“I thought you had buried it to leave it behind!” Vanin yelled from the other side. “I figured Mat wouldn’t care. He owes me a few marks anyway! When I opened that sack and found the bloody Horn of Valere… bloody ashes! I’ll bet they heard my yell all the way in Tar Valon!”
Faile groaned, imagining the scene. The yell that Faile had heard was a yell of surprise, and it was what had drawn the bear-thing to attack.
Well, there was no going back to that moment. She clung to Bela with her knees, urging the horse forward. Ahead, Aravine galloped between Trollocs, heading toward where the steep slopes tapered off. Aravine yelled frantically for Trollocs to help her. The racing horses traveled faster than any Trollocs could, however.
Demandred. Aravine had said she would take the Horn to one of the Forsaken. Faile growled softly, leaning down further, and amazingly, Bela pulled ahead of Vanin and Harnan. She didn’t ask where they’d found the horses. She directed her entire attention toward Aravine.
A cry went up through camp, and Vanin and Harnan split off, intercepting riders who came for Faile. She cut to the side, urging Bela to leap a pile of supplies and charging through the center of a group of people in strange clothing, eating beside a small fire. They yelled after her with thick accents.
Inch by inch, she gained on Aravine. Bela snorted and puffed, sweat darkening her coat. The Saldaean cavalry was among the best in the land, and Faile knew horses. She’d ridden all breeds. In those minutes on the battlefield, she would have put Bela up against the Tairen best. The shaggy mare, of no particular breed of note, moved like a champion runner.
Feeling the rhythm of the hoofbeats beneath her, Faile slipped a knife from her sleeve. She urged Bela to jump over a small dip in the land, and they hung in the air for a moment, Faile judging the wind, the fall, the moment. She reached her arm back, and flipped the knife through the air right before Bela’s hooves touched the ground.
The knife flew true, burying itself in Aravine’s back. The woman slipped from the saddle, crumpling to the ground, sack sliding from her grip.
Faile leaped off Bela, landing while still in motion and sliding to a stop beside the sack. She untied
the strings that secured its opening, and saw the glittering Horn inside.
“I’m… sorry…” Aravine whispered, rolling over. Her legs did not move. “Don’t tell Aldin what I did. He has… such terrible taste… in women…”
Faile stood up, then looked down with pity. “Pray that the Creator shelters your soul, Aravine,” Faile said, and climbed back onto Bela’s back. “For if not, the Dark One will have you as his. I leave you to him.” She nudged Bela back into motion.
There were more Trollocs ahead, and they fixed their attention on Faile. They shouted, and several Myrddraal slid forward, pointing toward Faile. They began to shift around her, blocking her path.
She set her jaw, grim, and heeled Bela back in the direction she had come, hoping to meet up with Harnan, Vanin or anyone else who would help.
The camp was abuzz with activity, and Faile picked up riders chasing after her, yelling, “She has the Horn of Valere!”
Somewhere high atop the hill, Mat Cauthon’s forces fought the Shadow. So close!
An arrow hit the ground beside her, followed by others. Faile reached the captive pens, the broken fence lying in pieces and bodies littered about. Bela was huffing, perhaps at the end of her strength. Faile caught sight of another horse nearby, a roan gelding that was saddled, nudging at a fallen soldier at his feet.
Faile slowed. What to do? Switch horses, but then what? She glanced over her shoulder and then ducked down as another arrow passed overhead. She’d picked up some dozen Sharan soldiers on horseback, all chasing her, wearing cloth armor sewn with small rings. They were followed by hundreds of Trollocs.
Even with a fresh horse, she thought, I can’t outrun them. She led Bela behind some supply wagons for cover and leaped off, intending to dash for the fresh mount.
“Lady Faile?” a small voice asked.
Faile glanced down. Olver huddled beneath the wagon, holding his knife.
The riders were almost upon her. Faile didn’t have time to think. She whipped the Horn from its sack and pushed it into Olver’s arms. “Keep this,” she said. “Hide. Take it to Mat Cauthon later in the night.”
“You’re leaving me?” Olver asked. “Alone?”
“I must,” she said, stuffing some bundles of arrows into her sack, her heart thundering in her chest. “Once those riders pass, find another place to hide! They will come back to search where I’ve been, after…”
After they catch me.
She would have to take her knife to herself, lest they torture out of her what she’d done with the Horn. She gripped Olver by the arm. “I’m sorry to place this upon you, little one. There is no one else. You did well earlier; you can do this. Take the Horn to Mat or all is lost.”
She ran into the open, making the sack she carried obvious. Some of those strangely dressed foreigners saw her, pointing. She lifted the sack high and climbed into the saddle of the roan, then kicked it into a gallop.
The Trollocs and Darkfriends followed, leaving the young boy and his heavy burden to huddle beneath a wagon in the middle of the Trolloc camp.
Logain turned the thin disc over in his fingers. Black and white, split by a sinuous line. Cuendillar, supposedly. The flakes that rubbed off beneath his fingers seemed to make mockery of its eternal nature.
“Why didn’t Taim break them?” Logain asked. “He could have. These are as brittle as old leather.”