“BYRNE!” Raisa’s scream reverberated in the small canyon. Heedless of the volleys of arrows that hissed past her and clattered against rock, she spurred Switcher forward to where her captain lay on his back in the snow. Sliding from the saddle, she knelt next to him, lifting his head. His body bristled with shafts, and one transfixed his throat. He tried to speak, but produced only a gush of blood. Lifting one arm, he weakly waved her off. Only the confusion and the wildly plunging horses had saved her thus far.

Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright. A gauntleted arm circled her waist and dragged her off her feet, shoving her belly-down across the saddle in front of him. Her captor kept her pinned in place with one arm while he spurred his mount to a gallop.

With the horror of Byrne’s murder and the helpless jouncing against the horse’s back and the kaleidoscopic view of the ground, Raisa nearly lost the contents of her stomach. No! she said furiously to herself. I’ll find a way to make the bastards pay if it’s the last thing I do! She concentrated on that thought, and made what plans she could.

The scent of pine and a reduction in the force of the wind told her they’d reentered the forest. Which side of the pass? she wondered. Her captor slowed his horse to a walk, apparently looking for some landmark. Finally he grunted in satisfaction and turned to the left. Another hundred yards, and he yanked on the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. He slid out of the saddle, then dragged Raisa down also, setting her on her feet, but keeping one beefy hand on her shoulder. She swung around to look at him.

She took in the stringy brown hair, the cruel slash of a mouth, the tobacco-spit eyes. He was the same soldier who had gashed Switcher’s shoulder, but this time she recognized him.

Blood of the demon! Raisa thought. Can things get any worse?

One side of his face was puckered and scarred, evidence of a serious burn.

Raisa had been responsible for that.

He was clad in what looked like army-issue winter garb, but there was no signia on it anywhere. A discolored stubble covered the lower half of his face, lorded over by a broken nose.

Raisa knew where and how it had been broken.

Mac Gillen, she thought, and all the hope drained out of her.

She’d last seen Gillen at Southbridge Guardhouse, when she’d rescued members of the Raggers street gang from the dungeons where he’d been torturing them. She was the one who’d smashed a burning torch into his face. The other gang members had beaten him badly, payback for the treatment they’d received at his hands.