The next morning, Edmund emerged from a sheltered hollow between two hills. He’d managed to build a tolerable fire the evening before and had gotten some sleep, but his days of camping outside were almost over. Snow had fallen throughout the night and had smothered the entire world beneath a foot-and-a-half-thick blanket that glittered like tiny grains of glass.
Judging from the ash-colored western sky, more snow was on the way. But it wasn’t snow that would save Rood; it was the cold, and it needed to get much colder to force King Lionel to take Edmund’s deal. Cold enough to kill.
Edmund turned eastward.
Trails of black smoke still streamed up to the heavens, which meant the King’s army wasn’t advancing yet.
Edmund braced himself for what needed to be done, shouldered his pack, and trudged toward the lines of smoke, snow making a muffled crunch under his snowshoes with each heavy step, bitter air burning his lungs.
Cold and alone, he plodded on for hours, weaving between white hills and keeping to the leafless trees as much as possible. Occasionally he’d come to streams and rivers. The smaller ones had long been frozen solid, but it would take a few more days before the larger rivers and lakes would be safe to tread upon.
By mid-afternoon, it had begun to snow again, the biting wind making it difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction.
His exposed skin burned; his forehead felt frozen into place. He wished he had more moose fat, but there was nothing he could do other than to keep going. He had to end the King’s search before hundreds of people died.
Somewhere nearby, he could smell smoke. Great black clouds rose on the other side of the hills before him.
You’d better hope this works.
If it doesn’t, it won’t be my fault all of those men die. It’ll be the King’s. I have enough blood on my hands.
Legs aching, head down, Edmund climbed the hill, fighting through the whipping wind.
Upon reaching the rocky summit, he peered into a narrow valley shielded somewhat from the churning snow. Skinned moose and deer and elk roasted over scores of campfires.
Well, they aren’t starving.
No, but they’re freezing.
He watched the King’s men huddle around their pitiful fires, thin cloaks and blankets wrapped about their shoulders and faces. Even the horses looked miserable; penned in rope corrals, they stamped and pawed at the snow, puffed steam from their nostrils. More than a few lay on their sides, nearing death.
It looks like they’ve eaten some of the evergreens.
Poor beasts. They don’t deserve this.
Edmund scanned the dismal camp, trying to count the men visible. He’d expected a thousand but guessed that there were no more than five hundred spread out along the valley.
Maybe some have already started to desert.
Or die.
He surveyed the camp again.
At the center stood a large red-and-gold pavilion with smoke rising through the hole at its top. Men in platemail guarded its entrance, unmoving, as if their armor had frozen solid. Several people had emerged from the pavilion. Edmund recognized one of them immediately.
King Lionel was wrapped in several fur-lined cloaks and deer pelts, while all around him, men shivered, still in their autumn attire.
Ass.
The King and his company made their way through the camp, stopping to talk with various groups of men who approached. Lionel seemed agitated, gloved hands moving this way and that as if swatting away gnats; his company huddled together for warmth.
Edmund studied his surroundings through the blowing snow.
The valley’s hillside was sheer; the King’s riders couldn’t come up that way. They’d have to swing a half mile to the north or south until they reached gentler slopes. That would give Edmund the time he needed to escape.
To the northwest sat a forest of dark evergreens. Cedars and pines scented the frigid air.
Edmund had never been up that way, but the region was often described as “skyless” because rocky hills created deep folds riddled with narrow fissures, the bottoms of which rarely saw sunlight. There were also numerous caves in which bandits could hide from law enforcers. At least, that’s what the history books in his former library had said.
Edmund shivered.
“Might as well get this over with.”
He pulled off a mitten and clutched the end of one makeshift ski pole. The wind bit his fingers, making them feel thick and difficult to move. He cast his fire spell. The strip of cloak at end of the stick caught and began to blaze like a torch. Stepping out from behind the barren trees crowning the ridge, Edmund yelled through the flying snow, “King Lionel!”
The flaming branch whooshed loudly as he waved it over his head.
Men in the camp looked up at him, but either because of the cold or they thought he was one of them, nobody reacted.
Edmund called down, “Hey! Get your King!”
“What?” somebody hollered back.
“King!” Edmund pointed at Lionel, still surrounded by a host of knights and noblemen. “Get your King!”
“Our King?” another repeated, clearly puzzled.
Edmund cupped his mouth. “Get … your … King!” he yelled.
Men exchanged glances and talked among themselves. A cluster of them near King Lionel motioned to the ridge where Edmund stood waving his flaming branch over his head again. The King approached the bottom of the hill.
