Authors: Flank Hawk
I’d been running west with little variation. Even if the hounds lost my scent, the ogres could guess my path. I felt for the tin flask holding the powder concoction. Shaws promised it could foil mudhounds for a few hours at least.
I slowed down to a brisk trot, pacing myself and trying to formulate a plan. How many ogres tracked with the hounds? Did they split with some following me and the rest the prince and Road Toad? I’d have to spread Shaws’ powder somewhere so that every hound would sniff it in.
Maybe if I found a bridge and spread the powder at the end of it? But what if the hounds took the stream instead? Would I even find a bridge? I swung south. Maybe along a road. I’d already crossed two trails formed by years of wagon traffic. If I could find one that passed through a wooded area, the hounds would be on the road, tracking. If not that, then a game trail. Woods sounded good. Road Toad and I had kept ahead of two ogres while running through thick woods.
About a half-hour later I decided to risk a steep hill and survey the land ahead. It was hard to tell if the baying hounds had closed. I angled southwest and then ran to the top of the commanding hill. First, I looked east and listened. The baying was closer. I guessed they were twenty minutes behind. Then I searched for a stand of trees larger than the frequent small groves littering the countryside. To the northwest I spied a distant hillside blanketed with oaks and maybe maples.
I wondered why the hounds weren’t trained to track in silence. Maybe they were driving me to a waiting enemy? As I pushed on, I convinced myself that my switching directions and that I hadn’t spotted any dragons overhead eliminated that possibility. If I could make it to the trees, I had a chance.
Three hundred yards into the woods, running and trying not to kick up the carpet of damp leaves from the previous fall, I found a game trail and followed it west. Although I didn’t hear the baying, I knew it was because the trees muffled sound. The trail ran along the base of a hillside down to a creek. I took a drink and filled my waterskin before following the creek, careful not to slip on its rocky bottom. For five minutes the water never got deeper than my ankles.
Off to my left moss-covered boulders worn smooth by weather and time caught my attention. Just what I was looking for and none too soon as the baying had entered the woods. The hounds weren’t far behind.
The line of boulders stood tall and steep, but a five-foot gap ran between a pair of them leading further up the hill. Every tracking hound would have to run through the gap or attempt leaping up the eight-foot rock wall. They certainly wouldn’t go around.
I made it to the gap and peeled away the flask’s wax seal with my thumbnail before pulling the cap. I poured half the peppery powder in my hand and scattered the contents across the gap. I closed the flask and brushed off the bit clinging to my palm.
I ran another twenty yards up the hill before turning and swinging back around toward the creek. I was worried now that even if the hounds couldn’t follow me, the ogres might. Not by scent, but by the trail I left.
I made my way west again, seeking another game trail. Minutes later the hounds’ tone changed to a high pitched, stressed baying. It was followed by harsh ogre curses. I was too far away to catch individual words. I wiped my brow and took another drink. I’d gained a few hours, at least.
It was late afternoon when I broke from the trees. The overhead clouds threatened rain. My next hope was to find a wide stream or river. If not that, maybe a village where I could confuse my trail.
I finally had to rest. I’d crossed no rivers, only brooks and came across one town. From a distance I spotted ogres wandering its streets.
The clouds above continued to threaten heavy rain but only a steady drizzle found its way down. One of the first lessons Guzzy had taught me was to wax my padded armor. Doing so kept most of the water rolling off. Even though heavy rains would soak through, they also might throw off the mudhounds certainly tracking me again by now.
I found a circular outcropping of boulders on a hillside that offered concealment and allowed me to watch for pursuers from the east. The cheek wound that Road Toad had sewn up hurt, especially when I opened my mouth. I wondered if he and the prince evaded capture.
Although I was tired, I decided to do what I could to heal my face. Healing magic brought on a different kind of fatigue that wouldn’t hurt my physical endurance much if I didn’t invest heavily in the effort. And trying to stop the pain was worth it.
