Mystic Rider (30 page)

Until she heard the firing of muskets in the distance, and
Ian spurred his horse into a gallop, shouting at their driver to hide the
carriage in the woods.

Binding her fear tightly inside her, Chantal pretended
that musket fire, galloping horses, and lurching carriages were part of a
pleasant summer’s day as the coach came to rest in a copse of woods.

“Open the lovely picnic basket and see what Cook has made
for you,” Chantal told the terrified children as the driver climbed down to
water the horses.

The carriage’s abrupt change in direction had scared them
badly, and she was certain they could pick up on her fear and Pauline’s. Marie
was already weeping, and Anton’s lower lip trembled. If her voice had any power
at all, Chantal prayed it would soothe them. She sent Pauline a telling glance
that brought her friend back from her own terror to the moment.

“I should think there are trees here you can climb,” Pauline
exclaimed with false gaiety, following Chantal’s example. “It is gallant of
Monsieur d’Olympe to find us such a lovely dining room.”

While the children sniffled and tried to decide if this was
sufficient reassurance, Pauline mouthed a questioning, “Pierre?”

Chantal shrugged slightly, not knowing the answer. She
recognized the countryside. They were nearing the coast. Chances were good that
Murdoch and Ian had either found Pierre or encountered a swarm of soldiers. The
shots did not indicate a peaceful resolution.

Papa opened his eyes and scowled. “With luck, our traveling
companions have gone for good, and we can go home in peace.”

Chantal knew better. She felt it deep inside her, where Ian
somehow resided. But she did not let his fury or her fear appear on her face…or
in her voice. She had to mind her voice, just in case Ian was right, and she
somehow revealed or affected too much with it.

She did not feel pain, but… the heat of battle? Why would
she think that what she was feeling had anything to do with Ian? Except last
time she’d felt his pain, he’d been badly wounded, and this time, she felt as
if she were angry and fighting, when she wasn’t — which meant she was officially
insane.

Ian had thought her voice
useful
. If she could help…

She desperately wanted to help, to be in charge of her own
fate. She’d lost everything she’d owned while being cautious. She had little
enough left to risk and no reason for caution any longer.

Her father watched her with suspicion, as if he knew
something she didn’t and wasn’t very happy about it. She managed a polite
smile. “I’d like to stretch my legs a little. I think I’ll take one of the
mares for a ride. Shall I look for berry patches?”

Pauline and her father knew she was lying to protect the
children, but she escaped the carriage before they could voice a protest. The
mares weren’t saddled, but they were bridled. She’d been on horses since she
was a toddler. If she rode without benefit of stirrups or appropriate habit,
her skirts might drag the ground and kill her, but the horse wouldn’t. At
least, in this heat, she was wearing a minimum of petticoats.

Trying not to show her fear, she shakily unfastened the
leading strings on the last mare in the train. The driver hastened to her side.
“There’s water for them just over the hill. I can lead them down myself,
madame. It’s dangerous for you to go alone.”

Chantal took a deep breath to prevent shouting her hysteria.
If her voice had any influence at all, now was the time to use it prudently.
She conjured her sweetest smile and most reassuring tone. “That is thoughtful
of you. Pierre chose wisely when he hired you. But I am restless and would like
to explore the countryside a little. Would you give me a boost up?”

She could see his internal struggle. Ian had said something
about not being able to force people to go against their will, but the driver
didn’t know her well and should have no strong inclinations one way or another
if she chose to risk her silly life. She watched with interest as he obeyed her
command, kneeling down to provide a stirrup with his hands so she could mount.

If she hadn’t used her persuasive voice on him, would he
have been so obliging?

Steadying the nervous animal, stroking and talking to her,
she gained the mare’s confidence, then led her into a polite walk back to the
road.

In their flashy red and blue uniforms, the mercenaries that
Murdoch had ordered to guard the rear galloped toward her, and she waited to
direct them to the carriage. They seemed reluctant to follow her orders until
she spoke to them in a commanding tone. Instantly, the armed and trained officers
reined in and walked their horses down to the trees. If this kept up, nothing
would ever amaze her again.

Her success in escaping her safe boundaries gave her courage.

