He narrows his eyes, studying me anew. “How do you not know the nature of the hellequin’s hunt? Have you sprouted from the earth wholly formed, like some miraculous cabbage?”
There is a faint clink of chain mail as he leans forward, eager to impress upon me the seriousness of the situation. “For that is who will be pursuing you if you do not come with me. Hellequin’s hunt.”
A sharp ribbon of unease snakes along my spine, and I must work hard to put a note of disdain in my voice, lest it tremble instead. “You must truly think me wool-witted to believe that, for they are otherworldly creatures, not fashioned of bone and blood. They ride steeds of smoke and moonlight, not the pounding horseflesh that horde was riding.”
“Did they appear wraithlike to you? Did the force of their horses’ hooves sound unearthly?”
“No,” I say, my mind scrambling furiously. “They did not.” The ribbon of unease turns into a cold trickle of fear as all of the nuns’ scoldings and warnings come back to me. Who is to say the nuns’ tales of the hellequin hunting down those who dare to defy Mortain are not real as well? Ismae’s mention of the hellequin that appeared at the Yuletide festivities rises up in my mind.
Which means they could, in truth, be hunting me.
Could my absence at the convent already have been noted? Or in leaving, have I broken some sacred binding that has called the hunt upon me? And if I have, are they to return me to the convent or simply to hunt me down?
Almost as if my thoughts have called the hunt back, I feel a distant rumble that begins in the ground beneath my feet. I glance accusingly at the stranger. “I cry foul,” I say softly.
He gives a single shake of his head as he pushes away from the tree. “I did not call them.” He turns to peer out into the darkness, as if judging their distance. “But you’d best decide what to do swiftly.”
“What are my choices?”
His head swivels around and he pierces me with his black gaze. “Come with me and allow me to protect you from the others, or be hunted.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?”
“Let us just say that I have a good idea what awaits you out there on the open road alone, and I am not certain that you do. And remember”—he flashes a grin that could only be described as morose—“I am a hellequin. I am hunting for redemption as much as for prey. Perhaps saving you will bring me closer to that end. Besides, we are traveling in the same direction.”
In games of politics and maneuvering, Sister Eonette has always claimed it is best to keep one’s enemies close. If the hellequin are really such a threat, then it seems wise to do as he suggests and ride into their midst, keeping my true identity hidden from him, just as he tries to hide me from the hunt. Then, once I have become a part of their routine and earned some small measure of their trust, I can slip away when the opportunity presents itself.
He cocks his ear, listening, then holds out his hand to me. “Now, unless you wish to be caught . . .”
“Very well.” I ignore his hand and turn to pick up my bedroll. While I hastily roll it up, the stranger plucks my saddle from the ground with no more effort than plucking a flower from a bush, then settles it onto Fortuna’s back. She stomps briefly in unease, her ears twitching nervously, before she calms under his touch.
The sound of the approaching riders grows louder, and my heartbeat starts to match the pounding of their hoofbeats.
“We must hurry,” he says.
I slip my quiver over my shoulder, then grab my bow. “I am only waiting for you to get out of my way so I may mount,” I tell him. It is not wholly true, but it gives me some small sense of being in control of a rapidly crumbling situation.
He lifts one mocking brow, then steps away from Fortuna. I ignore his cupped hands and mount without his help, another small but important declaration of how I intend our relationship to progress. Fortuna catches the scent of the approaching riders just then and tosses her head. Before I can ask him what he plans to ride—he is not riding with me on Fortuna!—he moves to the edge of the copse, where his own mount is tied to a tree. He leaps gracefully onto his horse, then wheels the demented-looking beast toward me. In truth, the horse looks as if he has ridden straight from the Underworld itself. His eyes are wild, and his nostrils wide, as if he is taking in all the scents of the night around him. His neck arches proudly and he paws at the ground, eager to be on his way.
And then they are upon us: one of the great horses breaks through the edge of trees surrounding our clearing. Before I can react, the stranger reaches out and grabs my reins. I do not even have time to protest before the jolt forward forces me to grab hold of my saddle lest I tumble off, then both his horse and Fortuna leap forward as the rest of the riders emerge from the trees and surround us. Shadowy black hounds nearly as big as ponies lope along the edges of the pack.
The galloping horses are an unholy sight that raises goose flesh along my arms. They are the color of midnight with churning hooves, their lips and nostrils seeming to glow red with their efforts. They engulf us like a river, swirling around us like water around a boat. We join them, causing barely a ripple.
The riders are as unsettling as their horses. Some wear hooded cloaks, so I cannot see their features. Others are garbed in dark chain mail and boiled leather. One rider has spikes on his vambraces, and another wears a bandolier of knives across his chest. I have an impression of dark eyes and unshaven faces that are fierce with the thrill of the hunt. They do not react to my joining their ranks other than to shift slightly to make room for Fortuna.
I do not know how long we ride—hours, it seems, although time has taken on an almost ghostly form so it might have been only minutes that passed. Every once in a while, the group breaks into four sections and appears to quarter the countryside, looking for prey.
I cannot help but be grateful that they are not hunting me. Or if they are, that they do not yet know it.
Chapter Fifteen
WHEN WE FINALLY SLACKEN OUR pace, I realize that my rescuer and I have moved toward the front of the pack. He raises his hand in the air, and the hunt slows to a walk. A small knot of hellequin break off from the others to ride forward. “Why are we stopping?” a giant of a man asks. He wears a boiled-leather breastplate and his arms are bare except for long gauntlets that reach almost to his elbows. An ax is strapped to his back, and a long sword affixed to his saddle. His hair is long and flutters faintly in the night breeze. He is utterly terrifying.