I peered over the rocks. No hounds or ogres, so I pulled a pinch of powdered white oak bark from my pouch and went to work. It took a few minutes and I only reached for two small strands. The pain receded. I ran my fingers across the stitches. It felt smoother, not fully healed. I’d check it the next time I found a reflective brook.
I didn’t look forward to a damp night. I sighed, contemplating how poorly equipped I was. Did the ogres know I carried the Blood-Sword? Did they think I might be Prince Reveron? If either was true, they surely wouldn’t give up the chase.
With that thought, I took a sip from my waterskin and continued my flight west.
I ran on until near exhaustion. Then I walked, with each step dreading the moment when the mudhound baying returned. Shortly before sunset I spotted a dragon patrolling the clearing skies to the north. Guessing it was searching for me, I sprinted for tree cover before being detected.
After sunset I pressed on across open ground, now more flat, until I reached a line of trees. The sound of rushing water led me to the bank of a river perhaps forty yards across. The far, tree-lined side mirrored the one upon which I stood. The river surged past me high and fast. The moon hadn’t risen and there wasn’t enough starlight to find a safe place to cross. I followed its course northward until I found a fallen tree that offered shelter from the wind kicking up with the returning cloud cover.
The jagged stump stood five feet high with the snapped trunk lying parallel to the river. I found a hollow in the stump’s south side, under the trunk. The fact that the hounds hadn’t caught up surprised me. I feared that they would any time. But I also realized that I couldn’t go on without rest.
I set my spear on the ground and unslung the sheathed Blood-Sword secured across my back, laying it under my feet. I checked my crossbow as best I could in the darkness before setting it aside. After a drink and a bite of jerky, I curled into the stump’s hollow and listened to the croaking frogs as I dozed off. My short sword within easy reach.
Something, an uneasiness, woke me. I listened while gripping my sword. The hilt was icy-cold and felt wrong. I jerked my hand away from the Blood-Sword’s hilt.
My abrupt action caused movement ahead, to my right. I unsheathed my short sword and searched the now still blackness. The rushing river, croaking frogs, and insects buzzing around my head made it difficult to hear anything other than my own breathing.
“You talk in your sleep.” The statement came from where I’d spotted the movement. The voice was human, and female with a sharp Faxtinian accent.
Wary of any threats from the woman or possible accomplices, I stood and asked, “Who are you?”
“Lilly,” she said. “Why do you carry two swords?”
With her voice as a reference, I spotted her form half hidden behind a tree about five yards away. “What are you doing out here?”
“Hiding,” she said, stepping away from the tree. “So, you’re going to continue west?”
She knew my planned direction of travel and that worried me. “What makes you think I’m going west? I’m heading north, following the river.”
“That’s not what you said in your sleep.”
I didn’t hear anyone else around. But with the rushing river I couldn’t be sure. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“You were arguing with your sword. Not the one in your hand. The magic one.” She took a step closer before retreating the same step back. “You don’t look like an enchanter.”
The nasty thought of awaking with my hand on the Blood-Sword’s leather-wrapped grip sent a chill down my spine. It seemed this Lilly was as unsure about me as I was about her. “Why would you think my sword is magic?”
“Some men talk to their weapons but the red jewel on the pommel of yours glows. Are you a mercenary?”
The meager moonlight filtering through the trees outlined the girl. She was short, but not terribly so. And more on the stocky side. She spoke with a curiosity-filled voice, but stood resting on the balls of her feet, ready to flee. I didn’t see a weapon in her hand. Still, I didn’t sheathe my sword. “The less you know about me, the better.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
I ignored her question. “What are you doing out here?”
“I gave you my name.” She stepped back. “Are you a highwayman?”
“Go back to your home.” As I said it I realized she might be a refugee much like my family. I remembered the burned-out villages I saw during my flight.
“I won’t go back.” Her stance shifted to one with legs spread and arms folded.
