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I tug against his hands. “What are you doing?” I ask, beginning to panic in earnest.

Not the rope. Not again.

Oh God.

It’s hitting me, that I tried to escape and I failed and now everything is going to be so muchworse.

Kneeling in the snow, he begins to bind my wrists, his expression grim and angry.

If I don’t get away now, I am going to die.

I kick out at him, my boot landing heavily against his thigh. He doesn’t so much as sway.

He tightens the knots on my wrist and I cry out at the stabbing pain. His lips thin as he loops the other end through his saddle.

“No.”Please. “No-no-no.” I’m muttering almost senselessly, a couple tears squeezing out of my eyes.

I have two open wounds at my back, and the night air is so cold it rips through my clothing and burns my skin.

“Whyare you doing this?” The question is almost a sob.

Pestilence glares at me. “Have you so recently forgotten whatyoudid tome?” He gives a yank on the rope. “Up.”

I don’t get up. I don’t have it in metoget up.

The horseman doesn’t stick around to see whether or not I follow his orders. He mounts his horse and makes another clicking noise.

The steed begins to trot away, and I only have one swift second to get my feet properly under me before I’m forced to move.

And then we’re off again.

Chapter 8

I don’t knowhow long we travel in the dark, cold night, only that it feels endless. My hands are numb, my legs are stiff with chill, and my back throbs in strange, painful ways that make me think my injuries are more than just flesh wounds.

Still, Pestilence drives us onwards.

At first his horse moves slow, though I don’t think it’s to show me any mercy. Rather, I assume it’s to draw out my agony for as long as possible. Slowly the steed begins to pick up speed, until his trot becomes a canter and then his canter eventually becomes a gallop.

I keep up for a while. That much I can say. Despite everything, I somehow do keep up.

But no one except this dastardly immortal creature can go on forever. The lack of sleep, the thin meals, the cold, my wounds and my exhaustion—it’s all worn me down.

I trip, falling onto the snow-covered road, and I don’t get up. My wrists jerk over my head, the force of it yanking at least one arm out of its socket.

Now I scream. Now I lose it.

My body is on fire and a person could go mad from this sort of pain.

I didn’t even know I could hurt this much and oh God oh God oh God make it stop please make it stop I’m sorry I shot your beloved horseman just make it stop.

But it doesn’t stop. If God has any mercy, it’s not spared on me.

I’m dragged through the snow, and the cold hurts so bad it burns. Whatever protection my clothes afford me, it doesn’t last long. I can feel the icy road against my back, and I don’t know where my agony ends and I begin. All I know is that I haven’t endured worse than this.

I scream until my throat is ragged from use. My arms are going to be ripped from my body. There’s no other way this ends. And I’m in so much pain that Ihopethey’ll cleave away from me so I can bleed out and die quicker than this.

It doesn’t happen.