Frank snorted, shaking his head.
Cyril ignored him, looking to the rest for confirmation that they were ready to travel. Satisfied, he said, “Lead the way, John.”
The Highwayman set out without a word. Even with only the dim light of a deep blue sky, he was able to pick a trail through the brush that offered little resistance and left little sign of passage.
Ben’s mind turned to the eyes as he walked. He’d managed to command his dream and he’d faced the stalker with some success. It was encouraging and terrifying in equal measure. He resolved to work on mastering his dreams. Before, the idea had seemed like a fanciful novelty—a neat trick he could use for self-amusement. Quite suddenly, it had become a matter of life and death.
“I smell someone coming,” Homer said.
Ben froze, listening for any hint of the Dragon Guard, but heard none.
“They’re coming,” he said.
“I don’t hear anything,” Frank said.
Cyril looked to Ben for confirmation, for certainty. After a glance at his face, Cyril nodded.
“We need to hide,” he said.
John pointed to a fallen log that had landed on a large rock, creating a space underneath that was well concealed by dying pine boughs. Within a few minutes, they were all crowded into the small space, straining to hear the approaching enemy.
Ben saw a flicker of blue light through the branches before he heard the Dragon Guard. He tapped his grandfather’s shoulder and pointed toward the light. Cyril nodded, easing quietly toward the boulder.
The Dragon Guard moved deliberately, stopping every dozen steps or so to look and listen. Farther off, maybe another hundred feet away, another flicker of blue light peeked through the forest. A second Dragon Guard. Ben looked to Cyril and he nodded confirmation. The men were searching in a line perpendicular to the lakeshore.
The first man drew closer, alert and cautious. Ben found himself holding his breath as the Guard stopped not twenty feet away, his head slowly scanning the gloaming forest.
A twig broke as someone shifted position. The Dragon Guard looked quickly in their direction, frozen in place, straining to listen for another hint of his quarry’s location. Then he began to move again, carefully placing each step to avoid making any noise himself.
Cyril eased out from under the tree, keeping close to the boulder, listening for the Dragon Guard’s movements and stepping in unison with him. The soldier, armored in black, dragon-fire rifle held at the ready, stopped not ten feet from the fallen tree, searching for some hint of their presence.
A noise caught his attention, a stone hitting the ground. The Dragon Guard turned toward the distraction, his body tense as he strained to detect his prey.
Cyril came up behind him quickly, his left hand covering the man’s mouth and jerking his head back as he drove his sword into the back of the man’s calf, eliciting a muffled cry of pain and dropping the man to his knees in an instant. Cyril’s blade came free a moment later and spun around in his hand seemingly of its own volition, now held point down. He quickly but calmly placed the point just inside the Dragon Guard’s armored collar along the right side of his neck and drove the blade to the hilt down into his chest cavity.
The man stiffened and then went limp. Cyril waited for several seconds, looking and listening for any sign that the enemy had been alerted before drawing the crimson blade from the warm corpse and easing the man to the ground.
Not for the first time, Ben wondered about his grandfather’s past. He was the most kindly, loving and wise man that Ben had ever known, and yet he’d demonstrated a willingness and ability to kill that could only be the product of a violent history.
Cyril knelt next to the dead man and hastily wiped his sword clean before quietly sheathing it. Then he motioned to the others to quietly come out.
With a gesture, he drew John and Frank to him so he could whisper ever so quietly, “Carry him to the lake.”
Frank started to protest, but Cyril stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a stern look.
He clenched his jaw and did as he was told.
As they neared the logjam lining the shore, Cyril picked up a fallen branch about eight feet long. Without a word, he slipped it between two logs and wedged them apart, motioning with his head to John and Frank. They rolled the body into the opening, then Cyril used his branch to shove the corpse into the inky water beneath. Imogen handed him the Dragon Guard’s rifle.
