She was in the bag; she was over his shoulder with his hand on the small of her back, she was caught; there was only the bag and the hand and bright, bright terror.
She brought her bound wrists before her face and scratched. The bag was rough but her nails could find no purchase. Shreds of jute blew in her eyes and she stopped scratching. It was hot, yeasty; her ribs were bunched over him and she could tell by the way her face felt heavy that her head was hanging downwards. The gag was dripping across her cheek. If I keep crying, I'll drown. He was going down steps, endlessly; her chin knocked against her wrists, over and over. She felt his hand tighten on her back. Then he was walking quick on level ground. He shouted, loud, and his voice came clear from just behind her head. Unhelmed still; oh thank gods, thank gods, and she knew what to do, a clear clean thought through the terror, she reached back into her hair with difficulty, twisting her head down into her bound hands. The long pin that held her hair came out easy but he jounced down a step and it fell from her fingers against the jute. She scrabbled and caught it. He was walking steady now, slower, and she tensed and listened. There was his breath, in; out, this hard curve his shoulder, this is his back–and she twisted towards him and felt at her elbow the ridged lip of his breastplate. The laboured breathing came from above there. She held the pin in her fist, its point facing back at her elbow. Please, please, let it hit. I'm so sorry for everything I've done, and she twisted back and in one convulsion punched the pin through the bag as hard as she could. It met elastic resistance, popping back towards her palm, then pushed in slow. Skin, she thought, panicking, his neck, I've done it.
He stopped walking. She tensed herself for the fall, but instead, she felt a tug at the pin still tight in her fingers. Slowly, slowly it pulled from her grip and slid through the bag, and it was gone. She felt the man beneath her shudder. Then, heartbreakingly, behind her head came his laugh: rasping, delighted, and then his hand was patting her back. She screamed into the sash, but it was hardly a sound at all, more like a wasp drone in her own ears than a scream.
"Brave little bird. But feel how high you are?" The voice was soft, slurred. "I'd hate to drop you." Screaming made her retch; she stopped. The voice continued, whispering. "Think you're the only one being carried out in a bag? You should see it out here. I let you go, you'll be picked right back up by someone else." He started walking again, and she swayed limp with his movement. The terror went to black. She closed her eyes and breathed and thought of nothing. He was shouting again, moving quick, rapid jerking movements, and she ignored it all.
When he finally stopped, it was colder, and it was green in the bag. He shifted her, lowered her feet down and she fell, numb. The bag scraped her face as he pulled it down, righted her with hard hands on her shoulders, and he was squatting, his face close to hers. In the pale green she could see his eyes swimming, and his breath was acidic with bile. She didn't care. She shut her eyes against him.
"Look at me." The fingers tensed, painfully, and she opened her eyes. He was so close she couldn't focus; one watery grey eye, wavering in front of her. His breath was a hot wash against her face. He put his cheek against her ear and she felt the dried blood flaking off.
"We're going to ride, now, and you'll not scream. If you do, I'll just leave you. Do you understand?" She remembered how Lollys had staggered when she'd been brought back, and she nodded against his cheek. He pulled away and looked at her. "If you fall off the horse, you're going to die."
She nodded, and looked away. Lollys had blood on her legs, Lollys had blood in her mouth. They were outside the stable, and it was late night, but the sky was green and dully lit like dawn. Horses were screaming; horses and men together, overlapping. Shadowed figures ran around them in the murky green. He leaned her against him, rough, and untied her ankles, but she found she had no breath to run and a lassitude had taken her. The air smelled like burnt wood, and also a kitchen smell, as of a roast. He was sawing at the knot behind her head and she felt some of her hair going with it.
Then she could breathe, took cold gasps– bright and sharp in her lungs, too cold– and coughed, and gagged. His hands cupped her ribcage and he lifted her atop the packed black horse. It was so tall, terrifyingly tall. She tried clumsily to sit sidesaddle, but the Hound pulled her leg over and then was behind her. His armour was cold. The mailed arm came around her shoulders to pin her to him again, as it had in her room; his chin knocked against the crown of her head when he bent and muttered, "I will leave you. Believe me." She felt his thighs tense, and the horse leapt, and was gone.