There was no further need for him to serve as a hostage. Haomane’s Allies had kept their word and withdrawn; the battle was engaged, his usefulness was ended. There would be no repercussions for Darkhaven if he failed in the attempt. The Ellyl Peldras was wrong; the General would come for him. Still, how much more impressed would he be if Speros proved himself in no need of rescue? And moreover, with a valuable warning to give.

I will not fail you again.

Speros took a deep breath. It would need to be done swiftly, but that was all right. He had stolen horses before. This wouldn’t be much different, except that Ghost was his horse. He wished he had a dagger to cut the picket lines, but Haomane’s Allies had taken his weapons. That was all right, too. Ghost was not an ordinary horse. She wouldn’t panic.

It was a piece of luck that they had not bothered to remove her bridle; too fearful of her snapping teeth. Speros sidled close, watching her eye roll around at him. “Be sweet, my beauty,” he murmured, low and crooning. “For once in your life, as you love his Lordship, be gentle.”

Her ears pricked forward. With two quick yanks, Speros dragged the picket stakes from the earth. Ghost had already begun to move when he grasped her mane and hauled himself astride.

They were ten strides away from the encampment before an alarm was shouted. Speros laughed and flattened himself against Ghost’s grey hide, feeling her muscles surge beneath him as she accelerated. Her neck stretched out long and low, coarse mane whipping his face. They were all shouting now, Haomane’s Allies, shouting and pointing. Too late. Ghost’s hooves pounded the tall grass, haunches churning, forelegs reaching, heedless of the dangling picket lines bouncing in her wake.

The plains rolled by beneath him. Speros’ eyes watered. He blinked away the wind-stung tears and saw the rearguard of Haomane’s Allies turning their attention toward him. A lone Ellyl horn wailed a plangent alarm. He sent Ghost veering wide around them, around their attendants still carting the wounded from the field. No hero’s charge, this; no fool, he. He only wanted to warn General Tanaros. If he could get behind Darkhaven’s lines, he could send word. Something is wrong, very wrong. Let me investigate. I will not fail you again.

Or better yet, he would return directly to Darkhaven. There was no need to ask the General’s permission. It would be better if he went himself in all swiftness. After all, if the Bearer had managed to penetrate Darkhaven’s walls, there was only one place he would go—to the very Source of the marrow-fire itself. General Tanaros admired his initiative, he had told him so. He would still send word, so the General would know.