The man screamed a curse as she hit — something, some part of him — with the arrowhead. He flinched away, she felt him start to lose his balance and she shoved harder.
With another screech, he fell off the mule, and she jabbed the point of the arrow into the mule’s haunches.
Not hard, but enough to hurt, and that, combined with the man’s shrieks, was too much for the mule. She half reared, but couldn’t get too far up on her heels — just enough so she could pivot and bolt back the way they had come. She dropped the arrow and the reins and hung on to the front of the saddle with both hands for dear life.
Branches lashed her face, cutting her like whips, until she crouched down and hid her face against the mule’s neck. She cried with pain and fear, but when the mule faltered, she grabbed another quarrel from the quiver and lashed her with it, goading her into running again. Only when she came to a shuddering halt, sides heaving, head hanging, did she let her be. That was when she raised her face from her neck and saw that the forest around them was nothing but a confusing blur of dark blue shadow and the black trunks of trees.
She had no idea where she was.
She slid down off the mule’s back into the snow; scooped up some of it in her glove to apply to the burning welts across her face and listened as hard as she could. She thought she heard the echo of men’s angry voices in the distance, but she couldn’t tell the echo from the original. They could be behind her, or in front of her.
The mule’s sides slowly stopped heaving; she patted her neck, and clambered awkwardly back into place. It would be an hour, maybe more, until the moon rose, but even then, that would be no help —
What had her father said when she first started to visit Granny? “If you get lost, don’t wander. Stay right where you are. The more you wander, the more lost you will become and the more tangled your trail. Wander too far, and your trail will be lost, and by the time trackers find you it might be too late.”
But was that wise advice to follow when there was someone back there who had put a knife to her throat?
What if he found her?
She shook with terror and cold, as the sweat of fear chilled on her body. And when she heard branches cracking behind her just as the moon came over the top of the hill, she had only enough presence of mind to look back, even as her hand reached for another crossbow quarrel to beat the poor mule with.
But the mule stretched her head and neck around and gave a pathetic bray, which was answered by an equally pathetic nicker, and the dark shape that came toward them was far too big to be a man afoot.
“Eric?” she called, her voice strained.
“I don’t know how you got that mule to run like a racehorse, but I’m glad you did,” came the grimly humorous reply. “Clearing off as you did gave me a free hand.”
She didn’t ask him what he meant by that; the mule shied a little as it scented what she did on him — fresh blood.
“Two untrained curs against me was no odds for them,” he continued. “Though you did half my work for me with the second.”
“I s-s-stabbed him with an a-a-arrow,” she stammered, teeth chattering.
“Good thinking. Or good reacting, if you didn’t think. He was bleeding like a lanced stag when he came at me. He’d have done better to run.” The horse came up alongside the mule, and the two beasts nuzzled each other in relief at finding their stablemates. “Are you hurt?”
“N-n-no…” She gulped back tears. “A l-little.”
By now the moon shone down through the branches, and he reached over to tilt her chin so it shone down on her face. “Ah. Didn’t tuck your head down,” he said with gruff sympathy. “That’ll hurt, all right. Wait a moment.” He rummaged into his saddlebag and came up with a jar. Pulling out the cork, he handed it to her, and she caught the familiar scent of one of her ointments. She took it from him with shaking hands, pulled off one glove with her teeth and dug two fingers into the jar. As she smeared on the ointment, the burning of the lash marks began to cool.
“You need to have a good cry?” Eric asked, in a conversational tone.
“I — I d-d-don’t know — ”
“Then swallow it down for a bit,” he advised. “Or just let it leak as we ride. I’ve got a few scratches to tend to, and you’ll be feeling like you want to faint before long, once all of this catches up with you.” He uttered something like a chuckle. “Hellfire, so will I, or at least sit down on something that isn’t moving.” He urged his horse ahead of her mule, and took the lead. She didn’t have to nudge the mule; she followed without any signal from her.
She shivered inside her fur-lined coat, gulping down tears, mind going numb, and yet, spinning with horrid images. The strange feeling as the arrow in her hand hit something solid — how badly had she stabbed the man? Badly enough to have killed him, if Eric hadn’t? The dreadful feeling of the knife at her throat and the grim certainty that she was going to die. That was twice, now — once when the wolf had attacked her, and now this —