by Dale Furse
Past the first trees, something looked different about the tracks. He bent low and peered at them. They looked newer somehow. Yes. The hooves’ indents in the earth were clear and darker. If they were older, the dirt would have lightened like the surrounding top layer of soil.
Scanning the area, Mike figured he was better off in the jungle. At least he had somewhere to hide once he caught up with the kidnappers—if he caught up to them.
After Mike had gone a few paces, he frowned. They must have had to hold the horses back to have gone so slowly. Although he had been on the move all morning, he hadn’t even broke into a trot. How could he have gained on men riding horses so quickly?
Something moved to his left and he dove under a bush, hoping it didn’t have any thorns. He brought his legs up under him and thought it might be the Shanks or Hankley. Resting on his chest, he peered out from under the massive leaves. Brown leather clad feet came into view. He tried to remember what sort of shoes the Shanks wore. He was sorry he didn’t think to notice as he scanned both sides and behind the feet. There weren’t any horses, nor were there any other feet in sight. It was a lone man.
Mike wondered if he should show himself, but before he could make up his mind, horses charged out from the forest from all directions. They surrounded the man.
“Ah, Derek,” one of the horsemen sneered, “we were thinking you would never catch up.”
So it was Derek they had slowed for.
“Oh? Why?” Derek asked as if not in the least concerned. “Who are you riding for now, Frang?”
“You will find out soon enough,” the man called Frang said. “Where is your horse?”
“Wait here and I’ll go and get him.” Derek took a step back.
“Very funny,” another man beside Frang said, and jumped off his own mount.
Mike inched closer so he could see a little more of their bodies, but not so far they might see him. The second man held handcuffs.
“What is this?” Derek asked as the man linked the chain on his wrists.
“They are called handcuffs,” the man said.
Derek held his wrists up and inspected the manacles. “What is it made of? I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“Metal,” Frang said.
“I know it is metal.” Derek snorted. “The metal is thin and yet so strong, I can not break it.” He made a grunting noise as he tried. “Where did you get such a thing?”
Mike frowned. He had never seen metal like that before? If the metal wasn’t found on Zandell, how did the bandits get them and how did they know how to use them? Mike had as many questions as Derek.
“Enough questions,” Frang said. He punched Derek in the side of his head and sent him flying.
Thump. Derek landed on his back. He rolled over and paused before he got back up.
Mike’s startled eyes met Derek’s wild ones. Mike shrunk back. He needn’t have worried the older prince would give him away, because Derek raised an eyebrow in admiration.
“Get up,” Frang hollered. He leaned forward to grab Derek’s shirt.
Derek rolled out of his reach and away from Mike. Frang followed.
“You will pay for that punch with your life,” Derek said.
“I don’t think so,” Frang’s voice growled. “Horl, go find the renegade’s horse.”
Mike made himself as small as he could as the horse brushed against the leaves of his hiding place. Once it had passed, he returned to his previous position.
Frang said, “Why would a bandit such as you want to be following us?”
“How dare you speak to me in that tone. I am Prince Derek to you and don’t ever forget it.”
“You’re no prince of mine, and nor is your father my king.”
“Treason,” Derek gasped.
“Treason? No, not at all,” Frang said in a laughing tone. “I’ve pledged my life to my king.”
“What king?”
“All Zandell will soon sing his name. He is King Ludo.”
“My brother is calling himself king? Should he at least wait until the reigning king either abdicates in his favor or dies? But of course, if our father dies then I am king. Unless Ludo knows something I do not, he should wait until I abdicate or die.”
“He doesn’t need you or King Horace to abdicate or die,” Frang said. “If you don’t make way for the new King to take possession of the crown, he will take it.”
“Oh? And the kings army? I suppose they’ll just stand there and let him?”
“They won’t have a choice. King Ludo has weapons that will obliterate any who stand in his way.”
“Weapons?” He growled the question. “What weapons could better an army?” Derek stood with feet apart. “The king’s army has the best swordsmen and archers in all of Cillian.”
