Thirty-four

A short time after sunset, it started to rain. Mud sucked at Cathal’s feet as he ran, and his clothing was soaked before long. The wind picked up too; a storm was coming out of the northeast. He could only be glad that it was too early in the year for lightning.

Wind, rain, and distance meant he saw the men before anything else. Three guards on horseback, they were large enough to catch the eye even with the storm, and they were galloping fast enough to get attention. A second later Cathal saw their quarry.

The figure was wrapped in a heavy cloak and running, dodging between the trees on the side of the road with desperate speed but the clumsiness of one not at all used to fleeing.

A hood obscured the figure’s face, the cloak its body, and Cathal wouldn’t have put it past Valerius or his men to send out a decoy, yet he was moving half a moment after he saw the traveler, and there was no doubt in his mind. Whether it was the way she moved, the scent of her, or another factor that he couldn’t shape in human form, he knew Sophia.

As Cathal recognized her, one of the guards wheeled his horse to outflank her, leaned down, and grabbed her by the arm. She screamed, clear even through the wind.

Cathal’s leap was more than human legs could have managed, more even than he’d equaled on any battlefield. He struck as he landed, sweeping his sword down across the horse’s haunches. The beast screamed and reared, throwing its rider clear of the saddle and breaking his grip on Sophia’s arm.

Freed, she scrambled for the tree line again, wisely distancing herself from both the panicked horse and its former rider, though the man was on the ground and writhing. Cathal would have wagered he had a broken leg, if not worse. He wasn’t disposed to care, not with the other two fast approaching.

A few quick steps brought him to Sophia. He grabbed the rope harness from off his shoulder and pushed it into Sophia’s hands. “You’ll need to be quick, after. Stay behind me.” Then he stepped forward, putting himself between her and the oncoming riders, praying without words or very much faith.

Fighting mounted men from the ground went poorly for most. Mortal men needed either archers or a shield wall to manage it with any chance of success. Cathal had a few other advantages.

One was the horses’ reluctance to approach him. Even though he was in human form, he could see them snort and balk, smelling his true nature. It took a good application of spurs to move them again, and by that time, Cathal was ready to use his other advantages: height and strength.

His first strike pierced through the guard’s armor and the flesh of his thigh, and sank to the bone. The man screamed, a familiar sound. The spray of blood was familiar too. A major vessel was severed. The wound would likely be fatal. Cathal spun away, and the momentum as he pulled his sword back to his side half severed the leg.

The third man was turning his mount to run. Cathal had half expected as much. Valerius had taken the best part of his retinue to war. These men had thought they’d be chasing down an unarmed woman.

That woman was staring at the broken corpse of the soldier, and her full lips pressed together until they were a thin line indeed. Cathal had no time to speak because other men would arrive soon. He knew not what he might have said if he could have.

He felt no guilt over what he’d done, nor triumph. At best, he’d rid the world of a man who’d serve Valerius willingly, but there were many like him. At worst, he’d killed a man who’d done his duty for what might have been noble enough reasons in the end; feeding a family could put good men to bad work. That was often the way. It was war, and it was done.

Yet he watched Sophia’s face until he changed and then again after, and was glad when she swung herself up into the harness that he might not have to see her any longer. He was glad to feel her weight on his neck, and that she put herself there without hesitation—without, as far as he could tell, fear. He could only hope that wouldn’t change when she was no longer desperate, but that hope had to take a fifth or sixth place to other, more desperate wishes.

He crouched, gathered himself, and sprang, spreading his wings to launch himself with the wind.

Its strength was with him, carrying them far upward even more quickly than Cathal had managed at the castle, but this speed wasn’t his own, and he had no sure way to control it. The wind twisted too, tossing him from side to side, full of updrafts and downdrafts and cross-breezes, and the rain poured down so hard that he could barely see.

He was above the trees, away from most mountains, and both of those facts likely saved him and Sophia. For a long stretch he flew onward, heading as much as he could manage in the direction of Loch Arach, but not truly knowing where he was going. Sophia’s weight, and the warmth of her body, let Cathal know that she was still there, one of the few constants in the storm’s rage.

When she began to shiver, Cathal knew they’d need to stop soon. He was wearying too, his wings tiring with the effort to stay both on course and level against the wind. Shaking water away from his face with a quick gesture, he peered down through the rain and saw in the distance a cluster of tiny buildings, one with still-lit windows. A village, he thought, and with luck an inn—or at least a manor with stables.

Nobody would be out in the storm most likely, but he still wanted a bit of concealment. A line of trees a few yards away would suffice, he decided. He folded his wings and dove, landing as gently as he could manage under the circumstances. He still hit the ground more roughly than he’d have liked, and there was a moment of deep alarm afterward when he didn’t feel Sophia moving.

