They couldn’t maintain the pace: they only had one set of horses, and the first declivity was lightly forested, so that weaving was essential and a gallop or fast canter impossible. They slowed, found leaf-strewn paths. It was mid afternoon, the sun high-flung in the sky, and the light streamed down through the tall trees, dappling the ground and turning the leaves bright. Damen’s only experience of long, cross-country riding was in a group—not two men alone on a single mission.
It was a good feeling, he found, with the flash of Laurent’s insouciant riding ahead of him. It felt good to ride out knowing that the outcome of the ride was dependant upon his own actions, rather than being delegated away to someone else. He understood that the border lords, determined on a course of action, would find a way to dismiss or ignore any evidence that did not fit their plans. But he was here to follow the thread of Breteau to its conclusion, regardless. He was here to find out the truth. That idea was satisfying.
After a few hours, Damen emerged from the trees into the clearing on the edge of a stream, where Laurent was waiting, resting his horse. The stream flowed quick and clear. Laurent let his horse stretch out its neck, let six inches of reins slip through his fingers, easy in the saddle as his horse dropped its head, seeking out water, blowing across the surface of the stream.
Relaxed in the sunlight, Laurent watched him approach, as one expecting an arrival welcome and familiar. Behind him the light was bright on the water. Damen let his horse grasp the bit and draw him forward.
Cleaving the silence came the sound of an Akielon horn.
It was loud and sudden. The birds in the nearby trees made disrupted notes of their own and flew upwards out of the branches. Laurent whirled his horse in the direction of the sound. The horn came from over the rise, which could be seen from the disturbance of the birds. With a single look at Damen, Laurent pressed his mount over the stream, towards the crest of the hill.
As they rode up the slope, a sound began to intrude over the noise of the fast-running stream water, as if many feet were in half-regular march. It was a sound he knew. It did not come only from the tramp of leather boots on the earth but from hooves, the clinks of armour and the turning of wheels, all of which gave it its irregular pattern.
Laurent reined in his horse as they crested the hill together, barely hidden from sight behind outcrops of granite.
Damen looked out.
The men spanned the length of the adjoining valley, a line of red cloaks in perfect formation. At this distance, Damen could see the man blowing the horn, the ivory curve that he raised to his lips, the flash of bronze at the tip. The standards that were flying were the standards of the commander Makedon.
He knew Makedon. He knew that formation, he knew th
e weight of that armour, he knew the feel of the spear-shaft in his hand—everything was familiar. The sense of home and the yearning for home threatened to overwhelm him. It would feel so right to rejoin them, to emerge from the grey maze of Veretian politics, and return to something that he understood: the simplicity of knowing his enemy, and facing a fight.
He turned.
Laurent was watching him.
He remembered Laurent sizing up the distance between two balconies and saying, ‘Probably,’ which, once appraised, had been enough for him to jump. He was looking at Damen with the same expression.
Laurent said, ‘The nearest Akielon troop is nearer than I expected.’
‘I could throw you over the back of my horse,’ Damen said.
He wouldn’t even need to do that. He would just need to wait. Outriders would be galloping through these hills.
The horn split the air again; every mote of Damen’s body seemed to ring with it. Home was so close. He could take Laurent down the hill and deliver him into Akielon captivity. The desire to do that thrummed in his blood. Nothing was standing in his way. Damen pressed his eyes closed briefly.
‘You need to take cover,’ Damen said. ‘We’re inside their scouting lines. I can ride as lookout until they’ve moved on.’
‘Very well,’ Laurent said, after a heartbeat passed with his eyes watching Damen steadily.
* * *
They agreed on a rendezvous, and Laurent took off with the restrained urgency of a man who has to find some way to hide sixteen hands of bay gelding behind a shrub.
Damen’s job was harder. Laurent had not been out of sight ten minutes before Damen heard the unmistakable vibration of hooves, and he barely had time to dismount and hold his horse silently, pressed into a tangle of undergrowth, before two riders thundered by.
He had to be cautious—not only for Laurent’s sake, but also his own. He was wearing Veretian clothing. Under normal circumstances, an encounter with an Akielon outrider would not be a threat to a Veretian. At worst, there would be some unpleasant posturing. But this was Makedon, and among his forces were the men who had destroyed Breteau. To men like that, Laurent would be a prize beyond measure.
But because there were things that he needed to know, he left his horse in the best hiding place he could find, a dark, quiet gap between outcroppings of rock, and went on foot. It took perhaps an hour before he knew the pattern of their riding, and all he needed of the main troop, their number, intent and direction.
It was at least a thousand men, armed and provisioned, and travelling west, which meant that they were being sent to supply a garrison. These were the sorts of war preparations that he had not seen at Ravenel, the filling of storehouses, the recruitment of men. War happened like this, with an arrangement of defences and strategy. The news of the attacks on the border villages would not have reached Kastor yet, but the northern lords knew well enough what to do.
Makedon, whose attack on Breteau had thrown down the gauntlet for this conflict, was likely presenting these troops to his Kyros, Nikandros, who must be in residence in the west, maybe even at Marlas. Other northern men would follow suit.
Damen returned to his horse, mounted, and picked his way carefully along the wide, rocky stream bank to the shallow cave that, to his searching eyes, appeared empty at first. It was a well chosen spot: the entrance was hidden from most angles, and the danger of discovery was low. An outrider’s job was simply to ensure the terrain was clear of any obstacles that might impede an army. It was not to check every crack and crevasse on the unlikely chance a prince might be squeezed in there.
There was the dull rattle of hooves moving on stone; Laurent emerged from the shadows of the cave on horseback, his manner carefully casual.