Frang laughed and the rest of the bandits joined in.
“We have rifles,” one of the more well fed bandits roared.
Frang stopped laughing. “Shut up, Warl,” he bellowed.
“Why?” the one called Warl said. “He doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“That’s true,” Frang said, and chortled.
“Tell me then,” Derek said. “What, or who, are these reefles?”
“You’ll find out,” said Frang and roared with laughter.
“Reefles,” one man said, also laughing. “He said reefles.”
All Ludo’s men were once again reduced to hysterics.
A piebald horse joined the group.
Frang stopped laughing and held up a hand to silence his men. “Ah, here is your horse. Warl will lead you. Get on.”
Still handcuffed, Derek clambered onto his horse. Mike mashed his lips together and shook his head. Derek was not in league with Ludo and while he might not know what rifles were, Mike did, and no sword, arrow, or fist would be enough to stop Ludo and his men. But how did he get his hands on such weapons? Mike meant to find out.
Another thought intruded on Mike’s musings. The older prince could have given him away. Although he didn’t, the man was not Mike’s friend. He was his father’s murderer and not to be trusted.
“Move on,” Frang roared to his men.
With so many horses bustling each other, Mike moved back to evade being trampled, but they passed, leaving him and his bush in one piece.
Scrambling to keep up with them, he kept a reasonable distance behind even though their speed had increased. He guessed they were taking Derek to Ludo and he had to see the rifles. Would Derek guess Mike had followed? He grimaced.
Chapter 18
Mike trailed the horsemen all afternoon, but by the time the sun was a couple of hours from setting, his legs cramped and he fought for every breath. He should turn back. Did he have the strength to get back to the girls? He would have to hurry, forests at night meant Mashki. The bandits didn’t stop to let the horses rest or have a drink. Maybe they were close to their destination. He decided to keep following.
The woods thinned and the north mountain range was much closer. He hoped he was far enough behind the horses not to be seen. His position might be exposed in the scarce wood. Ahead stood another forest, but instead of trees with pink trunks or brown, masses of tall green sticks grew in fitted clumps. A Mashki haven? He hesitated, peered behind to where Noor and Vala would be waiting for him, squeezed his eyes shut for a second and drew in a lung full of air. He worked his tired legs and sped into the thicket.
The plants were some kind of bamboo and the highest was at least ten times taller than Mike. Grass-like leaves along thin branches poked out along the woody stems at irregular intervals. The stems, some as thick as Mike’s thigh were rust colored with black stripes. He hoped he could find the path the horses had taken, because the growth was impenetrable to his eyes. As he thought the last, the sound of gentle waves washing onto a beach floated to his ears.
He stopped and listened, breathing in through his mouth. It was definitely the sea, salt was in the air. He crept towards the sound, alert for any
lingering horsemen.
Pushing his way through the dense growth, he meandered north until a path cut through the bamboo east to west. Tracks. There, the grove followed around the base of a mountain. Many hooves had worn down the narrow path, as if the horses had placed one hoof in front of the other, the back hoofs following the front.
He had only gone two steps along the side of the rut when a red-hot poker shot through the sole of his foot. “Ah—” Mike clasped his hand over his mouth to stop the shriek. Spikes of bamboo cut with some kind of machete protruded from the ground on both sides of the furrow. They were as sharp as spears. He hoped his cry wasn’t so loud the bandits heard.
He hobbled on until he found a bit of track wide enough for him to sit and check his foot. The stake had pierced the much-thinned sole of his jogger. He pulled the shoe off, and his worn and holey sock had a new hole. The wound burned, but only a spot of blood showed. Mike squeezed. He could not afford another infection. He tied the socks around his foot creating two layers to cushion his injury.
After a minute, he stood up. As soon as he put weight on the injured foot, a shot of pain surged through to his instep. He had to limp when he continued on his way. He kept to the horse track.
The mountain loomed to his right, so close it blocked out the sun.
By the time he emerged from the bamboo grove, the bandits had already gotten to the beach.