When he whipped his head around to look at her, though, she blinked back at him and slowly began to sit back. “I-if I’m not to g-get down,” she said through chattering teeth, “you’d b-b-best tell me so now.”

It took longer for her to get out of the harness, due to a sodden cloak and numb limbs, Cathal guessed, and cursed to see both. From what he could tell, she was in no danger, but he couldn’t tell much, in truth. He knew human fragility on the battlefield. In all else, the men had been the camp surgeon’s problem, or the supply captain’s, or the steward’s. If Sophia could move and speak, he thought she was well enough, but he only then realized how little qualified he was to gauge the certainty of any such thing.

As soon as she hit the ground, he was changing back to man’s shape. It did little immediate good—he hadn’t brought a cloak and had been warmer as a dragon—but he put an arm around her and started them toward what civilization there might be, wherever they’d ended up.

They spoke not at all on the way. Walking was effort enough.

The lit building did turn out to be an inn, one where a party of merchants was sleeping in the main room, and a tired man came forward without curiosity to meet them.

“A private room,” said Cathal, and counted out the named price without thought. “Where are we?”

“Larkford,” said the innkeeper. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Cathal doubted the man cared about anything but the coins Cathal was handing him. “Take a wrong turn?”

“Several.”

The town’s name was unfamiliar, but the man’s voice was Scottish, and that was reassuring. The fire was more so. Cathal didn’t suffer from the cold, not the way humans did, but warmth was better, and he was glad of it for Sophia’s sake. He couldn’t hear her teeth chatter any more, and when he looked over at her as they followed the innkeeper up the stairs, there was a little more life in her face.

“They can’t follow us here before tomorrow,” he said, once they were in the room and the door had closed behind the departing innkeeper. “We can rest. Wait out the storm.”

“Demons?” she asked. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, her wet hair clinging to her face and neck. Firelight played across both, and her eyes reflected it, somber save for that dancing play of flame.

“I’ll handle them,” Cathal said, tapping a finger against the hilt of his sword. “You should get out of your clothes.”

Then the weight of what he’d said and where they were struck him, truly drawing his attention for the first time now that she was physically safe. Cathal looked away, surveying the room. In truth it was a small enough place, with only a fireplace and a canopied bed as furniture.

He turned his back on her and walked to the window, staring at the red-and-yellow pattern on the shutters. It matched the bedcovers, a nicer touch than he would have thought from the place. Mayhap it was better on less miserable nights. “Wrap up in one of the blankets, and tell me when you’re done,” he said, keeping his mind blank. “Hang your clothing by the fire. Doubt it’ll be exactly dry in the morning, but damp’s still better.”

Wet wool made thumping, squishing sounds. They weren’t pleasant; what they implied was far too pleasant. The softer noises were worse: lighter fabric, garments worn closer to the skin. Cathal closed his hands on the windowsill, careful not to break the wood, and breathed through his nose.

“Your clothing’s wet too,” Sophia said. Her voice was quiet, a touch rough. Cathal told himself that was probably the strain of their escape.

“I’ll… Ah, I’ll take my turn after you,” he said, although just at the moment, cold and damp were both helpful qualities. Not sufficient, and he wouldn’t want to turn around any time in the near future, but helpful.

More noises came from behind him: footsteps and a slight exhale, as if of effort. Then, sounding less sure of herself than usual, she said, “There’s only the one bed.”

Trust her to make observations. “Aye,” said Cathal. He had a brief ridiculous notion of offering to put his sword between them. It might have worked for bloody Tristan, but he doubted it would for him, and Sophia was more alluring than he’d ever imagined Isolde to be. “I’ll take one of the other blankets, lie on the floor. I’ve had worse quarters.”

“Oh. Er,” she said, and then he heard more footsteps, slow ones, as she came toward him. He drew breath, trying to find words that would politely tell her to keep her distance, and then she put a hand on the back of his neck.

Her fingers were rough, damp, and cold, and the light touch ran through Cathal as strongly as the pain of a wound. “What I’m trying to say,” Sophia said as Cathal turned helplessly to face her, “is that you…you don’t have to. In truth, although it’s kind of you to offer, unless you’d rather, you’ve no need to do either of those things.”

She was naked.

Her wet hair flowed down her shoulders and almost to her waist, but it concealed nothing: not her full breasts, rosy-brown nipples drawn tight and hard, nor the flare of her hips, nor the dark triangle between her legs. Sophia’s face was bare too, stripped of scholarly distance, reserve, and all concealment. Cathal saw there more than a trace of nervousness, but, overwhelmingly, desire.

“We could,” she said, “spend the night differently.”