Out of sight of the carriage, Chantal kicked her mount into
a gallop.

The gunfire was muted with distance but still terrorized
her. She’d seen blood running in the streets after soldiers fired on crowds,
but it had never been the blood of anyone she knew.

Pierre and Ian were ahead. And fearsome Murdoch. And her
childhood home.

She’d recognized the edge of the chalky plateau they’d
entered some while back. If they still followed Pierre, he was returning to his
parents’ estate, as expected. They were north of Le Havre, close to the coast
and her maternal grandparent’s country house. The alabaster cliffs of Étretat
were a mile or two to the north. She’d roamed these fields with Jean and
Pauline when they were children, knew every dovecote and manor along the way.

The cliffs they raced toward were treacherous, composed of
loose shingle and shale, and no place for horses or fighting. Farther to the
south lay the lowlands of the Seine Valley and the port of Le Havre. If Pierre
meant to catch a ship from France, he would go there — after saying farewell to
his parents near Étretat. He would not suspect that Ian and Murdoch were so
close on his trail, intent on reclaiming the chalice. She trusted Ian not to
harm Pierre but feared Murdoch would not hesitate to shoot him.

She couldn’t bear Pauline’s grief if that happened.

Drawing on her love for her home, Chantal hummed a
triumphant battle song to bolster her flagging courage and steered her horse
along the road to Étretat. The chalk plateau did not provide shrubbery for
shelter, but once she reached the safety of —

Galloping hooves trembled the ground, and her mare nervously
tossed her head. Glancing over her shoulder, Chantal saw the blue uniforms of the
Assembly’s National Guard on her heels. Lost in concern for Ian, she’d
forgotten she could still be taken as a traitor.

She did not have time to explain herself. If they meant no
harm, they would leave her be. If not…

She whipped the horse across the field in the westerly
direction of the cliffs.

The cavalry wheeled and galloped after her.

* * *

Following the sound of gunshots, racing the stallion across
the chalk plateau with little or no cover, Ian sought Murdoch’s mind — just in
case the feeble idiot would open it to him.

Murdoch didn’t, of course. But Ian did find the arrogant
threads of Murdoch’s two mercenaries. They thought to chase away a ragtag band
of foot soldiers with their mighty steeds, greater training, and deadly
weapons.

The fatal flaw in that theory, Ian realized as he came upon
the scene from a distance, was that the local militia knew the countryside, and
Murdoch and his men did not. They’d been surrounded, a dozen against three. One
should never underestimate a man fighting on his own turf, especially one
defending home and family. The power of Other World emotion seemed almost as
great as his gods-granted gifts.

Which placed Ian in a dilemma. He and Murdoch were
intervening in Other World affairs. Yes, the priest had the chalice, but did
they have the right to injure anyone in their pursuit of it? Wasn’t it, to some
extent, his and Murdoch’s fault that the chalice had escaped?

He had no stomach for killing a man who was fighting to
defend himself and his own kind. From the militia’s fierce thoughts he gathered
that these men were loyal to Pierre’s family, and they fought to shield their
hometown priest until he could escape. Placing his own desire for the chalice
above theirs to protect loved ones would reduce Ian to Murdoch’s level of
selfish ambition.

He needed to find a path to the shore, in the direction the
chalice had gone, except he couldn’t abandon Murdoch and his men.

He definitely couldn’t abandon Murdoch, whose anger had
brought down lightning and killed before. Even if he
wished
to cause no harm, Murdoch could kill.

With no place to run or hide, Ian sighed and rode straight
into the fray.

The dozen or more militiamen broke line when Ian’s staff
swung methodically from left to right. He restrained his might, not only
because his shoulder still ached, but also so as not to cause broken ribs or
heads.

A musket ball ripped dangerously near his ear. He reined
Rapscallion around to find the gunman and, with a mightier blow, knocked the
weapon from his adversary’s hands. It flew across the terrain and slid on a
flurry of shale over a cliff.

It was then that Ian fully appreciated the trap in which
Murdoch was caught. They fought on the brink of a crumbling cliff, with no
visible path downward. How the devil had Pierre carried the chalice this way?