“Why not?” I pointed my sword at her. “Are you a wanted outlaw?”
“No.”
“Did the Necromancer King’s army burn your village?”
“They skinned my father alive.” Her voice cracked as she blurted it out. “They burned my mother. I can’t go back—they’ll kill me too.”
Terrible as it sounded, even if her story was true, I couldn’t take her with me. “I’m going north. I’ve already said it. The less you know the better.” I sheathed my sword, reached into my satchel and retrieved several strips of jerky. “I don’t have much, but I’ll share what I have.”
I placed the dried food on the fallen trunk halfway between us before backing up and gathering the Blood-Sword and my crossbow.
She edged forward, took the food and sniffed it before chewing on a piece. “Thank you. You never told me your name.”
“I know,” I said. “I wish you luck, Lilly. Go south to Vinchie, Fendra Jolain’s lands.”
“Yet you go north,” she replied. “I know where you can cross the river—not the bridge. Goblins guard it.”
When I bent over to grab my spear, she spun to face the east and deftly hopped onto the fallen tree. I stood, looking around with spear ready.
She cocked her head and listened. “Are you being hunted?”
Lilly’s position on the fallen trunk offered me a better view. She wore sackcloth laced along the sides, formed into a crude shirt and skirt. A frayed rope tied around her waist functioned as a belt, holding a sheathed dagger. I guessed her cropped-short hair to be brown.
She shifted position, standing on her toes and strained to listen. Her bare feet clung to the damp log with apparent ease. I listened but heard nothing.
“Dogs,” she said, looking down at me. “Moving this way.”
“Tell me where I can cross,” I said.
“Are they hunting you?”
I heard the hounds too and wished it was my imagination. “Look, I’ve barely kept ahead of them. I don’t have time to debate.” I looked around, trying to decide which way to run. “How deep is the water?”
“That dragon I saw, was it looking for you too?”
Through the trees I saw distant bobbing lights. Torches. “If you’re not going to help me, get out of here.” I decided to try the river. Maybe find a log and float with it down stream.
When I turned, Lilly ran and cut in front of me. “We can hide from them. I’ll show you where.”
I stepped around her. “Those are mudhounds.” I felt for the flask holding the powder Shaws had given me. Maybe I could find a place to use it again. I walked along the river bank and looked across.
Lilly kept pace with me. “You’ll drown,” she warned. I pulled my arm away when she tugged at it. “They’ll catch you.”
“They might,” I said, striding northward. I stepped around brambles and over deadwood, seeking a log to help me stay afloat. I’d have to give up my spear but against ogres and hounds I didn’t stand a chance. I had to get some distance on the river before dragons could spot me once the sun rose.
“I’ve hidden from hounds before. Not mudhounds, but I know where they can’t find us.”
“Then you go there now. I’ll manage.” I bent next to a log about four feet long and eight inches in diameter. It was damp with only the ends rotted. I drew my sword and hacked away several small branches before lifting it.
She grabbed my arm again. “The bridge is downstream. Goblins watch it.”
I pulled away from her grip. It was stronger than I expected. “How far?” I asked.
“The bridge is a mile, just around the bend.” Lilly looked over her shoulder, then her eyes met mine. They struck me as sincere. She grabbed my spear from where I’d leaned it against a tree. “Hurry, follow me.”
“Okay.” I grunted as I tossed the log into the river, maybe they’d think I’d went with it. “But if I don’t like your hiding place—”
“You will,” she said, grabbing my hand. “Right here it’s shallow.” The swift water washed above my ankles. I kicked at the log, pushing it further out. “It gets deep up ahead,” Lilly assured me.
She led me through the water about three feet from the bank before we ran up a muddy slope, away from the river. We ran along the tree line parallel to the river for about three hundred yards before cutting back down to the river. I looked over my shoulder and saw the torches closing, maybe a quarter of a mile from the river, near where I’d approached it earlier in the evening.