“Well? What do you have to report?” he called up. “Have you found the rebels?”
“I—” Edmund’s voice caught in the wind. He tightened his flapping cloak. “I’m the head of the rebels!” He gestured to himself with exaggerated movements. “I am!”
“That’s the spirit!” the King shouted. “I want their heads as well! Where are they? And where did you get that hat? And those mittens? I’ll give you a lordship if you give them to me!”
“No,” Edmund shouted back, “you don’t understand. I am the leader of the rebels! I am!”
The men surrounding the King talked animatedly, as if trying to piece together what Edmund had just said.
The King glared up at him. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I’m not one of your—”
“Get down here this instant and give me those mittens and cloak! And give me that coat as well!”
Edmund groaned.
Idiot.
He threw back his hood and took off his hat and scarf so everybody could see his face.
“I am not one of your men! I’m Edmund!” He pointed to his black eye patch. “Remember? I was going to be Lord of the High—”
“Yes! Yes! You can be Lord of the Highlands. You can have this entire godforsaken region; burn it all down for all I care! Now give me those mittens and that coat! And that thing you had wrapped around your face! It looks warm!”
The crowd around the King grew. Everybody stared through the blowing snow at Edmund.
“I’m Edmund! Lord—I mean, Governor … Governor of the Highlands!”
A couple of men pointed at Edmund and said something to the King.
“If you leave,” Edmund shouted his throat raw, cheeks beginning to go taut from cold, lips unable to move properly, “if you l-leave, I’ll g-g-give … I’ll give you supplies! You’ll live! If you don’t, you’ll die. All of you!”
Everyone peered up at him and shook their heads, bewildered.
“Rebel!” Edmund screamed, thumping himself on the chest. “Rebel!”
“Here?” the King bellowed. “Finally! To battle! To battle!”
He barked orders to those around him as men scurried off in many different directions, grabbing shields and weapons.
“No!” Edmund cried, but King Lionel no longer paid any attention to him. Instead he gestured every which way as a young squire brought him his helm and his golden breastplate.
Edmund stabbed his flaming branch into the snow and ma
de a snowball. He heaved it at the King, coming within inches of hitting Lionel’s royal nose. Everybody stopped and looked up at him, stunned.
“I’m a rebel!” he shouted.
“What the devil has gotten into you, man?” the King snarled. “Good god! I’ll have your head! Now get down here so I can chop the ugly thing off! We’re mobilizing as we speak!”
“I’ll give you supplies. Supplies! If you leave! If you d-don’t, you and your men are going to die!”
Three men-at-arms ran up to the King. They could have been the scouts Edmund had talked to earlier, though he couldn’t tell through the gusting snow. At first, Lionel didn’t appear to want to listen and promptly waved them away. Then something they said got his, and everybody else’s, attention. The crowd looked at Edmund.
“You!” the King roared. “You’re the rebel! You are the, the …” He sputtered. “You!”
“Parley!” Edmund shouted with all he could muster.
“No!” the King shouted back. “No parley! Why, I am going to beat you to death, you miserable traitor! I am going to bury you up to your neck in this blasted snow and let you freeze! You, you … traitor!”
The King drew his sword and charged halfway up the slope before sliding back down. He charged again and, tripping, fell face-first into the snow. He screamed at his men. “Don’t just stand there! Get him! Get him!”
Men began running up the incline, but after a few dozen steps, they all stumbled and slid backward. They got up and charged again.
“Whoever brings me that ugly fellow’s one-eyed head will become lord of these truly ghastly lands!” the King declared.
Many men kept charging. Several hurried to their horses.
I told you this wouldn’t work.
“Listen to me!” Edmund yelled to the men now literally trying to crawl up the snow-covered hillside. “You’re going to die! You’re going to freeze to death. I’m willing to save you if you just let us be!”
One warrior with a two-handed sword had clawed three-quarters of the way up before he slid back down, knocking over several other climbers in the process.
“Kill him!” the King ordered. “Use your bows! I don’t care how many arrows we have left! Kill him! Kill him now!”
Arrows sailed over Edmund’s head.
Fools. They’re all going to die.
Chapter Twenty
Edmund hurried through the forest, panting breaths billowing in the cold. Horses whinnied behind him. He struggled to go faster, but in his oversized snowshoes, he could only manage a lunging hop, and his leg muscles already threatened to cramp.
The riders drew closer; fifty of them, judging by their whooping and yelling.
Edmund labored up the slope. Higher ground would give him an advantage in a sword fight, and it might slow the pursuing horses.
