Shutters slammed shut across the street; Weltil’s people wanted nothing to do with this. They were survivors of the Second Great War and its aftermath; getting involved in Olorian “justice”—even that perpetrated by Evendarians—was fatal.

Even Gunstrum stayed inside. That wasn’t disloyalty. He knew when to quit.

Gunstrum also knew that someone would die today. Maybe two someones.

Maybe nine.

“Disarm yourselves.” The leader said. Shade could hear his chest puffing out, saw two others exchanging satisfied grins out of the corner of his eye.

Oh, they were proud, weren’t they? They’d done the impossible and caught two Night Riders. Shade’s lips twitched into a cool smile. Don’t count your victories until your enemies are dead, boy.

“Who’re you to demand a man give up his sword?” Instance cocked his head, smiling innocently. “Here I thought it was only Olorians who say it’s illegal for an Evendarian to be armed with something more than a butter knife.”

“You are guilty of violating various laws—”

“Olorian laws?” Shade kept his voice cold despite the fury boiling within him. “The same laws that name you slave?”

“I am no such thing,” the leader hissed.

“They would have you as such.” Shade finally turned his head to look at the pompous rat. “As they would have all of us.” He did not mention the brand on the back of his neck, scratchy and uncomfortable under his ponytail. “Yet you kneel to the Olorian queen and do her bidding like a good slave, don’t you?”

“I am more than you could ever hope to be! Surrender yourself!”

“No.”

“We will kill you if we must. The price is less, but—”

An elbow to the face killed that sentence; the leader swallowed blood and spat out teeth, staggering back and temporarily out of range. Immediately, Shade’s sword flashed into his hand, the leather-wrapped grip cool against his palm. The silver blade glowed, distant lighting playing off its edges as Shade cut straight through one of their would-be captors’ swords and disarmed another.

At his back, Instance wheeled into motion, and they made quick work of the venatores, disabling and disarming where they could. Neither feared taking another’s life, but these were their countrymen. A long time ago, both had sworn to protect men like this, and even Shade—despite how many Olorians he’d killed—shied away from killing Evendarians.

Three long heartbeats later, their opponents laid scattered around them, groaning and winded. Together, they bolted for the barn, finding their mounts and throwing open stall doors to swing saddles over broad backs. No sane Night Rider would leave a horse behind, at least not a good one. Horses were treasured—meaning the difference between life and death. A well-trained one was worth killing for.

Jerking awake, Vic snorted and snaked his head toward his owner as if to bite him, only drawing back at the last moment. But he didn’t fight the saddle or the bit, shaking off sleep perking up. Without even leaving the stallion’s stall, Shade shoved his left foot in the stirrup and swung aboard, ducking his head as he urged his mount from the stall.

“Instance!” Quickly, he slammed his sword home into the scabbard. Glancing down, Shade wrapped the split reins around his left hand, catching a clump of Vic’s mane in with them. In wet weather and close combat, hands and leather would often slip, and for a Night Rider, that meant death.

“Ready!”

“Let’s move!”

Instinct prickled. Why do I feel that this is far from over?

A touch of his heels sent Vic shooting forward like a bow-strung arrow, and he felt Instance’s horse right on his heels. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark and windy sky as they burst from the barn, but when they did—

Vic skidded to a stop, almost throwing his rider from the saddle and splashing mud all around. As arrows split the sky right where Shade’s head would have been, whistling inches from his face. Instance was not so lucky, and Shade’s right hand snapped out just in time to catch his fellow Night Rider before Instance could tumble from the saddle, an arrow embedded in his left shoulder.

Howling in pain, Instance swore and caught his balance, calling down curses on all venatores, their grandchildren, and their second cousins. Thunder rumbled, and almost on cue, the sky opened up with pouring rain, drenching everyone within seconds.

Spurring Vic forward, Shade grabbed Instance’s mount’s bridle to urge the other horse along. Rain was useful, but it limited their options. He turned south down the Via Indus.

Only then did he risk a glance over his shoulder.

A horde of riders galloped toward them from the south. There were at least two dozen of them, perhaps more—it was hard to tell in the driving rain, and their approach couldn’t be heard over the howling gusts of wind.

“Fuck!” He could barely hear his own voice.

The violent wind worked in the Night Riders’ favor; arrows would be blown off course and away from their backs. But with more venatores coming from the south and water to the east, they were left with only one option—north. North, and the Bridge.

West would take them to Fiskell Bay. But a quick glance at the ground told Shade that the Bridge would be partially flooded out by now and slow to ford…at best. He threw another look over his shoulder at their trappers, judging numbers and distance. Not liking the answer that his gut gave him, he calculated again, but the result was the same.

The venatores would catch them at the Bridge unless something was done to delay the pursuit. Experience told him that there were far too many to fight, especially with a wounded comrade by his side. Shade was willing to take on a dozen by himself, perhaps more if he could twist circumstances in his favor, but not this many, and not like this. Besides, he wasn’t too proud to run from his own countrymen, particularly if it kept more of the idiots alive.

There were trees to the left—not many, but perhaps enough to skirt Bridger’s Bay and then move south—

Bending low in the saddle, Shade urged Vic on. His horse responded with a spurt of speed, sprinting off the road and into the small forest, cutting away from the cow path and up a small hill.

Instance kept pace with him, despite his wound, even through the raging stream where Vic nearly lost his footing and drowned both horse and rider. Finally, they reached a thicket, where Shade reined his mount to a stop, wheeling the stallion so he could rearrange the branches their passage disarrayed.

Meanwhile, Instance reached up and, with a hiss of pain, broke the arrow’s shaft off from where it stuck out his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, swore again, and ripped the arrowhead out. “It’s not bad.”

“Good.” Shade wouldn’t call his old friend a liar. Not right now.

Not with enemies on their heels.

Shade turned to watch the forest, listening to thunder rumble in the distance. Neither Vic nor Instance had the stamina for a long chase. Shade had been on the road for far too long, and Vic was tired. So was he, but it was harder to explain pushing through exhaustion to a horse.

No matter what Instance said, he was bleeding and needed healing. A mage sure as hell wasn’t going to be found in the middle of a storm, either, and wet bandages wouldn’t do much good. Instance could still fight and ride, but he wouldn’t be at his best. Even the slightest wound could worsen and get infected if left alone too long. This far from a healer, an infection could kill as readily as an Olorian sword.

Or an Evendarian one.