Page 18 of Embers in the Snow

Blood seeps from his eye where the tip of the arrow has penetrated through his sclera, just shy of his iris.

He slumps forward, collapsing onto his face. A metal-shafted arrow protrudes from the back of his head.

Outside, there’s chaos. Men shouting. Horses whinnying. I brave a look out the window. Another man falls, an arrow protruding from his chest.

The remaining three gallop off in the direction of the shooter, leaving a pile of bodies and two untethered horses behind them.

Bile rises in my throat as the smell of blood hits me.

I’m queasy.

Paralyzed.

Trembling all over.

I force myself to move.

Ignore it. Keep going.

This could be my only chance.

I throw off the blankets and scramble over mounds of fabric and broken glass, desperately pushing the dead man aside as I make for the exit. One of the glass shards embeds itself in my palm, drawing blood and a sharp prick of pain. I pull it out and toss it aside, clenching my fist tightly to stem the flow of blood.

It’s nothing to worry about. It’ll stop soon.

Thank the Goddess I kept my boots on. I drop down onto the cold, hard snow, ignoring the glass shards that have embedded in my hands.

I barely even feel the pain.

The horse closest to me is a quarter horse. He looks a little underfed, and his deep brown coat is dull and lackluster. Overstuffed saddle bags are strapped down behind his saddle.

“Come,” I say softly, approaching from the side, holding out my hand.

He takes a tentative step forward.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, careful not to look him in the eye. “Come on.”

He edges forward until he’s close enough that I can grab the reins.

In the distance, I hear the sounds of men fighting; of steel clashing against steel, of frenzied shouting and screams of agony as wounds are inflicted.

My fingers curl around the soft leather of his reins. The cut in my hand is not so bad after all; it’s only shallow, and the blood has already started to dry. It might open again, but it’s not worth worrying about.

I’ll deal with it later.

Nearly there. Keep your head.

I focus on the horse; on getting him to trust me. I block out all sound and gently pull on his reins.

I ignore the smell of blood; the stench of death.

I ignore the fact that there are bodies strewn all around us.

We walk. I lead him behind the carriage until I can no longer see the carnage. The sight of pure, untouched snow is but a momentary respite.

Slowly, carefully, trying my best to give off a calm aura, I walk to the horse’s side and lower the stirrup. Holding the reins steady, I slip my foot into the stirrup.

One, two, three…

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