“Wait!” Frank whispered urgently, as Cyril slid the weapon into the water. Within moments the logs floated back into place, creating an unbroken cover of timber and erasing all evidence of the dead Dragon Guard.
“I could have used that,” Frank whispered harshly.
Cyril shook his head and put a finger over his lips before turning to John and nodding for him to lead the way. They moved as quietly as they could without sacrificing too much speed. Half an hour later, when the trail was in view at the north end of the lake, they heard a shout from far behind them.
“Sounds like they found something,” Hound said. “I’ll bet she’s even angrier this morning.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Ben said.
“That’s just ’cuz you don’t have much experience with women,” Hound said.
“We need to hurry,” Cyril said. “Our best defense now is speed and the distance it’ll buy us.”
Chapter 13
John set a steady pace that quickly became grueling for Ben. Though he hurt and was struggling to keep up, he didn’t complain. In the back of his mind he knew that the consequences of being caught were far worse than any fatigue or discomfort he was feeling. When they reached the trail, the ground became more even, allowing for faster travel.
Ben soon fell into the rhythm of placing one foot in front of the other. If he’d been well rested, he suspected he could have easily slipped into a meditative state as his focus narrowed to the relentless monotony of trudging through the forest. As it was, he needed all of his will and determination just to keep going.
After several hours, they came to a point where the trail wound up the side of a bluff that offered a commanding view of the forest that they had just passed through.
Hound stopped, sitting heavily and leaning against his pack, still strapped to his shoulders. “I hate to be the one to whine, but I need to rest for a few minutes or I’m going to fall over.”
Cyril nodded reluctantly and Ben sat down too, leaning back and closing his eyes, savoring the feel of the cool breeze on his sweat-slicked skin. He was spent as well, but entirely unwilling to admit it.
“How are you feeling?” he asked Homer.
His dog grumbled as he licked his paw.
“I know how you feel,” Ben said.
“I see them,” John said, looking through his monocular.
“How close?” Cyril asked.
“Less than an hour and moving fast.”
Hound sighed, regaining his feet with a bit of a struggle. Ben followed suit, only slightly refreshed by the brief respite.
“We should get off the trail,” Frank said.
“Not just yet,” Cyril said. “We’re far enough ahead for now. Eventually, we’ll need to take refuge in the forest. For now, we’ll make better time on the trail.”
Frank didn’t seem convinced but he held his tongue.
Again they set out at a painful and exhausting pace. It wasn’t long before Ben’s world narrowed down to the next step. Through the fog of pain, a noise began to intrude, drawing his attention. The trail had come to one of the many forks of the Rogue River, turning to run along the top of a bluff overlooking the rushing waters a hundred feet below.
“The air smells good here,” Homer said.
Ben smiled as he took a deep breath. The rushing water combined with the fragrance of pine needles created an invigorating and calming scent. On another day he would have been content to relax and spend an hour just enjoying the serenity of the wild. But not today.
No
t long after they reached the bluff, they heard the strident voice of Nash somewhere behind them. Ben couldn’t make out what she said, but he suspected she was commanding her soldiers to move faster.
“We need to hide,” Frank said urgently.
The only reply he received was heavy breathing as all of the others struggled to stay ahead of their pursuers. When they came around a corner and saw the remnants of a fallen bridge, everyone stopped.
“Great! Now what?” Frank snapped.
“We find a way across,” Cyril said, heading for the abutment. Everyone followed, standing with him at the edge and looking up and down the river.
“I told you we should have left the trail sooner,” Frank said. “Now we’re screwed.”
“Perhaps,” Cyril said, then turned to John. “May I see your monocular?” He brought it to his eye and peered downstream. “There,” he said, handing the telescope back to John and setting out along the bluff without explanation.
Ben dutifully followed.
“We should go into the forest,” Frank said. “He’s going to get us killed.”
Everyone ignored him, perhaps more out of fatigue than anything else. Frank reluctantly brought up the rear, muttering under his breath.