Mike fell to his stomach and inched forward to the edge of a grassy sand dune. The mountain he had followed erupted out of the sandy beach close to the water’s edge. A cave gaped at the mountain’s base.
Date and coconut palms grew so close to the water’s edge, the high tide would have surrounded them. On the north side of the small bay, behind the palms, more of the same tall bamboo bourgeoned and behind them, towered more mountains.
The men dismounted. A big man with wild, red hair led the horses into the cave while the dirty, bearded Frang whispered to the smallest man. A second later, the little man took off into the cave.
All waited in silence. Derek moved his weight from one leg to the other. “What is your man doing there?” he asked Frang.
“You will see,” is all Frang answered.
Derek sat down.
The man reappeared a moment later and dropped something onto the sand. With the sun gone and the slithered moon’s beams barely visible, Mike couldn’t see what it was. He wondered if it was some sort of treasure cave. The little man picked up the item and trotted to Frang.
Everyone, including Derek, huddled around the man and his item.
Mike squinted. A rifle. He studied the weapon, wondering if it was one of the old muskets experimented with in the American Revolution. It definitely looked like one. He would need to get a closer to be sure.
Frang took the rifle and moved everyone behind him with his arm. He pulled back the striker, poured some of what Mike believed was gunpowder in there and returned the striker into position. He then stood the rifle on its butt on the ground, poured the remainder of the gunpowder down the barrel, and dropped a metal ball and the cloth in after it. He used the rammer rod down the barrel, packing it all in.
Mike shook his head as Frang threw the ramming rod onto the ground instead of replacing it in the rifle. If they forgot to replace the rod in the rifle, it would be useless. Whoever showed them how to load the things should have made it clear, because Mike doubted a stick would do the job.
Frang aimed at what looked like a date palm on the other side of the narrow lagoon. The men pushed their hands over their ears. Frang fired. The blast cut through the air. Frang cried out and, dropping the rifle, covered his ears with his hands. At the same time, Derek shouted a curse. The sound echoed around the bay as a bunch of dates fell from a tree onto the sand about ten meters in front of them.
Mike jerked his head.
Derek’s hands, still in the handcuffs, covered his ears. “What is this madness? This magic?”
His demand held royal authority. His voice had lost all signs of its usual mirth.
“It’s Ludo’s magic,” Frang said, “and as you see, no one will be able to stand in his way. There are more of these where that came from.”
The men’s eyes were bright with excitement as they nodded and murmured to each other.
“When can we try them?” the small man who had retrieved the rifle asked.
“Soon, Ming, soon,” Frang said as he watched the long, haired man who had led the horses stride toward him.
“The horses are settled,” the man said. “Ludo is waiting for a report.”
“Right,” Frang said, turning to Derek. “Perhaps you might be lucky enough to get an audience with your future king.” He pushed him toward the small opening.
“Get through there.”
Derek did not move.
“Now,” shouted Frang.
Mike wondered what he should do. If he went back to Noor, the bandits might pack up and leave. If he didn’t, the girls might think something happened to him, they might think he was dead.
With a battle cry, Mike bounded to his feet, drew his sword, and coursed toward Derek. Startled, the men didn’t move. They stared bug-eyed as if unsure what Mike intended. Mike’s sword fell on the cuffs Derek wore and sliced through the metal as if it was made of water.
Derek lost no time. He spun and punched the little man, and almost in the same move, he dropped Frang, who was trying to push more gunpowder down the barrel of the rifle.
“Run,” shouted Mike.
Derek paused. “You tell my brother I will see him again.” He gave Frang a kick before sprinting to the path.
Mike grazed an arm of one, sliced an ear off another, and stabbed the knee of yet another bandit as he raced after Derek. As he approached the sand dune, the bandits fell back. He chanced a look behind. Frang’s small pouch had fallen onto the ground and black gunpowder spilled out over the sand.
They scampered, yelping and ranting, into the cave.
Mike sheathed his sword and grinned. Chickens.
