Free The Uncrowned King by Rowena Cory Daniells

fallen, impossible as it seemed.
    He'd been lucky. In another day, they would have set guards and organised defences.
    Even as this flashed through his mind, he was turning his horse and racing for the gate, where the gate keepers finally stepped out to block him. More Merofynian warriors.
    Urging his horse to a gallop, Byren kicked one man, slashed at another and charged a third, who leaped aside at the last minute.
    The terrified horse galloped down the steep slope, missed the first bend and ploughed through a knee-high snow bank, venturing into the pine forest. Byren would have urged it back onto the path, but he heard shouts behind him as the invaders organised pursuit.
    His head buzzed. It hurt when he breathed. Why was his side sticky and hot? He felt his ribs and his hand came away bright with blood.
    Byren cursed. He could not afford an injury, not with the Merofynians after him.
    How had they taken the abbey, and where was Fyn?
    No time to think. He let the frightened horse have its head. The snow banks and steep slope meant his mount could go no faster than a canter. Still, he had to clench his teeth as the rhythm of its hooves made his side throb.
    Soon the silence of the evergreen forest closed around him. The snow was thick, mantling the trees and meeting the ground like a trailing cloak. Only patches of the trees' deep blue-green foliage could be seen. It was impossible to tell where the deep snow drifts were. One moment his horse was fetlock-deep, next the snow came up to its belly or higher as it fought its way through. The poor beast would be winded in no time.
    Speaking gently, he soothed his mount and it slowed, picking its way through the trees. Soon he was out of the pines and in open, rolling farm country.
    Clenching his teeth in anticipation of the pain, Byren twisted from the waist and looked back.
    What he saw made him curse. The horse had left a clear path in the snow. Worse than that, his blood was a bright marker.
    Grey moths fluttered across Byren's vision. He knew the signs and panic tightened his belly. He must not pass out.
    He was injured and alone. The only advantage he had was local knowledge. Wasn't there a small stream not far from here that fed into the lake?
    Oddly enough, after wrestling with the Merofynians, he still had his skates.
    His pursuers were searching for a man on horseback. Byren looked for a suitable spot to dismount and hide his tracks. There, a steep slope of stone stretched off to one side of the path. From the looks of it there was a ravine below. Wind had scoured the rocky slope free of snow. He guided the horse towards it.
    Slipping out of the saddle, he almost fell as his legs took his weight. The icy stone was slippery, but he held onto the horse's mane with one hand and hugged his side with the other to stop the bleeding. He led the horse a little way along the scree, then sent it off with a slap on the rump. It clambered up, eager to get off the treacherous rocks, leaving the slope by a different place from where they had entered. Let his pursuers think he had thought better of travelling this way.
    Byren gritted his teeth and edged crablike across the steep, exposed stone. Snow had settled in the few crevices but it was mostly iced-over rock and dangerous. If he fell into the ravine he would break his leg and lie there until he froze to death, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky the ulfr pack would find him and make a meal of him. If he was really unlucky the Merofynians would find him.
    But he had always been light on his feet. Lence used to resent the way he only had to go through a dance once to get the steps. Lence... grief wound its finger through his gut and twisted sharply. He must not think of his twin.
    He had to warn his father. The Merofynians had dishonoured the code of war when they took the abbey. How could they capture it? The abbey contained at least six hundred trained warrior monks. Were the monks all dead? Where was Fyn?
    His head spun.
    First he