Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

Mounting his horse, he galloped after the witch and her foolish lover.

Behind him, the manor house shook.

The man wasn’t sneering now that her hounds stood in a snarling circle around him.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said, his voice coming close to a whine. “I’m Royce, Baron Felston’s heir.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Dianna said. “Where is Ari?”

A nasty, but pouting, expression came over his face.

“The Witch’s Hammer took care of her, just like he’s going to take care of you if you don’t let me go.”

“Where is she?”

“Dead! Dead dead dead. And he’ll kill you too. You’ll see.”

“But you won’t.”

She watched impassively while her hounds tore him apart. When she finally called them to her, she looked away from what remained of Baron Felston’s heir— and saw the dark smoke of a strong fire.

“Lucian,” she whispered.

She dug her heels into her mare’s sides and galloped toward the smoke, her hounds racing beside her.

The good people of Ridgeley had been introduced to the Lightbringer’s wrath. Now let them meet the Huntress.

Neall brought the dark mare to a stop that sat her back on her haunches. He vaulted off her back and ran to Darcy.

“Neall, what are you doing?” Ari said, anxiously looking behind her. “They’re catching up.”

He adjusted the left stirrup, then shoved her foot into it. “I know,” he said, ducking under Darcy’s head to adjust the right stirrup. “But you’re not a strong rider, and you need the stirrups to stay in the saddle at the speed we need to go.”

“Neall . . . Maybe—”

“Don’t say it.” He gave her such a sharp look, she flinched. “We’re in this together.”

“Will we make it to Ahern’s?” Ari asked.

Neall mounted the mare and shook his head. “Too much open land that way. We’ll head for Brightwood. We can lose them in the deeper part of the woods.” The Small Folk will see to that , he added silently, gathering the reins. “Just hang on, Ari. We’ll make it.”

He glanced back. The riders coming from Felston’s estate were gaining too fast. “Let’s ride.”

The mare and gelding leaped forward, racing for Brightwood.

As they crested a low, rolling hill, Morag spotted the two dark horses racing back toward Brightwood. And she saw the other riders who weren’t that far behind.

The gray stallion stamped one foot and tossed his head.

The dark horse danced, too fretful about not moving to stand still.

“Can we reach them before those other riders do?” Morphia asked, curbing her own horse.

“We’ll reach them,” Morag said. She gave the dark horse his head, letting him tear down the hill in pursuit of Ari and Neall. Morphia raced beside her.

But the gray stallion veered away from them and headed straight for the other riders.

May the Mother protect you, Ahern , Morag thought. Then she thought of nothing else but the two young people she desperately wanted to stay among the living.

Adolfo clenched his hands, dragging on the reins enough to slow his horse. The guards passed him, heading straight for that gray stallion.

Two black-haired women. One riding a dark horse. He had wanted to punish her for stealing from him, for killing his men. Now, seeing her, even at a distance, was more than enough. She reeked of magic. She reeked of death.

The Gatherer.

Despite the fear that had shivered through him every time he’d thought of her, he hadn’t really believed until now that she could do to him what she’d done to his nephew and courier. He’d been certain that he was powerful enough to stand against any of the Fae and win.

But not against her. Who could stand against Death’s Mistress?

A shout from one of the guards brought his attention back to the problem standing directly in their path.

No ordinary horse would have run toward his guards instead of staying with the women and their horses. Which meant the gray was no ordinary horse. There was only one man at Ahern’s farm who was fully Fae and could shift into another shape, and that was Ahern himself.

Adolfo chided himself for allowing the sight of the Gatherer to distract him and make him doubt his own strength, even for a moment. Despite her power, she was still only a female, still only a creature that had to be taught to submit to the masters of the world. He would find her weakness and use it to crush her. In the meantime, the horse Lord standing in his way needed to be taught a lesson.

Before he could issue his orders, the gray stallion reared, bugling a challenge. Or, perhaps, a command.

The other horses turned away, fighting bit and spur. When the stallion bugled again, they reared.

Two of the guards, who were reaching for their crossbows, were thrown. One scrambled to his feet and grabbed his fallen crossbow. The other didn’t move.

As his horse’s forelegs touched the ground again, Adolfo kicked out of the stirrups and half fell out of the saddle, just managing to stagger out of reach before his horse’s back feet lashed out.

Two more of the guards managed to grab their crossbows and get free of their saddles.

“ Kill him !” Adolfo shouted.

The gray stallion reared.

The guards took aim.

A horse charged one of the guards, knocking against him at the same moment the quarrel left the crossbow. That spoiled the aim enough that the quarrel hit the stallion’s shoulder instead of his chest.

But the other two guards hit the stallion’s exposed belly, and the quarrels sank deep.

Screaming, the stallion whirled and galloped back toward the hill it had raced down a short while before.

Adolfo shouted in triumph. Fae or not, no matter what his form, a belly wound was a fatal one. He watched the stallion struggle to reach the top of the hill.

It doesn’t matter if you reach your farm or not, old man. You’re still going to die.

For a moment, there was no sound but the harsh breathing of men and animals.

Then the horses went mad.

The glint of shoes in the sunlight as hooves lashed out. The thud of bodies hitting the earth.

The horses galloped up the hill, following the dying gray stallion.

Adolfo looked at the guards’ bodies. He sank to his knees. This shouldn’t have happened. He was the Witch’s Hammer. He was the powerful one. This shouldn’t have happened.

“Master Adolfo?”

One guard staggered to his feet, blood streaming from a wound in his head.

“Are you hurt, Master Adolfo?”

Adolfo started to shake. Couldn’t stop. This shouldn’t have happened. What were the Fae— any of the Fae—that they could thwart the will of men by controlling the four-legged beasts men used? But if men couldn’t command the beasts, how could they rid the world of magic and be the masters as they were meant to be?

“Master Adolfo?”

Adolfo forced himself to get to his feet. He mustn’t show weakness. If he did, they would never rid the world of the witches . . . and the Fae.

“When the witch is gone, the magic will die,” Adolfo said carefully. “The magic will die, and there will be nothing that will make us afraid. We will be the masters.”

“Yes, Master.”

Adolfo looked at the bleeding guard, and his brown eyes burned with a queer light. “Good men were lost today, but not in vain. No, not in vain. We drove the witch and her foul lover into the trap, and the other Inquisitors will see that she pays for the pain she has brought.”

The guard didn’t seem to be listening, wasn’t even looking at him. He wouldn’t allow other men to turn away from him, dismiss him. Not again. Never again. No man was going to turn away from him as his father had done. And any man who did would pay for it— as his father had done.