Corayne shifted in the saddle. “Something else for the posters,” she grumbled.

“They are a testament to the gods, to the Ibalet kings, to the great and terrible glory of Ibal, who was conquered but never killed.” Sorasa felt sick but forged on. At least I must make them understand. “These lands are their own to wander, from coast to riverbed, cliff to grassland, mountain to oasis shade.

“They are truly free,” she murmured, feeling the wind in her air, the judgment of the gods in her bones. And Dom’s emerald eyes on her, soft for once, without his usual glare.

“We will not harm them,” he rumbled, bowing his head low. “You have my word.”

Sorasa could only nod, her mouth too dry as he urged his mare forward, descending the dunes with Sigil close beside him.

Saydin nore-sar.

Gods forgive me.

Saydin nore-mahjin.

Gods protect us.

She worried more for the sacred horses than for most of her human companions. Somehow, the witch manages to survive everything. Andry will be fine too. He is a good horseman, easy in the saddle. Charlie not so much, but if he is trampled, so be it. His blood isn’t saving the Ward anytime soon. It was Corayne she looked to, reading the tension in the girl’s shoulders, the tightness of her fingers on the reins of her horse, a sand mare the color of garnet gemstone.

“Keep your grip,” Sorasa said to her. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. One arm over the saddle, both feet in one stirrup. I’ll be right next to you; so will Dom. No one will let you fall.”

Corayne dipped her chin in a firm nod, her face a picture of strength. The trembling in her hands told a different story. For once, the Spindleblade was not across her back. It would have sent her off balance. For the run, they’d strapped it to her horse’s saddle, angled out of the way, lashed as tightly as they dared.

If we lose that horse . . . , Sorasa thought. Her mind tried to chase down every possible outcome and mistake they might face. There were too many to follow, too many variables to anticipate. And not enough time to plan for any, let alone all.

Sigil knew how to move horses. She’d cut her teeth on the steppes among the stocky, stout ponies of the Temurijon. She urged her horse between the Shiran mares, aiming for a stallion standing apart, his neck arched and ears twitching.

In the dunes above, Sorasa wound the reins into her hands, her heels and thighs tightening around her mount.

The battle cry of the Countless, the great army of the Temur emperor, went up from the herd, a shriek like the crashing of metal and lightning. Combined with Sigil’s galloping mare and the flash of her ax, it was enough to send the stallion bolting. Muscle shuddered beneath his flank, a ripple over water, beautiful for a moment, as if he were forged from metal instead of flesh. He went for the plain but found Dom in his way, his sword bright with sunlight, startling the wild horse.

Together they drove the stallion toward the canyon, his voice braying over the riverbed. The herd screamed with him, kicking up dust, exploding to follow his thunderous path.

“Don’t let go,” Sorasa said again, leaning over to strike Corayne’s mare on the flank.

They raced down the sand, pelting into the thick of the Shiran, the smell of dust and wild horse in the air. Sorasa’s heart leapt with the horses, their hooves beating a rhythm to match her pulse. It was like joining a storm, falling into a tempest. Sorasa shuddered and jarred as her sand mare found pace with the herd, their bodies pressing closer together to follow the stallion as he charged. She galloped with Corayne, their knees nearly touching. As for the others, Sorasa could not say. There was only Corayne and the Spindle­blade, the scarlet flank of her horse like a beacon at the corner of Sorasa’s eye.

The cliffs loomed, the canyon a narrow split of rock. All the world shrank to the red walls and the drumbeat of a thousand hooves, the rhythm of her blood, adrenaline rattling through her body. Corayne bent low over her mare’s neck, clawed to the horse, her teeth bared and gnashing. A familiar shade of gold flashed somewhere, joined by the snap of dark green. Dom pulled up alongside Corayne’s other flank as the shadows of the cliffs fell over them, the cool air a dropping curtain, the sound of the herd echoing off stone in a deafening roar.

“Now!” Sorasa tried to yell, her voice lost in the din. She could only hope the others saw her and followed.

Hands tight on the reins and the hard pommel of her saddle, she swung her left leg out of her stirrup, passing it up and over the horse’s back in a smooth arc. Her muscles pulled, tensing as she balanced one boot in the stirrup, wedging the other alongside as best she could. The horse didn’t break stride, urged on by the pace of the herd. Centuries of breeding could not outweigh pure instinct, and sand mares were Shiran somewhere down their lines. It wasn’t easy, keeping herself tight against the horse’s side, her head tucked to the saddle. The dusty ground flowed beneath her like water, cragged with rocks, uneven and worn. She tried not to look down or imagine being trampled. Instead she glanced left and right, back and forward, searching through the waves of roiling horseflesh.

Her stomach turned when she saw soldiers in the high rocks, their silhouettes sharp on the cliffs. Archers, all of them, watching the canyon. She flinched, expecting a fiery bolt of pain at any moment. An arrow through the neck. It never came.

It’s working, she thought, almost losing her grip in shock. Instead she strengthened her resolve, pulling herself closer to the horse.

First she spotted Andry, his head pressed to the side of his bay mare. He was taller than Sorasa, and had to curl his body to keep his legs from dragging along the ground. He met her gaze, his mare weaving among the Shiran. The squire did not falter, his brow set in a dark line. Sigil was behind, also too tall. She wrapped herself around the horse, one arm and leg thrown over its back, the others passing under. Valtik and Charlie were nowhere to be found, lost in the sea. At least if she couldn’t see them, any Gallish scouts certainly wouldn’t either.

Corayne was still on her right, the girl’s breath coming in hard, fast gasps. Her knuckles went white on the reins and saddle, fingers scrabbling to keep hold. She dangled close to Dom, the Elder gripping his horse with only one giant hand. The other held Corayne’s horse by the saddle, keeping them in pace together. He braced the Cor girl against his chest, his immortal grace holding them both up and out of crushing death.

The horses ran at breakneck speed, their manes like flags in the wind, their hooves kicking up stones and dust. A cloud followed the herd, hazy and pink, obscuring the heights of the cliffs. The figures faded, the archers lost in the dust. Sorasa allowed herself a small burst of triumph. If they held on long enough, the herd would carry them through.