulder into my rear end, giving me enough of a boost that I’m able to slide my leg over Alama’s back with a pitiful groan.

“You’d better take the lead,” I say, wincing as I reach down to rub Alama’s withers in comforting circles, thanking her for stopping. “If we find trouble on the road, you’re better equipped to fight. I’ll do what I can, but—”

“If it comes to a fight, we’ll lose, with your sword or without it,” Ror says, vaulting onto Button’s back. “Stay close, and I’ll try to find a path through any resistance. The mercenaries have been riding all day and the ogres breed their horses for sustained speed, not short sprints. If we can get past them, we should be able to outpace either group and find a place to hide.”

“All right,” I say, knowing he’s right. The Kanvasola-trained fighter in me shouts that we should make a stand and fight to the death, regardless of our odds, but the survivor in me knows better. Honor is well and good, but sometimes it’s more important to do what it takes to stay alive.

Ror leads the way, setting a swift pace, but not quite as swift as the one that led to my fall. Still, we stay ahead of our pursuers and, not twenty minutes from where I fell, emerge onto a clear stretch of the low road lit by blue moonlight. A glance in either direction reveals we are alone, with not an ogre or a mercenary in sight.

Ror glances over his shoulder with a relieved smile.

“Let’s not put our good shoes on yet,” I say, though I can’t help but return his grin as I urge Alama into a gallop down the road. Every hoof-fall sends a jolt through my aching body, but breathing is easier and my voice carries clearly through the still night.

“We’ll turn south at the fork and go into the water beneath the first bridge,” I say when Button pulls even with Alama, the pair of them ru

Ror nods as he leans forward, shifting his weight until he seems to hover, weightless, above Button’s back. He adjusts so perfectly to the horse’s movement that he becomes a part of the creature, like a centaur from the ancient stories.

Legends say the ogres hunted the centaur race to extinction in their lust for the creatures’ flesh, enchanted meat that gave the ogres extended life, allowing them to survive until the race of man grew plentiful enough to feed their hunger.

In those times—so long ago man still spoke the language of the beasts—the ogres looked very different. They were giants covered in hair from head to foot, with sharp claws and sharper teeth and bulbous eyes that glowed at night, transfixing any man unfortunate enough to encounter them in the dark. But as centuries passed and humans gained power over fire and forged weapons with which to fend off their predators, the ogres began to shrink, growing slimmer and softer, coming to resemble the humans they hunted, to use deception to hunt their prey when brute strength was no longer sufficient.