Eleanor (6 page)

Eleanor was still thinking this problem through when a cheer went up from the crowd. Following the direction of the turning heads, she saw Conlan at the top of the jail steps, squinting in the pale morning light. His hands appeared to be tied behind his back and two stern-looking guards flanked him. They wore matching long, dark-grey jackets, with stand-up collars and two lines of silver buttons running down the chest.
Uniforms? What had Conlan called the guards? Protectors…
Eleanor winced as she saw one of them give Conlan a vicious shove. He tumbled heavily down the steps, landing on his side in the mud at the bottom. The crowd surged forward, kicking and punching at his prone body. Eleanor watched in horror. Would the crowd kill him? She had to act. Pulling Rand towards a small cart, she used its wheel as a step to mount him. Trying not to think about just how far from the ground she was, she wove her fingers through handfuls of Rand’s silvery, grey mane. Heart hammering in her chest she tried to work out what to do. The guards broke up the crowd and dragged Conlan back to his feet. They released the binds on his wrists so they could pull his jacket from him. One of the guards looked it over admiringly and tucked it into his belt; the crowd cheered again. The other Protector shoved Conlan back down to his knees and ripped his shirt from him. Even from a distance Eleanor could see the deep purple bruises that covered him. The Protector kicked him in the middle of the back and Conlan pitched forward, putting his hands out instinctively to protect his face. There was more cheering, which had a scary, hysterical edge to it. Again, the Protectors dragged their captive back to his feet. Eleanor realised the crowd around him was thinning, as people began moving to get a better view of the platform and flogging post in the middle of the square. Conlan’s hands were still untied and the two Protectors were overconfident, playing to the crowd, distracted. She was not going to get a better chance. Pulling Rand’s head round in the direction of his master, Eleanor kicked her heels into the horse’s sides with all her strength and grabbing handfuls of mane in a white knuckled grip, clung on.

Rand shot forward. Eleanor had read somewhere that horses did not like to run people down. Obviously Rand had never been told this and charged at full speed into the crowd, most of whom were oblivious until the animal’s speeding bulk was upon them. With surprise on her side, Eleanor found that most of those around her panicked and simply wanted to get out of the way. She held on tight as Rand trampled and kicked a path towards Conlan. One slightly more enterprising man tried to pull Eleanor down, but she pistoned her foot ferociously into his face until he let go and was pulled under the thundering hooves, his screams melting into the general chaos. They broke into the small space around Conlan and the Protectors. Rand reared up on his back legs, almost depositing Eleanor on the floor, his hoof kicking out at the nearest Protector’s head. It made contact with a sickening, wet, splitting sound, blood splattering in all directions. The man fell to his knees and then toppled over sideways, the whites of his staring blank eyes swimming red. The crowd froze, stunned. Conlan took the opportunity the distraction provided to pull the remaining Protector’s own sword on him. Eleanor watched him hammer the hilt into the surprised man’s face, yanking his jacket and a small knife out of the man’s belt as he crumpled to the floor. He slipped the jacket on, slid the knife down the side of his boot and hauled himself onto Rand’s back behind her.

“Eleanor, where’s the saddle?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then you’re about to get a crash course in horse riding; hold on to the mane and grip with your legs.” Putting an arm around her waist, he leaned forward, gave Rand a swift kick in the flanks and they were off, heading down the main street out of town at a full gallop.

Fight or Flight

Conlan pushed Rand hard towards the mountains in the distance. The wind making her eyes water, Eleanor concentrated on not falling off. She wondered how Rand knew which way to go without Conlan pulling on reins, but as she concentrated she noticed he was flexing and relaxing the muscles in his legs, showing Rand the way by squeezing on one side or the other. Even through her fear Eleanor was impressed by just how well trained Rand was. They rode in silence for what felt like forever. Conlan still seemed angry.
 

Eleanor’s legs began to ache; every part of her body was either sore or numb. The rush of adrenaline that had sustained her through the first few hours of their mad dash was wearing off, leaving behind exhaustion and fear in its place. As the afternoon wore on, the temperature dropped further. Eventually Rand began to falter, and Eleanor tensed at every missed step with the expectation that she would go flying.
 

