Red Hood's Revenge

your second step, and believe me, these are not gentle creatures.”
    Talia made a show of pushing back as Roudette dragged her toward the hunter. A backhanded blow sent Talia sprawling. “Consider that repayment for the cut you gave me in Lorindar,” Roudette said, touching the scab on her face.
    Talia pushed herself to her feet, tasting blood. She spat, and then the rider was reaching down to seize the front of her robe. He hauled her onto the horse behind him. Even if she had wanted to escape, the hunter’s grip was steel. Talia hastily adjusted her robe and pouch to protect Snow and Danielle from being crushed.
    The hunter’s body was warmer than she had expected, almost feverish. He gestured, and the bare-chested hunter rode forward, reaching for Roudette.
    “I ride with my prey,” Roudette said, still holding the end of Talia’s leash. The other hunter backed away, and Roudette climbed up behind Talia.
    The horse took a quick step forward, off- balance from the weight of three people. Talia spat again. If Snow’s mirrors failed, maybe her blood would help the Kha’iida trackers find this spot.
    The leader blew his horn once more. Though it made no sound, this time Talia was close enough to feel the air grow warm, as though an invisible fire burned within the horn. As one, the Wild Hunt brought their horses about, and then they were off. The air shimmered and tore before them. Hooves pounded a smoldering trail through the air. Sweat soon dampened Talia’s robe.
    The hounds barked and yowled as they ran alongside their masters. There was no wind, even as the hills of Arathea rushed past. The landscape shimmered as though she looked upon the desert through a curtain of moonlight. As far as she could tell, they traveled north-east, toward the Makras River.
    Rock and sand changed to grassy marshes, which gave way to the wide, slow- moving waters of the Makras. Such a distance would have taken two days for a mortal rider. The Hunt crossed the Makras without slowing, each horse clearing the river in a single leap.
    They veered north, cutting through the marshlands as they followed the river. Eventually the Hunt slowed. Up ahead, marshes changed to a broad, open plain of sand and cracked earth. A chill crawled down Talia’s back, despite the heat of the hunter. “I know this place.”
    “It looks like an old lakebed.”
    Talia turned back toward the river. “The lake was drained while I slept. The family of Prince Qussan spent thirty years and their entire fortune to do it. They diverted the Makras more than a mile upstream, damming off any tributaries that tried to feed into the lake. They hoped that by robbing this place of water, they might kill the hedge that had taken Qussan.”
    According to the histories she had learned at the temple, this had been about ten years after Talia was cursed. With the palace engulfed by the hedge, many in the city had already fled. As the water dried, the rest soon left, leaving only the Sisters of the Hedge behind.
    The ruins of the old city stood on the far side of the lake. Drifts of sand covered the roads. Beyond, she could make out the silhouette of a castle.
    Talia forced herself to breathe. “This was my home.”
    The original Temple of the Hedge sat empty a short distance from the palace. The palace where she had grown up was in better shape than the crumbling city. Perhaps the hedge had preserved it as well. One of the windcatchers still stood, though the other had fallen and ripped a gash in the wall of the western wing. Patches of vines covered the ground, struggling to survive, though most appeared brittle and broken.
    A lone figure waited outside the palace. Talia’s mouth went dry, and she brought her hands to her chest, feeling the reassuring weight of the knives in her robe. As the Hunt brought her closer, she relaxed. This wasn’t Zestan. It appeared to be a swamp troll, tall and broad, with skin like a rotting log and hair the color of algae.
    Roudette jumped down, dragging Talia after. “I come to bargain with Zestan!”
    The troll lumbered forward. Her face was so warty Talia could barely make out her eyes. It was as though she wore a mask made from toadskins. Her clothes were crocodile skin the color of old tobacco, and she carried a staff of twisted driftwood.
    Roudette’s knife found Talia’s neck. The troll slowed. Her nostrils flapped open as she sniffed the air. She moved closer, until her toes almost touched Talia’s. The troll inhaled