A quick and vicious battle ensues, a flurry of swords and energy spells. I power up, intent on throwing my magic into the fight, but the group is too condensed. I can’t risk hitting one of my own men.
Archer appears at my side, sworn drawn, yelling to get my attention. “Go, Thalia! Get out of here!”
I balk at the thought of abandoning the fight, but then Archer slaps King on the rear. “Get the fuck out of here! Go get help.”
It’s the word help that drives me to action. With my kick against King’s flanks, he bolts east, away from the melee and away from where I believe the edge of the cloak will soon come into view.
Racing at full speed and bent low over King’s neck, I glance periodically over my shoulder and see no one in pursuit. I enter the forest and cut back south toward Clairmont. There is no path here, and King has to jump fallen trees and ditches. He stumbles over one, and I nearly pitch off, but he easily regains his footing and charges on.
About a half mile from the attack, I come out into another clearing and see the path up ahead on a hill that will lead to Clairmont. The sounds of battle are gone, and I pray to the gods that Archer and the guards are able to handle the attackers. I spare a moment of thanks that I didn’t tell Archer any plans, because there’s no doubt in my mind that if he and the guards are taken alive, they will be tortured for information.
“Go, King, go,” I urge him faster, but my heart sinks when four riders wearing red and black, their helmets topped with a black-plumed feather, appear directly in front of me as I crest the hill. I have to pull hard on my reins to bring King to a stop so he won’t collide with the other horses. He rears up, but I hold my seat. With my hands and slight pressure from my knees, I direct my horse in an attempt to maneuver around the others. King spins left and back right again, trying to find an out.
“There’s nowhere for you to go,” one of the riders yells. “You might as well calm your horse.”
Like hell!
I give King a sharp kick, and he bolts toward a slight opening between two riders. They’re stunned, having assumed I’d turn tail and run, and for a split second, I think I’ll make good on my escape. But then I feel a warm, heavy sensation around my arms, pinning them to my sides. The reins fall from my hands, now frozen, and then I fly backward off King’s saddle.
The ground rises up to meet me, and I land hard on my back, knocking the breath out of me. I wheeze, trying to suck in air, and I’m afraid I might pass out. I can’t lift my head, but I’m able to turn it slightly, and I’m grateful to see King galloping away. I can handle whatever they might do to me, but I couldn’t bear them hurting my horse.
Trying to get my bearings, I figure they must have used a containment spell that pulled me right off King’s saddle. I still feel it pressing around me as I start to regain my breath. I’m unable to move much more than my head. Sick at heart thinking about what happened to my guards, I fervently hope Archer made it out of the fight safely.
The riders dismount, remove their helmets, and circle me. One squats close and waves a hand over my chest. Instantly, I’m freed from the containment spell, and I push past the nausea to react.
My hand flies out, punching magic into the man’s chest, and he flies backward. He lands with a thud as I look for my next target, my magic brimming so brightly, it burns my blood.
But then something is clamped around my neck, and I’m sapped of all power. My hands claw at whatever it is—cold metal of some sort. I find a hinge, try to figure out how it’s released, but another man leers at me from above. “Don’t waste your energy. Ferelith’s blood imbues that collar, and you can’t fight it.”
I glare at the man but continue to pull at the metal around my neck. They laugh at me and then jeer at the soldier I’d hit with magic as he struggles to his feet with a painful groan.
“What you say, Snyder?” one of the men taunts. “Did the little princess hurt you?”
The man I’d laid low—Snyder—turns my way, and I cringe from the hate emanating from him. His dark hair reaches his shoulders, parted down the middle and greasy. A thin goatee surrounds his thin lips. He strides over, grabs me by the front of my shirt, and hauls me up from the ground as if I weighed no more than a feather.