Confessor: Chainfire Trilogy Part 3

Chapter 6

Rachel didn’t know who the horse belonged to, and she didn’t really care. She wanted it.

She had been running all night and she was exhausted. She had never stopped to consider why she might be running. It somehow didn’t seem important. It mattered only that she keep going, keep making progress. She needed to hurry. She needed to keep going.

She needed to go faster.

She needed the horse.

She was certain of the direction in which she had to go. She didn’t know why she felt so certain about it. She didn’t give that matter any serious thought. It remained only a question from somewhere deep in the back of her mind that never completely surfaced into full conscious concern.

As she crouched in the dry, brittle brush, she tried to remain still as a shadow as she figured out what to do. It was hard to stay still because she was so cold. She tried not to shiver for fear of giving herself away. She wanted to rub her arms, but she knew not to because any movement might draw attention. As cold as she was, what concerned her the most was getting the horse.

Whoever owned the horse didn’t seem to be nearby at the moment. At least, if he was, she couldn’t see him. He might be sleeping in the long, brown grass and be too low for her to see where he was. He might be off scouting.

Or, he might be waiting, watching for her, maybe with an arrow nocked and at the ready so that once she bolted from cover he could take aim and shoot her down. As scary as such a thought was, her fear of such a thing couldn’t compare to her need to keep going, her need to hurry.

Rachel checked the sun off through the thick stand of trees, checking her bearings, making sure she knew the direction she needed to go. She surveyed her choices of escape routes. There was a wide path, not quite a road, that would be a good place for a fast getaway. There was also a shallow, gravel-bottomed stream that ran through part of the open meadow. On the other side of the meadow the stream joined the road and ran beside it as both made their way southeast through the trees.

The sun, low, huge-looking, and red, hung just above the horizon. The color matched the color of the scratches all over her arms from running through the brush.

Before Rachel realized it, before she had finished thinking it through, her legs were moving. They almost seemed to have a mind of their own. Only a few steps out of the brush she was running, bolting out across the open ground toward the horse.

Out of the corner of her eye Rachel caught sight of the man as he suddenly sat up in the tall grass. Just as she had suspected, he had been sleeping. With his leather vest and studded straps holding knives, he looked like one of those Imperial Order men. He appeared to be alone. Probably on a scouting mission. That’s what Chase had taught her. Imperial Order troops out alone were likely scouts.

She didn’t really care who he was. She wanted the horse. She thought that maybe she should be afraid of the man, but she wasn’t. She was afraid only of not getting the horse, of not hurrying.

The man threw his blanket aside as he shot to his feet. He scrambled into a dead run. He was coming fast, but Rachel’s legs had grown long over the summer and she was a fast runner. The soldier yelled at her. She paid him no never mind as she raced toward the bay mare.

The man threw something at her. She saw it streak by over her left shoulder. It was a knife. At such a distance she knew that it had been a foolish throw—a throw-and-pray, as Chase called it. He taught her to focus, to aim. He’d taught her a lot about knives. She also knew that a running target was difficult to hit with a knife.

She was right. The knife missed her by a good margin. With a soft thunk it stuck in a fallen log lying along the way between her and the horse. She yanked the knife out of the rotting log as she ran by and stuck it through her belt as she slowed.

The knife was hers now. Chase had taught her to take the enemy’s weapons whenever possible and be prepared to use them, especially if the weapon was superior to what she had. He had taught her that in a survival situation she had to use whatever was at hand.

Gulping air, she ran under the horse’s nose, snatching up the loose ends of the reins, but they were tied to a branch of the fallen log. Her fingers worked frantically to undo the tight knot, but they were numb with cold. They slipped on the leather as she clawed at it. She wanted to scream with frustration, but instead she kept tugging, working the knot. It seemed to take forever to get it loose. As soon as the reins were free she gathered them together in one hand.

It was then that she noticed the saddle not far away. She glanced up as the man yelled again calling her a name. He was coming fast. She wouldn’t have near enough time to even think about saddling the horse. Saddlebags—probably full of supplies—leaned against the saddle.

She slipped her arm under the flat piece of leather connecting the two halves of the saddlebag and ducked under the startled horse’s neck.

Rounding the far side she grabbed a fistful of mane and hung on tightly to help her vault up onto the animal’s bare back. The saddlebags were heavy and she almost dropped them, but she held on tight and pulled them up behind her. Even though the horse hadn’t been saddled, at least it had on its bridle. Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind Rachel relished the warmth of the animal.

She laid the hefty packs across the horse’s withers in front of her legs. There would be food and water inside. She would need both if she was to be able to continue for long. She just assumed that it would be a long journey.

The horse snorted, tossing its head. Rachel didn’t take the time to gentle the animal as Chase had taught her. She laid the reins over as she thumped the horse’s ribs with her heels. The horse danced sideways, not sure about its strange new rider. Rachel glanced over a shoulder and saw the man almost there. Holding a fistful of mane tightly with one hand and the reins with the other, Rachel leaned forward and again thumped her heels into the horse’s sides, farther back. The horse bolted into a dead run.

The man, cursing, made a frantic dive for the bridle. Rachel jerked the reins to the side and the horse followed. The soldier flew past them and landed on his face, grunting with the force of the impact. Suddenly seeing the thundering hooves so close he cried out, his anger switching to fright as he rolled out of the way. He missed being trampled by inches.

Rachel felt no sense of triumph. She felt only the compulsion to hurry, to run southeast. The horse obliged.

She guided the racing mare to the stream at the far side of the grassy clearing. Trees closed in around them as they ran up the wide swath of shallow water, the man disappearing far behind. Water splashed as the horse ran. The gravel bottom seemed to suit the horse’s gait.

Chase had taught her how to use water to hide her tracks.

Every galloping stride was one stride closer, and that was all that mattered.