Han watched, transfixed, until they were lost in the trees. The sounds of the chase diminished until the clearing was once again quiet and empty, save the bolts that stood quivering, black against the snow, evidence that it hadn’t been a dream.

Ragger snorted impatiently and tossed his head. Han spoke to the gelding, absently soothing him as he tried to make sense of what he’d just seen.

Those in pursuit rode upland military horses with shaggy winter coats. They had the look of unbadged bluejackets, too—carefully nondescript. They’d be trying to prevent the girlie from reaching safety in Marisa Pines, just a few miles away.

They were aiming to kill, six on one. The bluejacket girlie rode like a clan warrior, but there was no way she’d escape. It was a private life-and-death contest that had nothing to do with him.

He told himself he should ride on, grateful that the chase would keep them occupied while he took a different path.

But what had he told Rebecca when she’d asked what he meant to do when he returned to the Fells?

I’m tired of people in power picking on the weak. I’m going to help them.

Han didn’t know the story behind what he’d seen. Still, whoever she was, he had a greater stake in helping that girlie in a six-on-one fight than in shilling for a queen he hated.

It sort of related to why he was here. Byrne had been captain of the Queen’s Guard, and father to the intensely honest Amon Byrne, and this girlie was all that remained of his company. And Amon Byrne had been a friend and commander to Rebecca.

Without a conscious plan, he heeled Ragger into motion, skidding sideways down the slope to where he could follow after. He started out careful, but soon found himself driving his heels into Ragger’s sides, afraid he would arrive too late.

The chase came to an abrupt end a mile farther down the trail in a small glen littered with broken rock. Han could hear men shouting to each other. Looping Ragger’s reins over a laurel bush, Han dismounted and pulled down his longbow and a sheaf of arrows. He scrambled up the side of the canyon, over ice and rock, and then forward until he could look down into the ravine, squinting to make the most of the failing light.

The fugitive’s riderless horse stood to one side, head down, sides heaving, coat steaming in the frigid air. At first Han thought he was too late, that the girlie was taken. But the hunters dismounted all in a blood frenzy, loading their crossbows and drawing their blades. Apparently they’d brought their quarry to bay. Perhaps the horse had stumbled, and she’d been thrown.

Or maybe she’d been ambushed. On recounting, now there were at least eight men in the canyon.