Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [133]
—And then the real horse was coming down with Damien still in the saddle, only it hadn’t cleared the mob yet, not by a long shot. The men beneath him never saw it coming. One minute they were focused on the ghost-horse before them, and the next minute half a ton of steel and flesh was bearing down on them. Damien heard bones crack as they landed on a sea of moving flesh, and he clung desperately to his saddle as his horse struggled for solid footing, wincing at every cry from the bodies crushed beneath him. For a few precious seconds it was all he could do to keep his seat, and hope that no weapon reached him. Then he saw a blade swinging down toward the horse’s neck, and with strength born of utter desperation he leaned out as far as he could to strike it aside, then cut back toward its owner’s chest. His blade bit deep into leather and flesh, and the man fell back with a cry.
They don’t know what they’re doing here, he thought, as he whipped around to see what threat might be coming from another direction. They probably don’t even know who it is they’re fighting. He could hear screams of fury and pain now on all sides. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarrant’s coldfire blade sweeping like a scythe through the mob. Some of the attackers were starting to back off now, horrified, and the look in their eyes was like that of men awakening from a dream. Damn Calesta, for whatever he had done to them! Wasn’t it enough that armies had to die, without making the innocent join them!
Finally he was free, the last broken body fallen behind him. He glanced about to see Tarrant break out of the crowd, and gestured for him to take the lead. The black horse broke into a fevered gallop down the dark street, and Damien followed. He could see blood streaming along his horse’s neck and could only pray that the wounds weren’t too deep. The black flesh of Tarrant’s mount, glistening with sweat, made it impossible to assess its condition, but it seemed to be moving all right. God forbid either horse should lose its footing now.
Two blocks beyond the mob Tarrant slowed, and focused the fae before them into a picture. Now they could see clearly, as if on a map, where the harbor lay. And they could see just as clearly that they had been sent in the wrong direction, into a trap that had almost killed them.
“Come,” Tarrant said, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. Down through the dark streets they rode with desperate speed, across a broad avenue, onto a smoothly cobblestoned road. The few townspeople who were abroad that late fell back from them as though they were demons. At least there were no angry mobs here, Damien thought. God willing Calesta was arrogant enough that he never considered they would escape him. Or desperate enough that he had focused all his manpower at that one four-pronged trap, leaving no backup to cover their escape.
And then they turned right instead of left. “Gerald—” Damien called, but the Hunter waved off his protest and continued in that direction. Then he led them through another turn, equally mistaken. Damien struggled to remember the map Tarrant had conjured, and saw it all too clearly in his mind’s eye. “You’re going the wrong way!” he yelled. Heads appeared in the nearest windows as townies grew curious about the racket outside, then quickly withdrew. “Your map—” he began.
“Follow me!” the Hunter commanded. With a muttered curse Damien followed his lead. If Tarrant wouldn’t stop, then there was no other choice; he wasn’t about to let them be separated. Damn the man, he swore, as he urged his horse to even greater speed. The mob would never catch up to them now, not unless he and Tarrant did something stupid that would slow them down.