Beast by Abigail Barnette Page A

swung into the saddle. He gritted his teeth. At least it would not hurt for long. Twenty men had been in pursuit of Wilhelm. Philipe prayed they would not have already cut him down by the time he reached them.
    Heart in his throat, he eased his mount down the treacherous slope, cursing every minute lost as he battled the steep road and uneven terrain.
    As he rode through the gates of Hazelhurn, he expected he would see the host of riders coming down upon him, but the broad expanse of the valley had tricked his eyes. Wilhelm still rode ahead of them, and all the riders still had a length of unbroken snow to cover. Philipe unsheathed his sword and lifted it with his good arm, though it was not his sword arm. It didn’t matter, he could have had two swords and six arms and he would not have been able to take on twenty men. If this is how it is to end, then let it be quick .
    “For Albart and Chevudon!” he shouted, spurring the reluctant horse to charge. His heart thundered in his throat, his belly roiled. If this was what men faced whenever they went into battle, he would think much higher of soldiers in his next life. Under all of it was hope, hope that he might live, and he battled against that hope, lest it be lost in despair as he lay dying in the snow.
    The host was almost upon Wilhelm, and Wilhelm was almost upon Philipe. He thought he might wretch, or faint. He was not cut out to be a warrior, though he’d always fancied he might one day make a great show of military courage. He should have known his own limitations.
    Wilhelm drew near enough Philipe could see the smile beneath his visor, and he halted his mount, but did not lower his blade. Either Wilhelm had the madness of battle upon him, or he was merely happy to see a friendly face before dying.
    “Lower your weapon, you fool,” Wilhelm said with a laugh, pulling off his helm. “I bring you a gift.”
    Philipe’s fingers flexed around the sword hilt. “What?”
    Wilhelm laughed. “These men come from Lord Desch, on the northern coast. Another hundred will arrive in a fortnight. These men have come to help protect you, and Hazelhurn.”
    “Protect?” The word held a double meaning. “You mean these men will fight for me?”
    “Fight for you, and for your crown.” Wilhelm beamed, his snow-ruddied skin glowing. “Congratulations, your majesty. You are going to war.”
    * * * *
    The point of the dagger scratched Johanna’s chest, and she held her breath, watching from the window as Philipe reached her brother’s side. She would wait and see how they fared. She would not be taken as a living captive, to be used by those men on horseback. She would not be made their whore out of convenience.
    No one would want you for a whore , the vicious voice in her head scolded. You merely want to die before learning the truth of it.
    Below, Philipe lowered his sword. So, the coward would not fight, then? He would let the men simply kill them where they stood? She pulled the dagger away. It was not meant for her. It should open Philipe’s handsome throat, so he died gagging on his own blood. It would be a fitting death for a coward.
    The riders slowed as they came upon Wilhelm and Philipe, and she choked back a cry. It had seemed they would never reach them, and now, the moment was nigh. She would watch her brother die, and then she would die by her own hand. She repositioned the dagger.
    Then, something strange happened. The riders made no advance on their foes. The rider at the head, a fat man in solid white armor, dismounted and knelt, helm in hand, beside his white horse. The rest followed suit.
    “What, by the souls of the damned, is going on?” she muttered to herself. Impatient with waiting to die, she flung the dagger aside and belted the bed robe around her waist. She did not bother with her veil, thinking of it too late, when she was already half down the creaking stairs from the tower. She met her brother and Philipe as they made their way up the road,