Blood Ties by Pamela Freeman Page A

tight-fitting leather hood that she usually wore against the winter snow, and retrieved the carefully packed bundle from the rear of the cave and tied it to her back. Then she led the roan to the mounting block and climbed on his back.
    “Come on, then,” she said. “Go.”
    She found that her mind had been working on its own these past three days. There was a plan all ready in her head, though she hadn’t been conscious of working it out. She would head for Carlion immediately, but through the forest, not on the road where the warlord’s men would be sure to find her. It would take longer, because she would have to go up beyond the waterfall, beyond the chasm, to find a ford where she could cross the river, so she could circle down to the road through the forest on the other side. Longer but safer. The warlord’s men would start their search from the linden tree, so she had time.
    She knew the forest better than anyone, but the roan couldn’t move through the undergrowth as she could, so they kept to the track, as they had the day before. The roan recognized the way and went happily enough. It was a warm day, with sun filtering down to her where the trees were less dense. They moved from shade to sun and back again, warmth and coolness, like the rhythm of the roan’s soft hoofbeats. It had lulled her, so the sound of men’s voices at a distance, the jingling of harness, caught her by surprise.
    They had started their search from Thornhill, not from the linden tree. And they were coming steadily from the west. She turned to head more directly for the chasm. There were rocks near the waterfall, with caves . . . Perhaps she and the roan could hide there. These men didn’t know the forest the way she did. She was confident that she could outsmart them in her own territory. Then she heard the baying of the hounds.
    The roan’s head went up, too, and he took a breath to whinny. She leaned forward quickly and held his nostrils closed. He looked at her reproachfully and she stared back at his enormous eyes.
    “No noise, my friend,” she whispered.
    He let his breath out slowly, and she let go, then urged him to a quick walk.
    The hounds’ note changed. Bramble had watched the hunt go by too many times not to recognize it: “We are on the scent!” The roan quickened his pace when he heard men’s voices urging on the hounds. He jumped at one voice in particular. A deep, hard voice.
Beck’s,
Bramble thought.
The older man. The clever one.
The roan almost stumbled, then began to move faster, taking the rough ground in his stride, ignoring Bramble completely. She lay down low and clung to his neck with both hands as they moved rapidly through the undergrowth.
    Behind them the hounds were belling furiously. Bramble tried desperately to think what to do. There was no time to hide. No way to get up above the chasm in time to cross the river and confuse the scent. She tried to think of other streams nearby, but there weren’t any. She could probably climb a tree and let the roan go — the hounds would follow the horse scent. That would be the sensible thing to do. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t abandon him to the chase. What if the hounds’ master didn’t whip them back in time? What if the bloodlust got too much for them? What if they brought him down? These hounds were used to hunting people and horses as well as deer: they would leap for the throat. If she was still on the roan, at least she could help fight them off until Beck controlled them. He had admired the roan; he would save him. She decided that they would stand at bay at the chasm — a bad place but it was all they had.
    She clung on as the roan raced faster through the trees. She craned for one look over her shoulder. Beck was in the lead, his face pale beneath the beard, his eyes intense.
    “There!” he shouted. “It’s just a boy! Get him!”
    The roan broke into a panicked gallop. Bramble suddenly knew who had been responsible for those welts