Rather than risk his gallant stallion on the treacherous
shale, Ian chose to fight on foot. He let Rapscallion loose, ordering the horse
to find a path back to the mares. Murdoch and his two officers had apparently
already recognized the danger and released their mounts as well.

The local foot soldiers in their striped sailors’ trousers
must have used firearms to force Murdoch and his companions to the edge of this
precarious precipice. One of Murdoch’s royal guards had taken a bullet in the
leg, quite possibly in error, given the erratic aim of the muskets.

Somewhere on the narrow shelf of beach below, Pierre raced
in a southerly direction, toward the harbor. Not as foolish as he seemed, he’d
apparently set his aristocratic father’s hired soldiers to stop any pursuit, if
Ian was reading their thoughts correctly.

“That was a stupid move,” Murdoch complained as Ian spun his
staff and daringly stalked toward the soldier blocking the southern edge of the
cliff. “You should have left us and gone after the chalice.”

“Or waited to see if you’ve learned to fly?” Ian asked with
a touch of exasperation, giving up his target to knock a loaded musket from another
man’s hands. “I know I haven’t. The chalice is down there, on the beach, and I
don’t see a path.”

“You can’t read their minds?” Murdoch mocked, lunging at a
foot soldier who came too close, sending him scrambling backward at the point
of his blade.

“They know the path Pierre has taken, and they’re keeping us
from it. Beyond that, I cannot tell if it’s to the north or south or straight
over the edge.”

“You take the north, I’ll take the south, and my men will
take the middle,” Murdoch ordered in the French that his mercenaries could
understand.

Despite their injuries, the two officers spread out with
rapier and sword in hand, but there were three militiamen to each of them. All
must die if Murdoch’s plan was to work.

“A waterspout might carry us down,” Ian suggested, ignoring
Murdoch’s command and lashing out with his staff at the men on his right. They
dodged and feinted and reloaded their muskets.

A waterspout would terrify the natives, but with the chalice
slipping from his grasp, Ian was prepared to scare the trousers off them if
necessary. Unfortunately, he was only a Sky Rider. Murdoch was the one who
could harness the powers of wind and water.

Ian swung his staff and advanced menacingly. He’d lost sense
of Pierre’s thoughts in the assault of false courage from these brawny men.

“Your control is better than mine,” Murdoch asserted in
frustration, gesturing for his men to follow him in a show of strength behind
Ian. For Ian’s ears alone, he spoke in their Aelynn language. “I’d drown us and
everyone within a mile. I vote we set fire to the lot.”

This was the second time Murdoch had admitted that his
abilities were erratic, which meant they must be even more skewed than Ian had
supposed. Now he had to worry about not only Murdoch’s allegiance, but also the
survival of everyone on the cliff.

“And trap us with a wall of flame?” Ian replied blandly so
as not to set off his companion’s rage. He struck his staff downward, forcing
men to leap and jump away from him, but they did not fall so far back as to
free him from the cliff’s edge. “Charming notion. I’d rather find a way down
than burn alive. The men mean no real harm. They’re merely hampering our
progress.”

“Is that all? I thought they meant to push us over the
edge,” Murdoch said sarcastically, glancing at the sea pounding the rocky shore
far below. “Have you looked down? The rock spires along this coast are
awe-inspiringly sharp.”

Ian snorted at this show of bravado. Even with their ability
to run swiftly and leap far, they couldn’t soar past jagged stone to the
uncertain depths of the sea. “We’re no more than curiosities to them.” With
satisfaction, Ian whacked another musket so accurately that it spun over the
cliff. To his left, the less injured mercenary engaged in a swordfight with a
crude pike, without evidence of success. “They have no reason to kill us, just
keep us from reaching Pierre.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t kill
them
.” Murdoch lunged with superhuman speed and power at his
nearest captor, and the soldier collapsed, clasping his shoulder with a cry of
pain. “Let them see we’re not cowards.”

“Angering them is hardly useful,” Ian objected as one of the
rural militia ran to save his comrade and Murdoch’s royal officer discouraged
him with a sword. “I can read the heavens or their minds, but I can’t force
either to go against their nature. You’re the one with earth skills. Aside from
creating an avalanche to take us down, is there nothing you can do?”