Mathos found them a path from tree to tree, always there to support her, hold her hand, and urge her forward, and she slowly grew in confidence. But as she settled into a rhythm, she noticed that he seemed to lose his. The panther-like grace that she associated with him seemed to be failing. He took longer and longer to choose their path, and once he almost lost his hold.
By the time the row of trees ended, she was sweating and trembling and deeply grateful that neither of them had fallen.
They reached the fields and dropped down from the final tree in silence. They stood there, panting from exertion for a few moments, Mathos a few steps ahead, his body turned toward the open fields ahead of them.
The furrowed earth flowed away in silvery starlit funnels that would have been beautiful if not for the overwhelming stench of pig manure making her eyes water.
She’d thought she’d grown used to the vague background smell in the village, but the prevailing wind had been to the south and the band of trees had blocked the worst of it. Now, back on the fields, it was strong enough to make her throat burn.
Mathos was still turned away, carefully scanning the fields. “Hopefully it’ll confuse the dogs.”
He stamped his boots in a particularly large wedge of disgustingly moist manure and gestured for her to do the same. Then with their boots well drenched, he waved for her to follow him and started to jog down the narrow path through the fields.
They ran in silence, watching the path carefully to avoid turning an ankle on the uneven ground. Occasionally a nightjar called, its whistling and churring loud in the quiet of very late night. Or perhaps it was very early morning?
She could happily spend all day on horseback, but running was a new kind of torture. Her muscles quivered and ached, and her side burned, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to complain.
Instead, she counted in time with her steps. Counting to three breathing in, to four breathing out. Daydreaming that if she could just count to three one more time, they would stop. And then counting to three again. And again.
It felt like forever before they reached the edge of the fields and the beginning of the woods. Finally, they slipped between the looming trees, following a narrow dirt path that she could barely see. Mathos seemed to have much better night vision than her, but even he had to slow to a walk on the rutted path.
Finally, she could catch her breath. She pressed her fist into her side as she dragged in ragged lungfuls of rank, manure-laden air.
“Where are we going?” she asked the dark shape of his back when she could speak again.
“We’re looking for somewhere to hide.”
“But we’re going south?” she prompted as they walked.
Mathos grunted. “Dornar will look north first. Maybe. Didn’t have any other option though; we couldn’t risk going through the village. If we can avoid the Blues long enough, we’ll turn west. We’re going to try and make it to the nearest port.”
He walked quietly for a moment before continuing. “If we get split up, for any reason, try and get to Darant. Tor and the others will look for you there.”
He fell silent again, and she didn’t press him. She didn’t want to imagine the situation where the man who had come back for her, looking beaten to the Abyss and back, couldn’t be with her.
They walked on as the sky lightened. She kept listening for dogs or horns but heard neither. Surely Dornar would have already discovered that she was missing?
“Why aren’t they chasing us?” she asked quietly.
Mathos picked his footing carefully down the twisted, rutted path. “I guess that it took a while for Cerdic to confess. He would have tried to find you himself first. Quietly. No dogs, minimum number of men. He’ll hope to get you back before anyone notices. When that fails, then he’ll go to Dornar. That’s when they’ll find I’m gone. And that’s when all hell will start raining down around us.”
All hell. Damn. That would be bad. But she was too tired to think about it. All her remaining energy was focused on putting one foot in front of the other and following where Mathos led.
The air around them began to soften into a misty silver, and slowly the trees emerged from the darkness. Thank the gods, she could actually see where she was stepping. She let out a small groan of relief.
Mathos turned to face her, giving her a quick appraising look. “You okay, Princess?”
The words caught in her throat. She wanted to say that she was sore and tired and thirsty. That she’d had no sleep and that everything about the last day had been hideous. And could he please stop calling her princess.
But he looked so dreadful that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He had been pale before; now he looked gray, lines of pain and exhaustion forming harsh grooves down his face, visible between the mottled bruises even with his three-day beard and the dim light. The cotton of his tattered shirt was stained deep red all down the front of his left shoulder and she wondered if he had been bleeding the entire time.
“Gods, Mathos.” She reached out a hand, not sure what to do to help.
His lip quirked. “Just a scratch. Ignore it.”
“I can’t. I—”
“Shush,” he whispered roughly, cutting her off. His eyes darting back to the path that they had just traveled.
