Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [132]
“So we go back?”
“That, or drive the horses forward and go elsewhere ourselves. Maybe the sound of their flight would detract attention for just long enough ... we could take to the rooftops.” He nodded toward the wooden awning that had been erected over the market area, and the buildings that abutted it. “They wouldn’t think to look up there, at least not until they learned that the horses were riderless.”
The sounds were getting closer now, and were loud enough that Damien could guess at the size of the approaching mob. If it was a large enough crowd, then the horses would never be able to break through it. On the other hand, trying to make it to the harbor and beyond without swift mounts to carry them was not an appealing alternative. “What’s your preference?” he demanded.
Tarrant stared back down the way they had come, studying the currents that flowed along the street. “Calesta can point people to the roof as easily as he can control their vision. And then what would we have? In this district, where there are no homes to put in jeopardy ...” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. Damien could picture the district burning up all by himself, along with the refugees who clung to its rooftops.
“All right, then.” Tarrant steadied his horse with one hand and drew his sword with the other. The coldfire blade blazed in the darkened street with an almost hungry brilliance. “Let’s do it.”
“Gerald.”
The Hunter looked back at him. The silver eyes were black as jet, and it seemed to Damien that something red and hungry had sparked to life in their depths.
“You can shapeshift,” the ex-priest reminded him. “Fly out of here and reach Shaitan that way.”
“Yes,” he said shortly. “But you can’t.”
And he kicked his horse into sudden motion, forcing Damien to follow suit.
It was an eerie ride, back down those deserted streets. Tarrant had wrapped some fae about the horses’ hooves that kept their footfall from being heard, but there was no way to tell if Calesta was circumventing that Working as well. If so, Damien thought grimly, they’ll be ready for us. He had his own sword out, flame-embossed grip settled firmly in his palm. The sword of his Order, the Golden Flame, of which Gerald Tarrant had once been Knight Premier. And he still claimed that title, Damien knew. Assuming Tarrant dead, the Church had never bothered to throw him out. For some reason, in this dark moment, the thought pleased him immensely.
They could hear distinct voices up ahead, and see the glittering of lanterns. Not far now. With a sinking heart Damien realized just how many men had come to seal the trap, and he knew that there would be no way through them save on a road paved with blood.
“Jump,” Tarrant muttered fiercely. Damien glanced over at him and saw a strange double image flickering about the head of his horse, as though there were two animals sharing the same space. A quick glance at his own revealed a similar situation. Teeth gritted, sword raised high in preparation for combat, he forced himself to ignore Tarrant’s Working—whatever the hell it was—as he signaled his mount to leap. His old horse would have done it—his old horse would have followed him to Hell and back and not complained—but who could tell what this new mount would do? Ten feet closer to the crowd, now twenty. He could make out individual faces, torches and lamps, swords and spears. There was a rage in those faces burning so hot that several were flushed red with the force of it, and as he and Tarrant came into range, curses were wielded along with sharp steel. What the hell had Calesta told these people—or showed them—to merit such hostility? There were spears being leveled in their direction, and Damien knew that if his horse failed to jump, they would be skewered within seconds.
Please, he prayed. Do it.
It did.
He could see the false image peel off as his horse rose up, powerful flanks driving them up over the heads of the nearest townspeople. Behind him the false horse-image plowed into the crowd, and the men there, believing what their eyes