A muffled scream mixed with the men’s cries, piercing Mike’s ears, mind and heart. Terni. He would know that voice anywhere.
Without thinking, he lurched around, and raced for the mouth of the cave.
“Halt. Who goes there?”
Mike slid to a stop and peered into the opening. A guard. It hadn’t crossed his mind there would be guards. He stopped and searched for even a half-believable reason for his being there. More guards appeared behind the first.
Idiot. Now what?
“Stop him!” Frang’s throaty voice called from behind Mike.
“Grab him,” another demanded from the darkness.
A guard stepped forward. He wasn’t dressed in the usual leather apparel of this land, but like a roman gladiator. He moved close to Mike.
A rattling noise sounded to Mike’s right. He turned his head.
Two more men, dressed in similar fashion, emerged from behind each side of the cave’s opening with bows and arrows at the ready.
Too late for stories. Mike’s hand flew up, but before he could touch his sword, the first guard pulled it and threw it back into the cave.
Mike jumped back and turned to escape. Where was Derek? Mike needed his help. Hands had all ready begun to snap at him. He squirmed and twisted. He couldn’t be caught now. How would he save Terni if he were in chains? He had to get back to Noor and get the king.
“Ludo will want to see you,” the middle gladiator said.
Mike choked down his rising panic and smiled wide, nodding. As the hands loosened their clasp, he ducked and wriggled at the same time. Sweat, from the exertion or from a fever, had made his skin slippery. He scampered around the base of the mountain, scrambling up the slope at an angle. The guards’ feet crunched as they followed. One shouted, “Tell Ludo it is the boy with the sword and bring men and horses.”
A thud sounded followed by a gasp as if a body hit the ground. The same voice shouted, “Don’t lose sight of him, or it will be your
head.”
Mike could not help smiling. The dolt had tripped over his own feet.
The bamboo, even denser than before, had Mike fighting his way through the foliage. It was slow going and he hoped it was just as hard for those who followed.
Lighter footfalls sounded behind him. Whoever pursued was fast and agile, gaining on Mike with every step. He wished he had Terni’s wings. He had to find an easier track, so veered toward the direction of the giant cane grove.
Close to an hour passed. Mike’s pursuer had stopped gaining. Was his chaser beaten or was he just staying in touch until more men joined him?
Able to breathe more evenly, Mike slowed his forward thrust. Terni’s sniffling image filled his mind. He growled and circled back.
The man kept with him. He clamped his teeth together and increased his limping speed once more. He didn’t know which hurt worse, his thigh or his throbbing foot. A little happier when the jungle thinned, he pulled everything he had together and hobbled down a reasonably clear trail back toward the beach. Watching out for bamboo spears, he willed his legs to go faster. The air burned his lungs, but he would not slow. After more excruciating minutes, the familiar sound of hooves banging into the ground at a galloping rate filled his ears.
He wondered how far the first man was behind him and paused. He hadn’t heard his tracker for some time, so he scanned the area for somewhere he might be able to hide until the horses passed.
There was a great swollen dead tree to his right and a clump of rocks to his left. He spun on the ball of his good foot and sprang over and behind the rocks. He fell and gasped as a steep decline covered with some sort of shaly rock rose to meet him. Throwing his hands out in all directions for something to grab hold of, he slid awkwardly, his heels digging into the slippery shale to no avail. Skidding and slewing, skin tore from his arms and hands. The bottom of the pit neared and shouts echoed above him. The horses wouldn’t be able to follow. It might not be the way he would have chosen, but if he survived the drop, he may just be saved.
With the darkening bed close in sight, Mike threw himself onto his side and rolled. Some of Thommo’s lessons proved useful. If you jumped from a height, bent your knees as you touched land, and rolled, the likelihood of serious injury reduced. He furled, with hands wrapped around his head for protection, reeled off a precipice he hadn’t noticed earlier and landed hard on his back. What wind was left in his lungs exploded from his mouth and he lay dazed for he did not know how long.