“Conlan, we need to stop – Rand is tired.”

“We can’t, they’ll be following us. If you’re able to track Rand, you can bet they can.” His voice was grim, angry, and his grip tightened on the sword he still held.
 

“Are they going to catch us?” Eleanor heard the childlike terror in the words.
 

“I really hope not, Eleanor, because after the mess we left back there, they’re going to kill us if they do. What possessed you to ride Rand into those people?”

“I thought it would be OK, that they’d get out of the way. I thought horses didn’t run down people,” she said, her mind reeling at his anger. She had just rescued him – she had thought he might be grudgingly grateful, she certainly had not expected to have to defend her actions.

“Your whole problem is you
didn’t
think,” he snapped, a strange snarl slipping into his voice. “Rand is a warhorse, he’s trained to do what you just had him do but on a battlefield, against armed soldiers, not against innocent, unarmed people.”

“Innocent, unarmed people who were baying for your blood,” Eleanor noted.

“Irrelevant. Have you any idea how many you could have killed?”
 

Eleanor wanted to apologise, an image of the Protector Rand had kicked in the head fresh in her mind, but then she remembered the sound of hysterical cheering the crowd had made as Conlan had been shoved to the ground. They did not deserve her pity – they were ruthless, violent people. It suddenly occurred to her that they were the same people who were chasing them, and fear twisted her stomach so hard she was glad she had not eaten anything recently.
 

“Conlan, I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Good, you should be! Remember this feeling the next time you have the desire to do something suicidally brave!”
 

“I was just trying to help you,” she said, trying very hard not to whine, to sound strong and justified. “You can’t tell me you wanted those Protectors to flog you.”

“It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
 

Eleanor had no response to that and lapsed into silence. Conlan slowed Rand’s headlong gallop to a bouncing, bone-jarring trot.
 

They had been travelling for several miles before Eleanor realised that Conlan’s breath was whistling through his teeth at every jolt. As he did it again she turned and caught the grimace of pain on his face.
 

“You’re hurt; you can’t keep this pace up,” she said.

“I’ll manage,” came the hard, empty response. Eleanor gently nudged her elbow into his side. Conlan gasped and moaned, his head dropping briefly onto her shoulder as he struggled to catch his breath.
 

“Oh yeah, Conlan. You’re just peachy,” she muttered.

As the sun set, the encroaching darkness forced them to slow Rand down to a heavy-footed walk. The animal panted. Sweat had formed a lather that coated his chest and legs, flecks of saliva covered his face and more saliva dripped from his mouth with each panting breath as it steamed in the chilly air.

“Conlan, it’s really cold. I’m tired and Rand is all sweaty; shouldn’t we stop?” she asked, working hard to keep the complaint out of her voice.
 

Conlan shook his head slowly. “Our only chance of escape is to run through the night; Protectors don’t like to ride at night. It will give us the extra time we need to make it to safety. We can’t stop.”

The closer they got to the mountains, the colder it became. Snow began to appear in areas that had not been reached by the sun, until they were walking through a blurry, white landscape that glowed eerily pale blue in the moonlight. Eleanor fixed her gaze on the mountains. Her bare arms and hands were numb with cold, her nose and ears were not far behind and her breath came out in small grey clouds. Yet, despite her discomfort, she felt a strange excitement. The mountains were so close now that she could see the snow-covered crags and the path that led up into them. It was so very beautiful that it made her breath catch and brought tears to her eyes. She tried to explain the feeling to herself, but the closest she could get was that it felt like home – which was odd for a place she had never been. The burn on her wrist began to itch. If she could have prised her frozen fingers from Rand’s mane to scratch it she would have, but as it was, she simply added it to the list of aches and pains and forgot about it. It began to snow – large, soft, dreamy flakes settling on her head, and then melting and running down her neck. Eventually Rand came to a stop; his head bowed, flanks heaving.

“We walk from here.”

