The reins won’t budge.
The wagon shudders, and something big slams into its bed.
Quinn? Samuel? Both? I have no idea. I’m useless sitting here trussed up like a boar about to be cooked over a spit, and the wagon keeps moving closer and closer to the boat. I have to cut the reins before it’s too late.
My fingers, numb and swollen from lack of blood, fumble as I reach for my knife. The wagon shakes again, and someone grunts. My fingertips brush the knife hilt, but I can’t grasp it. Gritting my teeth, I find the hilt again and shove my hands farther into my boot.
This time, I wrap the fingers of my left hand around the hilt and pull. The weapon slides free. I push the hilt firmly between my feet, grip it as tightly as I can with my boots, and start sawing the reins against the blade.
Something crashes behind me. Seconds later, the wagon’s canvas covering rips—a rough tearing sound that turns my blood to ice.
Nothing cuts canvas that swiftly except a sword. The only person in the wagon bed who has a sword is Samuel, which means Quinn hasn’t been able to disarm him, and now Quinn is fighting an opponent of equal skill in a small, contained area with nothing between him and a sword but his wits and his speed.
I saw the reins against the knife as fast as I can. The leather snags the blade and then slips, and I wince as the steel slices into my skin instead. Blood wells, slicking the leather, and I look toward the sky before the sight can remind me of pressing my hands to Oliver’s neck. Of trying to seal the wound I made in Melkin’s chest.
I don’t have time to be distracted by ghosts. I have a friend to save.
The knife wobbles, and I push my feet together to hold it steady. Someone shouts from the boat, and I hear the steady slap of boots on the dock coming closer and closer to the wagon.
The trackers aboard the boat have sent help for Samuel. If I let another tracker join the fight in the wagon bed, Quinn won’t make it out alive.
My breath heaves in and out as I desperately yank the reins against the blade.
“Break, you stupid piece of leather. Break!” I haul back, and the leather snags again. This time, the knife bites deep. A small tear slowly widens as I pull with all my might. With a snap, one of the reins splits completely. Quickly, I shake my hands, and the rest of the leather loosens around my wrists.
Another crash shakes the wagon as I grab the reins with my good hand and pull myself onto the wagon bench. Ian is rushing down the dock toward us, his face set in grim lines. His sword is already out.
Desperation churns through me. The second he sees Quinn, he’ll know what Samuel has surely already figured out: that the only way Quinn could have survived the fight with Ian four days ago is if he’s wearing armor, and that stabbing him in the chest is useless.
They’ll be trying to cut off his head.
My muscles tighten, and my vision narrows. Ian isn’t going to take anyone else from me. I may be too weak to join the fight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change the odds. All I have to do is give Samuel and Ian something more important to think about than killing Quinn.
Something like trying to keep me in custody.
Something like trying to save their own lives.
Starting with Ian.
“Run!” I lunge to my feet and slap the reins against the donkeys repeatedly. They squeal and jerk their ears flat against their heads, but another few smacks gets them moving. Fast. The wagon careens down the dock as the donkeys race to get away from the lashes.
Bracing myself against the lip of the wagon, I lock eyes with Ian, drag the reins to the left, and aim the wagon straight for him.
Seconds before the donkeys crash into Ian, sending him beneath their hooves and the steel-rimmed wheels of the wagon, the animals swerve sharply, throwing me against the bench as I struggle to keep my balance.
Apparently, donkeys prefer not to trample humans. Lucky for Ian. Not so lucky for me.
I clutch the reins in my hands, but I’m no longer in control of the wagon. No one is. The tiny sliver of dock between Ian and the river isn’t big enough to give the donkeys anywhere to go. I have a split second to drag in a breath, and then we plunge over the side of the dock and into the river.
With a tremendous splash, the water swallows us and flings us downstream. I let go of the reins, blink my eyes until I can see in the hazy, dirt-filled water, and push off from the wagon with my feet. Beside me, Heidi lets go of her leg and struggles feebly against the river’s current. She’ll be okay. Ian is about to dive into the water, and I bet most of the other trackers will follow suit. They’ll be looking for me, but if Samuel’s loyalty is any indication, they won’t leave Heidi behind to drown.
I hope they rescue the donkeys, too.
The current pulls at me, but I kick against it and grab the side of the wagon as it sinks slowly toward the riverbed. I wish I’d thought to reach for my knife as we went over the side of the dock, but I didn’t, and the water has surely stolen it by now.
Working my way along the side of the wagon, using my left hand and my feet, I pray Quinn is still alive. Maybe going into the river gave Quinn an opportunity to disarm Samuel in the confusion.
Or maybe it gave Samuel the opportunity to kill Quinn, instead.
My pulse slams against my eardrums, and my lungs feel strained. I can’t hold my breath much longer. Grabbing the jagged tear in the canvas, I pull it open and look inside.
It’s empty.
Someone grabs my waist from behind and pulls me away from the wagon. I whip my head around, and something hard dissolves inside my chest when I find myself face-to-face with Quinn. His shoulder-length dark hair swirls around his golden face, and his eyes burn into mine. Relief gushes through me, loosening the knot of fear in my chest, and I latch on to him like I never plan to let go.
