Which would get him first—cold, hunger, the whippings, or the piles of snow? If only he could be safe at the castle with Draylon, Yarif would never bemoan his fate again. Darkness shrouded his vision. He swayed as the horse misstepped, hooves sliding over loose stone. Okay, add another possibility of how he’d die on this journey.
With each passing day, the probability of ever seeing home again faded. What would become of the children without him?
And where in the name of all the deities were they going?
Did Draylon mourn Yarif’s loss or revel in escaping an unwanted marriage?
Yarif clung to the horse’s mane. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. He’d ceased to feel his fingers long ago. At least they’d untied his hands.
When he thought he couldn’t get any colder, frigid wetness splashed his nose. Snow.
The flakes came down fat, fluffy, and frigid. Even wrapping the blanket tighter around himself didn’t help. Low clouds blocked any sun. A few flurries turned into a few more. Soon the snow fell steadily. At least the coolness soothed his sore back.
His eyes drifted closed. If only they’d let him sleep even for a little while. He lay in his warm bed, safe beneath the covers, waking to find himself against Draylon’s firm body. Yarif jerked himself awake. His heart fell. No Draylon, he’d been dreaming.
He’d listened to May’s tales of travelers’ stories she’d heard in the marketplace of frozen bodies found and survivors who’d faced death at the hands of the elements. Enough to know the signs of freezing to death.
Had the party stopped moving? He teetered precariously. Then…
The world turned sideways. Yarif grabbed at the horse, numb fingers closing on empty air. The ground rose to meet him.
Yarif came to slowly, numb, staring out at a grayness. Still, the snow fell.
“Get him up,” Illa shrieked. “Carry him if you have to! Let’s go!”
“What about the horses?” a man asked, so wrapped in assorted pieces of clothing as to be unrecognizable.
“Leave them. We’re all dead if we don’t make it out of this pass.”
The man tossed Yarif over his shoulder and ran, following the footfalls of so many others. Yarif tried to scream in agony. Only a croaking sound left his mouth.
Those poor horses.
Metal clanged against metal somewhere ahead. Had one of Illa’s ragtag mercenaries turned on another?
Then another clang from somewhere to the left. Then another. And another.
The man carrying him tossed Yarif to the frozen ground. A layer of snow broke his fall. The man snarled, yanking his sword from its scabbard, then froze, dropping to his knees, a blade protruding from his chest. The blade retreated. The man fell, blood staining the snow.
Yarif’s heart stopped, then started again, slamming hard against his ribs.
A tall, dark figure stepped from the billowing squall, completely wrapped in black coverings, blood dripping from its blade. So, those other ways wouldn’t kill Yarif after all. He huddled on the ground, helpless to do anything but watch the blade swing down, ending his life.
Instead, the figure leaned down, running a gloved hand over Yarif’s face and body, then let out two piercing whistles.
Another figure emerged from the whiteness, leading a horse. No. Stockier, furrier, long ears. A mule. One figure climbed aboard. Between the two, they managed to wrangle Yarif painfully onto the beast’s back in front of the rider. He was too tired to fight. The second figure clapped the first on the leg, then, sword raised, disappeared back into the chaos.
The rider attempted to pull the blanket tighter around Yarif but then said, in a low, gravelly voice, “We need to get you to safety, Your Majesty.”
That voice! Yarif knew that voice! He sagged back, trying to place the speaker. No use now. His brain seemed as frozen as his body. How the rider knew where to go in this blinding snow, Yarif couldn’t tell. He drifted into and out of consciousness.
He awoke to a hand gripping him, easing him off the mule, then strong arms carried him through an open door. The door slammed shut.
Warmth hit Yarif like a fist to the face. He nearly screamed. Then he found himself lowered onto a bed of soft furs. He didn’t even protest the pain when placed on his back. Cold left him unable to feel much anyway, like the insistent hands yanking off his boots.
The door opened and closed again, the rider moving to stand by the fire. “How is he?” the rider asked the man currently examining Yarif’s feet.
“Too early to tell. He might lose a toe or two.”