Eleanor jumped at Conlan’s voice after the miles of silence. She turned to object, to beg for rest, but she met green eyes filled with agony and stern resolve. She promptly shut her mouth. He was pushing himself far harder than he was pushing her, the danger must be very real. He let go of her waist and slid to the ground. The jolt as he landed made him groan, and he crumpled in on himself as he collapsed into the deepening snow, eyes squeezed closed, lips pulled back over clenched teeth. Moving as quickly as her cold, tired body would allow, Eleanor swung her leg over Rand’s back and, holding on to his mane, lowered herself to the ground. She knelt in the snow at Conlan’s side, with no idea how to help him. Eventually he fought down the pain and glared at her.
 

“Get me up, we need to move.”
 

Eleanor put her shoulder under his arm and struggled to get him to his feet, as she did she looked back the way they had come. There seemed to be dancing lights in the distance, moving towards them.

“Conlan, what’s that?” she asked, pointing back down the trail. Conlan turned to look and his whole body tensed.

“It’s them, the Protectors, riding at night. We have to go!”
 

Eleanor could hear the fear in his voice and it sent a shot of terror through her soul. Turning up the track, away from the lights, Conlan trudged onwards. Eleanor followed, with Rand faithfully bringing up the rear.
 

The track became steeper, twisting and turning through the crags and revealing some dizzying drops. Eleanor noticed, distractedly, that her wrist had begun to hurt. She rubbed it absently as she looked behind her; the lights seemed closer.
 

Conlan fell.
 

Eleanor pulled him up, practically dragging him forwards.
I should be dead on my feet
. Yet, she felt energised, powerful. A strong heat began to radiate through her body, spreading through her frozen limbs and bringing a strange vitality. The exhaustion faded slightly– it was still there, but it did not seem as urgent as it had been.

“I need a moment to catch my breath,” Conlan gasped. Eleanor nodded and supported his shaking body as best she could as he panted. The heat in her wrist turned to an intense burning, heating up her muscles and melting the snow that settled on her bare skin. She rubbed at the mark, wincing. Conlan noticed.

“Does it hurt?”
 

“Yes, it has done for a while and it’s getting worse,” she said, her voice shaking, although whether that was fear, the bitter cold or the heat she could feel surging through her, she was not sure.

“Good. Eleanor, there’s a narrow gap a little further up this trail that leads to a small canyon; we need to get there,” his words were barely audible over the pounding in her ears of her frightened heart and his rough voice dissolved into coughs, spasms wracking his body, blood flecking the snow at his feet. Eleanor struggled to keep him upright. As the coughing subsided she pulled more of his weight over her shoulders and dragged him forward. Conlan weakly pointed the way.

Once in the canyon, Eleanor looked around. It was shaped like a stone goldfish bowl. The snow was not as deep here, and in places, where the walls curved inwards, the overhang had stopped any falling at all. Eleanor looked up and saw the stars and moon in the frigid sky through the gap above, filling the canyon with an ethereal, silvery light. She could have made it out of the hole, but Conlan never would and Rand, who stood shivering in the dark shadow under one of the overhangs, would have no hope either. Looking back, she realised that the entrance they had used was also the only exit.

“Conlan, where do we need to go from here?”

“This is where we need to be,” came the rasping reply.

“It’s a dead-end, we’ve no escape; we’re going to have to fight,” she pointed out.

Conlan staggered again and Eleanor lowered him down against the canyon wall under an overhang. He lay with his arms wrapped round his chest, panting. Despite the cold, sweat stood out on his forehead, and his face was drawn, pained. Eleanor gently prised the sword from his cold fingers; he gave her another deep, penetrating look.
 

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of putting up much of a fight right now,” she muttered, not voicing her fear that she did not think she was very capable either.

The frown deepened. “Do you even know how to use a sword?”
 

“I’m sure they’ll get my ‘point’,” she said with a lopsided grin, trying to convey a confidence she did not feel. Conlan nodded, amusement camouflaging the pain in his eyes for a moment.
 

“You just have to hold them off. Buy us time, Eleanor, help is coming.”