If there was one thing keeping her alive, it was Nûlû. Vesp had spent all of the time she could remember cooped into that damned old house, and she did not know the wild. But Nûlû did. At least a dozen times she had known, by a tensing of his muscles or a twitch of his ears, that trouble was ahead, and every time she had trusted him. She could not rely on any disguise now. She knew that the hunters from the Temple and the Guild were looking for her, and would know her by any guise, including her horse. There was no sense in following roads, or in bedding down in inns. She had to cross wilds, and double back - lay traps, change direction on the faintest whim. She did not know where she was going, except that it was away from Umbar.

She was not stupid, though. She knew that the easy road, or the way that some animal instinct told her to take, was no good. If she followed the paths that looked simple or easy or lush and green, she would walk right into an ambush, and then she would beg for death long before the end. If that meant crossing trackless dessert, then so be it. Better to perish from the heat then to be flayed, crucified and burnt as the rest must have been.

No, she would not think about that. She had hated all of the other slaves, once, but now it seemed that the hatred had not come from her, but from Kor's games. They were no worse than she was, and in fact none of them had doomed her to such a hideous end as she had them. She could only hope that Siraha and Inzil had had the sense not to try to hide but to run and keep running. They were the only ones who might have been warned in time, but she knew that Inzil's fear was their greatest danger, and that it would make her vainly hope for mercy where there would be none. Vesp knew better though, and so did Siraha. The brutal death given to surviving slaves was not intended to punish the guilty or even to avenge a dead master, but to protect those other Lords, merchants and Brotheliers who kept slaves. If slaves knew they could kill their masters with no more consequence than their own death, then Umbar would have fallen long ago.

Nûlû tossed his head and flared his nostrils. Vesp paused upon the path and listened hard. Nothing. No alarm calls of birds or wooden sliding of arrows being drawn. She could not turn back upon this path. She had seen that there were caravaners coming along behind her. The brush would have to suffice. She turned Nûlû aside into it, though he paused before the nearest thorn-bushes and it took a squeeze of her ankles before he could be persuaded to go on, but on he went all the same, high-stepping over the brush nearest the road so as not to leave as much of a trail. She had not often ridden before, or at least, she had hated every moment of her lessons, as she had sat side-saddle on whipped horses, and judged on the 'firmness' of her commands, so that the horses had often come away with bleeding chops. It had come as a surprise to her then, that Nûlû, whose mouth had long ago become calloused and insensitive to the bit seemed to be responding more to her thought than to her commands. Pulling at the reins was almost a meaningless ritual, as if he was going to turn at her command, he would have already started it before she tugged. Whether it was by some subtle shifting of her weight, or a twist of muscle, he always seemed to know where she wanted to go. After a few days she had taken off his bridle and buried it - keeping only a soft rope to help her hold on - and let him read her thoughts, however he did it.

That day's trekking was long and tiring, always stopping to listen, and changing paths a dozen times. The jungle was not dense or tall, but it was hot, and full of vines and biting insects. In the end it had given way to the mounting grassy dunes, over which she could hear the sea. When it became too dark to see, she stopped, and dropped stiffly from the saddle, loosening Nûlû's tack by feel and finding a stream to lead him to by sound. She slept fitfully, wrapped in Isenna's torn cowl. Hunger seemed to grind at her belly, and brought her strange dreams – sometimes of horror and pursuit, and sometimes of things she did not know, voices spoken in tongues she did not understand – half-seen faces obscured through thick grey mists. Words spun and twisted in her mind, their sounds making the music of a stream, but out of the babel came two words. Quiet, soundless even, but sharp and clear as ice-water falling on her neck:

Wake up

Her eyes opened. It was not yet light, but a cold blueish smear in the sky spoke of approaching dawn. Her heart was beating fast, though there was scarce a sound but the sigh of wind and the distant trickling of the brook. She looked to Nulu. His great black silhouette was still and his head hung low: sleeping, perhaps.

Never mind that... something was telling her to beware. Lifting herself carefully from the ground, she slunk over to Nulu and tightened his belly band, making him wake with a small jump but no sound. Huffing, he raised his head and twisted his ears about. He could sense something she could not. As he laid his ears back upon his head she half-leapt up into the saddle just as the bushes about her exploded. Shouts and cries rang out, and swarthy men burst from the undergrowth, swinging bolas and raising spears. A crossbow quarrel hissed past her head as Nulu leapt for an opening in the dunes. Vesp's heart froze: two men had just pulled a thin, glinting cord taut across the opening. With a cry she lunged forwards and clapped a hand over his left eye, making him lean right and toss his head as he ran. But he was no longer running at the cord, and instead one of the men who had pulled it taut was hammered into the ground beneath his frenzied hooves.

Wind whistled past her ears as Nulu ran, and tumbling bolas thudded into the ground near his feet, failing to catch his legs and trip him. On and on he ran, longer and faster, until there was no sound from behind nor sight of pursuit. As he ran, the sun rose over the forest, and the white foam glowed in the surf to her left. Her heart did not slow, but gradually, the fear seemed to drain away, to be replaced by joy. She was alive! And, somehow... every time she and Nulu fled danger at the gallop, she felt a deep and powerful bond with the steaming black horse, as though he was more than just a beast of burden: more even than a friend. As if she knew him and had always known him, and that he knew her. Not the slave, nor the wild runaway, but what she was underneath, whatever that might be.

But there was something wrong. After the gallop, they had cantered, and after that they had trotted, but now he was flagging. It had been a mighty run, but he was a fit horse and he would not normally tire so soon. He coughed a great racking cough, and blood spattered on the rocks by the way.

'No!'

Vesp stopped him and leapt down, not wanting to believe what she had just seen. Frantically, she ran her hands over him until she found it: a nasty, hard sharp thorn: a black crossbow quarrel buried behind his right foreleg between two ribs. She did not dare touch it... she had never been taught to mend horses' injuries: indeed if a horse became lame then Kor would simply order it staked or speared and sent to the cooks. She knew, though – or guessed, at least, that to pull it out would only make things worse.

Nulu's breath rasped, and Vesp's eyes rimmed with hopeless tears.

'No! No! Not you as well! They can't have you! They can't!'

He hung his great head and coughed again. More blood freckled the ground by Vesp's feet.

'I'm so sorry...'

She hugged his sweaty neck, taking care not to press on his throat, but she could feel the shivers running through his muscles. Wiping her face and sniffing, she looked about desolately, hearing a stream nearby. She led him to it and cried out as he shakingly lowered himself to drink, but instead stumbled and splashed into the shallows. Vesp rushed in after him and wrapped her arms about his great neck, where she sobbed and moaned uncontrollably. It was not fair. It was not FAIR! Why him? Why did everything she loved have to die!? Was that the price of freedom?

And as the old horse finally lowered his great head, she knew it was true. He had known her before.