The soft breeze carried the distant sound of riders—more than a few and coming on at a gallop.
“They couldn’t have tracked us through the city,” said Rieser. “Someone must have seen us at the gate. Micum Cavish is a hard man to mistake in this land.”
“Too true,” said Seregil. “Rieser, you ride with me for now, and give Alec’s horse a rest.”
Alec went to Micum’s horse and laced his fingers into a stirrup. Micum’s limp was more pronounced now, and a stiff leg could mean a bad fall.
Micum set his foot there and Alec boosted him up onto his horse’s back.
“Can you ride hard?” Alec whispered to him, not wanting the others to hear.
“Of course I can,” Micum scoffed softly, but his smile was tight.
Seregil mounted his own sweating horse. The Hâzad jumped lightly up behind him and gripped the back of Seregil’s shirt.
“We don’t know for certain it’s them,” Alec pointed out as they forced their tired horses into a last gallop. “It could be the man we stole the horses from.”
“It could be slave takers,” said Micum.
“I’d rather not wait around to see!” Seregil replied, taking the lead.
Whoever it was, they couldn’t be too far behind if Alec could hear them over the surf. Sure enough, when he looked back over his shoulder, he caught the glint of afternoon light on metal. “Damn!” Whoever it was behind them, their horses must be fresher, for they were steadily gaining. There were too many to be the horse breeder and his men, unless he’d raised the countryside against them.
“They’re gaining!” shouted Micum, though it hardly needed pointing out.
Their pursuers were close enough now that Alec could make out the pale ovals of faces, but not features yet. Still out of bowshot, hopefully. He didn’t fancy getting shot in the back again. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
And still the riders gained on them.
“We’re not going to make the cove!” Micum shouted.
“No, but we can make it there.” Seregil pointed to a nearby cottage above the ledges, one of the abandoned ones they’d passed when they’d first arrived here.
It wasn’t the best of redoubts. The roof thatching was rotting away on one end, and several shutters were hanging on by a hinge. The remains of a fishing net hung sun-rotted over a drying frame. But there was nothing better in sight.
“Rieser, take the horses around to the back and tie them up somehow,” Seregil ordered.
The door was blocked on the inside, but Seregil and Alec climbed in through one of the windows that flanked it and lifted the warped bar from the rusty staples. A table still stood at the center of the room, and there was one broken bench and an overturned sideboard. A rotting pallet lay in one corner close to the stone chimney.
They let the others in and barred the door again, then set about using the broken furniture to block the windows with broken shutters as best they could. The shutters still on their hinges were warped by the salt air and wouldn’t withstand much of an assault, but they’d be enough to shield them from archers, if it came to that.
“Look what I found,” said Rieser, brandishing a rusty axe.
“Good man!” exclaimed Micum.
Rieser nearly smiled.
Seregil looked around, taking stock. “So, one bow—”
Alec settled the quiver strap over his shoulder.
“I hope you’re as good as he says you are,” Rieser told him.
“He is,” said Seregil. Micum had one of the front windows half open now. “How many, Micum?”
“I’d say twenty at least.”
“Closer to twenty-five,” said Rieser.
“Damn, I don’t like those odds, not the way we’re armed,” Seregil said.
“What about this ship you keep talking about?” asked Rieser. “Can’t one of us go for help?”
Seregil exchanged a look with the others. “It’s not that far. Half an hour round trip, at most.”
“Longer, getting out to the ship to gather the men and get them organized,” Micum pointed out.
“You’re the fastest runner, Seregil,” said Alec. “And the least likely to be seen.”
He was right, of course, and there was no time to quibble.
“Give me the knife,” said Seregil.
Micum handed it to him. “No lollygagging, you.”
“Luck in the shadows,” added Alec.
“And to the rest of you.” Seregil gave him a quick kiss and ducked out the back window.
Seregil could have taken one of the horses, but that would have called too much attention, and at this distance he couldn’t outrun the riders. He could hear them more clearly now, and could tell by their shouts that they were making for the cottage. Crouching as low as he could, he kept the house between them until he reached a shallow gully that took him toward the headland and down over the lip of a rise. Out of sight of the cottage at last, he fixed his eye on the distant beach and ran for all their lives.
As he rounded the base of the small headland, however, he found the cove aglow with late-afternoon light, and quite empty.
“No!” He sank to his knees in the dry bladder wrack at the tide line and stared incredulously out across the empty water. Had they gotten the day wrong? Worse yet, had something happened to the Lady?
“Lord Seregil?” One of Rhal’s crewmen—Quentis, Seregil thought—emerged from a patch of bushes, brushing twigs and dead leaves from his jerkin. “Where’s the rest of ’em? The captain set me to watch for you—”
“Where’s the ship?” Seregil gasped, pushing himself to his feet and noting that Quentis was wearing a sword.
“It’s the tide, my lord.” The man hooked a thumb at the water, and Seregil cursed himself for a fool. The tide was out. “It’ll be another hour before there’s draft enough to float the Lady through the shoals.”
“An hour? We don’t have an hour!” The sun was sinking toward the western horizon. Squinting into the glare, he looked for some sign of the ship, but there was none that he could see. “Bilairy’s Balls, man, the others are trapped. Besieged!”
“What are we going to do, my lord?”
Seregil walked down to the waterline and washed the dust from his face and neck, trying to collect his thoughts. Quentis appeared at his elbow with a waterskin. Seregil rinsed his mouth, then took a sparing sip and slung the skin over his shoulder; you couldn’t run on a bellyful. “Do you have a boat?”
“Yes, hidden over there.”
“Good. I need your sword.” He glanced down at the smooth, egg-shaped rocks he was kneeling on. “And your shirt.”
“I’m coming with you!”
“No, you’re going to row out and signal the ship any way you can. You saw the direction I came from? If we don’t come back, have Rhal send a force up the road to a little cottage over that rise, on the seaward side of the road. He can make up his mind what needs to be done once he gets there.”
Quentis watched unhappily as Seregil buckled on the sword. “What are you going to do, my lord?”
“Whatever I can.”
“How many do you make it now?” Alec asked, leaning against the barred door.
“Closer to thirty, and there are archers among them,” said Micum, peering out. Their pursuers had reined in on the road. Some dismounted and came running forward with swords drawn. They made easy targets.
“All right, then.” Alec threw open one shutter at the other window and set an arrow to his bowstring. He took down three before the rest retreated, and two more still on horseback. A moment later, an arrow sang past his cheek and embedded itself in the wall behind him. Others followed, and Alec stepped back into cover. Picking up a fallen shaft, he looked at it closely.
“What do you make of it?” Micum asked.
“’Faie made, I’d say. That’s a relief of sorts,” Alec replied. “If we are captured, I’d rather it be by Ulan.” The head was chipped, but he sent it speeding back the way it had come anyway. His range was longer than they’d guessed. Another man fell. “That’s six, but not a kill.”