The river had cut a deep and narrow ravine through the forest, carving a gorge a hundred feet deep and at least as wide from bluff to bluff. Cyril led them to a place where the steep cliff gave way to a shallow draw worn into the bluff by a small stream. Below was a deep pool of calm water fed by a ten-foot waterfall that interrupted the flow of the river. On the opposite bluff was a fallen tree, its roots still tenuously hanging on to the dirt and rocks, its top submerged in the water, the entire thing upside down and leaning against the cliff like a ladder.
“There,” Cyril said, pointing at the tree.
“What do you mean ‘There’?” Frank said.
“That’s our way across,” Cyril said, heading down the draw toward the water.
“What about Homer?” Ben asked.
Cyril stopped, looking back at his grandson and shrugging.
“We’ll have to carry him up,” he said, turning back toward the water and descending cautiously.
“This is crazy!” Frank snapped.
“Quiet,” John said, pointing to the abutment of the bridge not a half mile behind them.
Nash was standing with her fists on her hips, glowering at the fallen bridge. Six Dragon Guard stood with her, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of passage. It didn’t take long for one to find a trail. Moments later another shouted, pointing in their direction.
“They’ve found us,” Ben said, scrambling down the draw.
“You know I don’t like water,” Homer said.
“It’s better than fire,” Ben said.
Homer grumbled, but followed closely.
When Ben reached the point where the stream flowed into the pool below, Cyril handed him a blanket. “We have to jump and swim for it,” he said. “Once you’re across, use this to make a sling for Homer. We’ll help you carry him to the top.”
Before Ben could respond, Cyril jumped into the water. Ben looked at Homer, who was peering dubiously over the edge and virtually radiating hesitation, then he looked back at the string of Dragon Guard moving quickly toward them.
“Sorry,” he said, pushing Homer off the edge and then jumping in himself.
The water was icy cold, shocking him into breathlessness. He kicked, struggling to return to the surface with the sodden weight of his pack and clothes. It seemed like forever before he broke through, gasping from the cold and a need for air. Homer was ahead of him, swimming toward the fallen tree.
The water splashed behind him as Hound leapt in, followed by Frank, Imogen, and finally John. Ben felt the cold sapping his already flagging strength as he struggled to reach the tree, energy draining out of him with each labored stroke.
He slipped under, the weight of his pack dragging him down. He kicked hard, his legs burning despite the frigid water. He broke free of the water’s icy grip and took a gulp of air before slipping under again. This time, as he flailed for his life, his foot hit bottom, solid as stone. He shoved against it and came free again.
Cyril extended a branch to him. Ben was lost in panic but his flailing arm found the limb and he glommed on to it more out of instinct than thought, gripping the lifeline with white and frozen knuckles. Cyril pulled him to the bank and helped him climb out of the water and into the branches of the tree.
Water drained out of his clothes and pack, lightening him with each passing moment. The cool breeze almost felt warm compared to the river. Some measure of feeling began to return to his hands. He turned his attention to his friends and family.
Homer was clinging to the tree with his teeth. Cyril was holding on to the tree with one hand while extending the branch to Hound with the other. Frank was splashing and flailing but managed to stay above water. John was dragging Imogen across by her pack, ensuring that her head remained above water.
Frank reached the tree only moments after Hound, using the mercenary as a stepping stone to propel himself out of the water and into the relative safety of the tree. He clambered past Ben, ignoring his brother in a frantic effort to escape the water. Ben let him pass, instead putting all of his effort into trying to get Homer into the blanket sling.
Hound resurfaced and frantically grasped for the tree. With Cyril’s help, he managed to pull himself from the water and into the branches. Imogen and John were next.
