“I have two dozen horsewomen, armed and ready,” said Khiva in a low voice.
Saga tried to quell her rising disappointment. Two dozen horsewomen were nothing to scoff at, and yet she’d hoped for more—for hundreds.
“I could not muster more without alerting my mother. She has ears all over this city, always listening and reporting back to her. But if we move swiftly, we can avoid her detection.”
The blade shicked through Saga’s bonds, freeing her wrists.
“Come. You will disguise yourself in this armor.” Khiva proffered a shirt of chain mail, a pair of buckskin boots, a helm, and a feathered cloak, then helped Saga slip into them. Saga allowed herself a moment to examine the attire. She looked like a warrior—like a woman to be feared. And in that moment, she felt it.
They exited the tent, Saga’s new boots crunching on a layer of freshly fallen snow. Slowly, she looked up. A few lazy snowflakes drifted down in the dark skies, and beyond them lay a blanket of stars. Saga gazed up as they walked, spellbound by the sheer number of them. Had she ever seen stars so vivid as this?
“Stjarna, light my path,” she whispered to the Mother Star before scurrying after Khiva. The cookfires were long dead, the citizens who’d once gathered around them having long ago retreated to their tents.
“We go to the fields,” Khiva whispered. “There the horses have been readied.”
Saga’s heart swelled with gratitude for the brave horsemaidens willing to hear her warnings—willing to look past their strife with the easterners and provide aid. After several long minutes trailing Khiva between shadowed tents, Saga saw the expanse of a snowy field come into view, punctuated by two dozen dark figures and their winged horses. Her heart thumped in anticipation, and she wondered if flight would be less frightening in the dark of night. A horse nickered, another mouthing at the snow, and then Khiva was tugging her toward a black stallion. There was no more space in her heart for fear, and no time to be afraid.
“You will ride with me,” whispered Khiva, cupping her hands to help Saga onto the horse’s back. But no sooner had her snowy boot landed in Khiva’s palms than a voice cut through the darkness.
“My own daughter deceives me!” came the clansmother’s voice.
Khiva swore, then straightened her back.
“You have freed my prisoner!” At least twenty horsemaidens had gathered around her, arrows nocked and trained toward Silla and Khiva. “You’ve colluded with others to undermine my rule!”
Hopelessness eddied in Saga’s blood, but her anger boiled forthwith startling force. This woman would hold her grudge against the easterners while they died—would put her children and grandchildren and each glorious winged horse on this steppe at risk.
“She wishes to fight!” Saga shouted with such fervor, Khiva startled beside her. “As do all these brave women! Their eyes are open to what you refuse to see, clansmother. Come with us. See what the future holds.”
People had begun to gather, drawn from their tents by the commotion.
Good,thought Saga. Let them all hear what threat loomed nearer and nearer. Her Zagadkian grew more fluent as she fell into the speech she’d practiced with Elisava. “The Urkans murdered my parents and stole my throne! They dismantled my kingdom stone by stone until all bent the knee to their Bear God and king. I know these people! I was raised by them. They take and they take and theytake,until there is nothing left, and then they move on to the next isle! How long after the east is pillaged before they turn their eye on your clans?”
Cries rose up at her blunt words, and though Saga did not understand their tongue, she guessed they did not like what they’d heard. There was a tumult as more clanspeople were drawn by the noise. One of the horsemaidens was jostled to the side, and Saga heard the distinctive twang of a bowstring.
“Arrow!” shouted the maiden.
Saga was no warrior—today was the first time she’d ever set foot on the battlefield—and yet she sensed that the arrow flew straight for her. Shock held her frozen in place as death whipped toward her upon a fledged arrow.
But an enormous beast crashed down from above, knocking the arrow clean out of the skies. Havoc landed with an earth-shaking thud, then reared back with a scream of rage.
For a moment, Saga could not speak against the thundering in her skull. But then she stepped toward the infernal creature. “Where have you been, you wretched horse?”
The crowd had grown still, but before Saga could question it, thewinged stallion knelt low and bent his wing. She hesitated for only a moment before clambering atop him and gazing out at the clanspeople.
“I will not lose another minute quarreling while east is slaughtered!” she shouted. “I invite anyone who wants to help—”
Saga’s voice broke off, and she gazed around in confusion—from the clansmother, whose eyes were wide, to Khiva, dropped to one knee and staring at Saga in wonder. Slowly, the rest of the clanspeople followed suit, until every single one of them knelt before her. The clansmother was the last to drop to her knee, bowing her head in deference.
“She has tamed the untamable!” shouted Khiva, banging a fist against her chain mail. “She is the great warrior of whom the oracle spoke!”
Saga’s mind replayed Kassandr’s words.One day a great warrior would climb atop Havoc’s back and usher in a new era of prosperity.
Had this oracle foretold the prophecy to the clans as well? Saga would laugh off such a ridiculous notion were she not so desperate for their help.
“Let clans and east unite as once was!” shouted Saga. “I ask for swords and arrows! Let us rain death on Urkans! With your help, we will force them away!”
Her words rang out across the silent steppe. But then Khiva stood and drew her sword, lifting it into the sky.
