Raj Ahten’s soldiers nervously watched the hills, anxious to be on their way. The troops bunched together, as men do when fearful. The sounds of King Orden’s hunting horns less than an hour before had put them in a grim mood.

Iome crossed the bridge, and Gaborn helped her back into the saddle, then led her mount over the dirt road, holding the reins to his own horse, as if he were but a stableman delivering the animals.

From behind him came a sudden commotion. A strong voice shouted, “You, Prince Orden!”

Gaborn leapt ahorse, with a kick spurred the beast, shouting, “Game ho!” His mount surged forward so hard that Gaborn nearly fell from the saddle.

He’d taken his mounts from Sylvarresta’s hunting stables, trusting they were trained for the chase. At his command, the horses ran like the wind. These were horses bred for the woods, strong of leg, deep of chest.

Some quick-thinking soldier leapt in Gaborn’s path, battle-axe half-drawn. “Strike!” Gaborn shouted, and his horse leapt and lashed out with a forehoof, dashing the warrior’s head open with the rim of its iron shoe.

From atop the castle wall, Raj Ahten cried, “Stop them! Hold them! Before they reach the woods!” His voice echoed from the hills.

Then Gaborn reached the fields, with Iome shouting and racing beside, clutching the reins to her father’s mount.

Behind them, the pair of Days had not spurred forward. One soldier grabbed the King’s Days by the hem of his robe, dragged the man down as the horse bucked. Three others joined into the task. Iome’s Days, a thin woman with a straight mouth, let her horse dance around the commotion, taking the rear.

Dozens of knights spurred their own mounts, heavy warhorses trained for combat. Gaborn did not fear them. Under the crushing weight of their own armor and that of their armored riders, the horses should fall behind. But they were still force horses, with supernatural strength and endurance.

Gaborn glanced back, shouted for Iome to go faster. He had only a short sword—not much to fight against such men.

On the castle walls, many archers had great bows made of steel that could shoot five hundred yards. Dozens of them nocked arrows. At such a distance, no one could fire accurately, but a lucky shot could kill as easily as a skillful one.

His horse galloped so fluidly, he felt as if it were a creature of wind, come to life beneath him, hooves pounding a four-beat. The stallion raised his ears forward, raised his tail in contentment, grateful to be free of the stable, grateful to race over the ground like a storm.

The woods seemed to rush toward Gaborn.

An arrow whipped past Gaborn’s neck, grazed the ear of his mount.