A shout from the bluff cut through the roar of the nearby waterfall, drawing Ben’s attention. Six Dragon Guard stood atop the cliff aiming their rifles. Another shout echoed into the canyon, followed by fire, orange and hot roaring across the expanse, illuminating the water with hellish red light. Flame hit the top of the tree, igniting the pine boughs with a whoosh. Sudden heat washed over Ben, clashing with the intense cold. Rather than alleviate the chill, it only served to magnify the burning sensation he felt over every inch of his body.
“Ready!” an angry voice shouted over the torrent.
Ben looked up and saw the tree aflame where it met the cliff top—their escape route was cut off. His eyes flickered to the Dragon Guard as they adjusted their aim downward. He prepared to hurl himself back into the deadly safety of the water, the only refuge from the flame about to rain down on them. Suddenly, a great cracking noise filled the air, seeming to reverberate through his entire body.
The tree broke free, its top plunging deep under the surface, dragging Ben with it. He struggled against the entangling branches, but was helplessly caught up, drawn under and held down. His lungs burned from lack of air even as his skin burned from the icy water.
The tree carried him downstream like a force of nature, bigger and more powerful than anything he could muster, even if he’d been well rested and healthy.
He focused on holding his breath, refusing to surrender one moment before death claimed him, but certain that the reaper was coming nonetheless. And then he broke the surface just long enough to take another breath before the tree pulled him under again. The water flowed swiftly, pulling him with it. He didn’t resist, saving every scrap of energy for the task of holding on and holding his breath.
He came up again as the tree stabilized in the water. Even through his sputtering, gasping struggle to fill his lungs, he saw Frank trying to stay afloat. He’d fallen into the river several feet away from the tree. Ben let go of the trunk, grabbing the end of a branch and letting the current carry him toward his brother. He reached him just as Frank slipped under again. Ben frantically grabbed his pack and held on for all he was worth. It felt like his grip was slipping, that his strength was nearly spent, but he managed to pull Frank to the surface, using the water current to guide his brother toward the tree.
As the branches came within reach, Frank flailed until he found purchase, grabbing on to a limb and pulling himself to the trunk. Ben held on as the tree accelerated into the flow of the river. Worry for famil
y and friends filled the back of his mind, but he had no time for it. All of his will and strength went into holding on.
Orange fire filled the air behind them, falling harmlessly into the water. A curse echoed into the canyon, muffled by the roar of the river.
Ben took a deep breath and looked around, wondering if everyone had made it, but all he could see was Homer holding on to a branch with his teeth and Frank, one arm looped over the trunk and holding on for his life.
Weak with exhaustion, his hands numb with cold, Ben focused on maintaining his grip. He knew with perfect certainty that he would drown if he let go. Only the buoyancy of the tree stood between him and an icy death. All that mattered was that he did not let go.
After several minutes, a shout roused him back to other concerns. He looked up and saw Cyril straddling the tree trunk and reaching out to him with a branch. Ben was afraid that he might slip if he let go, but he took the chance, reaching for the limb with one hand and taking hold with all of his limited remaining strength.
Cyril pulled him closer, drawing him into the tangle of branches where even if he did let go, he would be carried forward with the fallen tree. With one last pull, his grandfather managed to haul him up onto the trunk, helping him get wedged between several branches sticking up out of the water.
“Everyone else?” he asked weakly.
“Alive,” Cyril said with almost as much exhaustion as Ben felt.
He didn’t know how long they floated, sometimes at a frightening pace, down the river before the banks widened and the water slowed. He didn’t have the strength to resist when John pulled him off the log and dragged him to the bank.
When he came to his senses, he was lying on the ground near a roaring fire, wrapped in blankets with Homer curled up against him. He had just enough energy to do a headcount. Satisfied that everyone had survived, he drifted off to sleep.
His first thought upon waking was of the eyes. They hadn’t come. But then, he’d been so totally exhausted that he didn’t remember having any dreams at all. He disentangled himself from the blanket, noting the discomfort of wet clothing clinging to his skin and feeling a chill in spite of the fire.
The Dragon's Egg (Dragonfall Book 1) Page 13