The wagon shudders, and something big slams into its bed.
Quinn? Samuel? Both? I have no idea. I’m useless sitting here trussed up like a boar about to be cooked over a spit, and the wagon keeps moving closer and closer to the boat. I have to cut the reins before it’s too late.
My fingers, numb and swollen from lack of blood, fumble as I reach for my knife. The wagon shakes again, and someone grunts. My fingertips brush the knife hilt, but I can’t grasp it. Gritting my teeth, I find the hilt again and shove my hands farther into my boot.
This time, I wrap the fingers of my left hand around the hilt and pull. The weapon slides free. I push the hilt firmly between my feet, grip it as tightly as I can with my boots, and start sawing the reins against the blade.
Something crashes behind me. Seconds later, the wagon’s canvas covering rips—a rough tearing sound that turns my blood to ice.
Nothing cuts canvas that swiftly except a sword. The only person in the wagon bed who has a sword is Samuel, which means Quinn hasn’t been able to disarm him, and now Quinn is fighting an opponent of equal skill in a small, contained area with nothing between him and a sword but his wits and his speed.
I saw the reins against the knife as fast as I can. The leather snags the blade and then slips, and I wince as the steel slices into my skin instead. Blood wells, slicking the leather, and I look toward the sky before the sight can remind me of pressing my hands to Oliver’s neck. Of trying to seal the wound I made in Melkin’s chest.
I don’t have time to be distracted by ghosts. I have a friend to save.
The knife wobbles, and I push my feet together to hold it steady. Someone shouts from the boat, and I hear the steady slap of boots on the dock coming closer and closer to the wagon.
The trackers aboard the boat have sent help for Samuel. If I let another tracker join the fight in the wagon bed, Quinn won’t make it out alive.
My breath heaves in and out as I desperately yank the reins against the blade.
“Break, you stupid piece of leather. Break!” I haul back, and the leather snags again. This time, the knife bites deep. A small tear slowly widens as I pull with all my might. With a snap, one of the reins splits completely. Quickly, I shake my hands, and the rest of the leather loosens around my wrists.
Another crash shakes the wagon as I grab the reins with my good hand and pull myself onto the wagon bench. Ian is rushing down the dock toward us, his face set in grim lines. His sword is already out.
Desperation churns through me. The second he sees Quinn, he’ll know what Samuel has surely already figured out: that the only way Quinn could have survived the fight with Ian four days ago is if he’s wearing armor, and that stabbing him in the chest is useless.
They’ll be trying to cut off his head.
My muscles tighten, and my vision narrows. Ian isn’t going to take anyone else from me. I may be too weak to join the fight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change the odds. All I have to do is give Samuel and Ian something more important to think about than killing Quinn.
Something like trying to keep me in custody.
Something like trying to save their own lives.
Starting with Ian.
“Run!” I lunge to my feet and slap the reins against the donkeys repeatedly. They squeal and jerk their ears flat against their heads, but another few smacks gets them moving. Fast. The wagon careens down the dock as the donkeys race to get away from the lashes.
Bracing myself against the lip of the wagon, I lock eyes with Ian, drag the reins to the left, and aim the wagon straight for him.
Seconds before the donkeys crash into Ian, sending him beneath their hooves and the steel-rimmed wheels of the wagon, the animals swerve sharply, throwing me against the bench as I struggle to keep my balance.
Apparently, donkeys prefer not to trample humans. Lucky for Ian. Not so lucky for me.
I clutch the reins in my hands, but I’m no longer in control of the wagon. No one is. The tiny sliver of dock between Ian and the river isn’t big enough to give the donkeys anywhere to go. I have a split second to drag in a breath, and then we plunge over the side of the dock and into the river.
With a tremendous splash, the water swallows us and flings us downstream. I let go of the reins, blink my eyes until I can see in the hazy, dirt-filled water, and push off from the wagon with my feet. Beside me, Heidi lets go of her leg and struggles feebly against the river’s current. She’ll be okay. Ian is about to dive into the water, and I bet most of the other trackers will follow suit. They’ll be looking for me, but if Samuel’s loyalty is any indication, they won’t leave Heidi behind to drown.
I hope they rescue the donkeys, too.
The current pulls at me, but I kick against it and grab the side of the wagon as it sinks slowly toward the riverbed. I wish I’d thought to reach for my knife as we went over the side of the dock, but I didn’t, and the water has surely stolen it by now.
Working my way along the side of the wagon, using my left hand and my feet, I pray Quinn is still alive. Maybe going into the river gave Quinn an opportunity to disarm Samuel in the confusion.
Or maybe it gave Samuel the opportunity to kill Quinn, instead.
My pulse slams against my eardrums, and my lungs feel strained. I can’t hold my breath much longer. Grabbing the jagged tear in the canvas, I pull it open and look inside.
It’s empty.
Someone grabs my waist from behind and pulls me away from the wagon. I whip my head around, and something hard dissolves inside my chest when I find myself face-to-face with Quinn. His shoulder-length dark hair swirls around his golden face, and his eyes burn into mine. Relief gushes through me, loosening the knot of fear in my chest, and I latch on to him like I never plan to let go.
