The Year of the Witching(72)

Immanuelle turned, following the path of his gaze to two distant lights that bobbed in the black behind them.

Riders. The Prophet’s Guard.

The truth struck her: Martha.

She’d seen Immanuelle leave, and there was a Guard post in the Outskirts just ten minutes down the road by horseback. She must have gone to them, must have summoned the Prophet’s Guard to drag her back. Martha had betrayed her, and now that the Church knew what Immanuelle had done, the Guard would hunt her down to the ends of the earth to punish her for it. There would be no mercy.

“I hope you said your prayers,” said Ezra, yelling above the wind. “Because we’ll both have sins to atone for by the time the night’s through. Here.” He slipped the reins into her hands, and Immanuelle had to brace her feet against the bottom of the wagon just to avoid being ripped off the bench. Ezra climbed into the back of the wagon, rifle in hand. “Hold the reins steady, but keep the horse running. Don’t let him slow.”

“What are you doing?” Immanuelle asked. The reins chafed her palms so badly she feared they’d bleed. In the dark behind them, the lights burned brighter, bigger, and Immanuelle could make out the shape of a lone rider tearing after them.

Ezra raised his rifle, squeezing one eye shut as he peered down the barrel. He fit his finger over the trigger. “Buying time.”

What happened next passed in glimpses. A rider emerged from the black, cloaked, his holy dagger beating against his breast as his horse charged forward. There was a shout.

A bullet whistled past Immanuelle’s head.

Ezra pulled the trigger.

The guardsman behind them fell from his horse and struck the road, motionless, his shattered lantern burning in the dust beside him. Another light in the southern darkness, another rider drawing near. Bullets broke through the black and Immanuelle crouched low, snapping the reins and urging the horse onward.

Ezra fired a few warning shots into the darkness, forcing the riders to fall back, only for the next to emerge from the shadows, rifles raised, screaming orders and curses into the night.

Immanuelle urged the horse onward, but the riders were too fast, and when more lights appeared in the west, she knew that fleeing was futile.

It was over.

“We’re not going to make it,” she cried above the roaring wind, the reins eating deep into her palms. “There’s too many of them!”

Ezra lowered his rifle, climbing over the back of the wagon to the bench. He snatched the reins from her hands and dragged on them hard. The horse reared, and Ezra jumped to the ground before the wagon stopped moving.

“What are you doing?” Immanuelle demanded.

“Getting you out of Bethel.” He put the reins in her hands again. “The guardsmen posted at the gate will make sure they open for you. You’ll have to get through fast, before the Prophet’s Guard orders them shut again. But once you’re out, you’re safe, at least until my father gives the Guard clearance to pursue you in the wilds.”

“Ezra—”

“Ride hard and don’t look back for anything. Understand? There are provisions in the wagon, coins and goods to trade with. If you can make it through the wilds to the towns on the other side, you should have enough to last you through the winter, if need be.”

Immanuelle choked back tears. “Ezra. They’ll arrest you on treason for firing on the Prophet’s Guard. You can’t stay here. You can’t do this.”

“You won’t make it to the gate if I don’t,” said Ezra, his voice hoarse. “The riders are too fast. I can buy you some time.”

“But what about the warrant?”

“It’s with the guardsmen already. I saw to that days ago. You’re expected, so when you approach the gate, it’ll open for you. But you have to go. Now.”

The thunder of horses’ hooves grew louder, drowning the toll of the church bells. In the distance, Immanuelle saw the bright flare of a raised torch sputter to light.

“Go,” said Ezra, and he turned to face the riders, rifle raised. When Immanuelle didn’t move, he yelled. “Now!”

Immanuelle tossed the reins. The horse charged forward with a start, and they were off again, racing through the darkness, leaving Ezra behind them.

Immanuelle heard a shot, but she wasn’t sure who fired. She didn’t turn around. She kept her eyes on the road, her hands around the reins.

Don’t look back, she told herself again and again, like she was reciting a prayer. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Another bullet hissed through the night, this one closer than the first. Then a third.

She peered over her shoulder and saw Ezra stagger, his rifle nearly slipping from his hands. He took two steps forward, one back; then he raised the weapon to his shoulder again and fired into the darkness.

Immanuelle snapped the reins. The village was in view now, and she could see the lights on the gate. She was almost there. Just half a league more. All she had to do was keep going.

Another bullet whistled through the darkness.

This time, Immanuelle didn’t turn to look. Lashing the reins, she urged the horse onward, into Amas. A smear of town houses blurred past. The cart rattled across cobblestones and deep ruts in the road. The streets were mostly empty, but the few who were in them leaped for cover as Immanuelle barreled past.

The thunder of hoofbeats grew louder as the Prophet’s Guard drew near. Rogue horsemen emerged from adjacent alleys, picking their way through the empty market stalls. In the near distance, she could see the gate, lit with the light of flaming torches.