The Anger of Angels by Sherryl Jordan

Author:Sherryl Jordan [Jordan, Sherryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781760650667
Publisher: Walker Books Australia
Published: 2018-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

In the chill dawn I travelled on. The landscape began to change, became wild and mountainous. Occasionally I passed olive groves and terraced vineyards where people worked between rows of vines, baskets on their backs as they harvested plump grapes. At noon I entered a wood, dim and eerily quiet. I allowed Ambra to walk, listening all the time, the dagger in my hand. For half an hour I rode, my eyes constantly scanning the shadowy road ahead, where the trees were thickest either side.

Suddenly, without sound or warning, three men left the darkness of the trees a little way ahead, and stepped onto the road. They were filthy and long-haired, and wore the rough garb of outlaws or robbers.

I had already planned what I would do in this event; now that it was happening, I felt no fear, only rage. Kicking Ambra into a gallop, I rode straight for them, my hand tight about the dagger. Ambra leaped forwards, ears laid flat, hooves pounding the darkling road. One of the men stepped out directly into our path, and Ambra faltered, veered sideways. The assailant lurched forwards to grab the reins. Shouting at Ambra, urging her on, I slashed at the man’s hand with my dagger. He screamed; blood sprayed into the air.

Someone tried to seize my foot. I kicked him in the face, still yelling at the mare. She plunged bravely on, hampered by one of the men dragging at the saddlebag, being pulled alongside. Turning, I tried to stab at his hands, glimpsed his bearded face upturned, laughing, his eyes ablaze with the lust to kill, then screaming as his legs swung under the thundering hooves. He fell, and I looked back, saw him lying in the road, his legs buckled. Leaning low over Ambra’s neck, I urged her onwards. Glancing down at the saddlebag the man had held onto, I saw that it remained firmly attached to the saddle, though it was splattered with blood.

After a long time I let Ambra slow to a trot, while I leaned forwards and stroked her tawny mane. She was quivering from fright and the long, frenzied dash. “Brave friend,” I said softly.

Soon the road left the woods, and I found myself in a deep valley between dark and rugged hills. On all sides were mountains, evening mist gathering about their heights. As the sun sank in a vermilion ball over the western peaks, I stopped at a small lake. I washed, drank deeply from the ice-cold waters, and led Ambra down to drink. Under a tree I rested while Ambra cropped the lush grass. In that vast twilight landscape, I felt utterly alone.

After a rest I stood up and surveyed the hills for signs of life, for a wisp of smoke from a chimney, a candlelit window or a sign of sheep or cattle. But the hills were desolate, solitary. Dusk gathered, and birds sang as they winged their way homewards to their nests. I would be sleeping under the stars this night, and was glad the good weather held.

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