He stumbled, grabbing a branch to stop his fall.
Damn Lionel! Why won’t he listen to reason! His men are going to die! He’s going to die!
You’re going to die if you don’t figure out what to do.
He looked behind him.
Through the blowing snow, he could still see his tracks, like arrows pointing straight to him. In an hour, they’d be gone, erased by the wind. But he didn’t have an hour. The riders were only minutes away.
Go!
He lumbered up the incline, fur hat soaked with sweat. Small icicles had formed where he exhaled through his damp scarf. A snowshoe hit a rock hidden under the snow, nearly snapping its wooden frame.
Damn it!
Catching his breath, Edmund glanced to his left and right. Dark tree shapes extended as far as the eye could see.
He glanced back again.
Farther down the slope, a shadowy line of horses spread out; a net of riders pushing through the forest, driving their quarry onward. Behind them, men on foot fought through the thigh-high drifts, bows and spears at the ready.
Unable to outflank his pursuers, Edmund continued straight on, struggling up the incline along the increasingly rocky terrain. Large stone formations rose up before him in the white haze. He half considered hiding behind one or maybe even climbing on top, high above the ground. But he knew he couldn’t hide. His tracks would lead the King’s men right to him.
Damn it! Damn, damn, damn it!
Digging deep to find a source of inspiration to urge forward his weakening legs, Edmund thought of Rood and its townsfolk, then of Pond and Becky and Abby.
At least they’ll be safe. With me dead, Lionel may spare them.
If they aren’t stupid enough to fight back.
This thought stunned him. Of course they’d fight back. Since losing Bain, Hendrick and his men had been spoiling for vengeance. Nobody would take Rood from them, not without bloodshed.
They’ll fight and lose.
Maybe.
The riders’ shouts were getting closer.
Staggering past the rock formations, Edmund drew his short sword to get used to holding it with mittens on. If he dropped it in the snow during a fight, all would be over.
If only I’d made more of these. Maybe then—
What? Hendrick and his guards would win a battle, maybe two, but sooner or later, Lionel will come back with more knights, come back in the spring with more supplies and better maps and eventually reclaim the Highlands, killing everybody who defied him. Making the Highlands your own kingdom! What an asinine idea. You’re going to be dead in two minutes.
Gasping frigid air in great gulps, Edmund reached the top of the hill, where, a few yards before him, the trees gave way and a clearing came into view. In it, brighter light illuminated the flying snow.
Stay in the woods or go into the clearing?
Easier to fight in the woods. Better chances to hide as well.
Shouts behind him got louder.
Weapons clashed on shields.
Go! Keep running! You can’t stop! Your muscles are going to cramp up. Run!
Edmund hopped forward, snowshoes sinking a few inches in the deep drifts.
Hurry!
More cries erupted behind him.
He tried to quicken his pace, but couldn’t.
Finally, breaking through the tangle of cedar trees, he could see the forest had ended in a line, and reappeared a couple hundred feet ahead.
He hobbled toward the other side of the clearing, then stopped.
“No!”
A fissure ran straight down through the stone, forming a narrow gorge that stretched to either side as far as he could see.
In the forest, screams mingled with shouts. Horses whinnied wildly. Edmund shuffled to his right several strides where the fissure was narrower.
Maybe eight feet …
More like ten.
I could jump—
You can’t jump ten feet.
Maybe if I …
He backed up and took a practice jump. He barely cleared six inches, if that. He considered taking off his snowshoes, but then he’d sink into the snow; he wouldn’t be able to jump at all.
“Damn it!”
What now?
Climb down where the horses can’t come after you.
Edmund studied the sides of the fissure; they bowed inward, making the bottom of the gorge wider than its narrow top, grey rock covered in long sheets of ice.
“Jump?”
The bottom of the gorge was only twenty feet down, filled with mounds of snow that probably covered large rocks. If he landed on one, he’d break his legs.
A horse screamed in pain.
Edmund spun around.
Down the hillside, about eighty yards away, dark shapes raced this way and that. Many were off their horses. Some were running toward him. Weapons rang.
Over! Jump over! You’ve got to—
An idea struck him.
No. Not jump …
Edmund hobbled to a nearby tree and hacked at one of its lower branches, the black blade of his sword
scoring deeply into the frozen wood. He kept hacking, shielding his face from the blinding snow.
Horses stormed up the hill. One broke through the line of trees and, riderless, fled northward along the rim of the gorge.
Edmund’s black blade snapped through the thick branch.
Hurry!
He dragged the tree limb to the fissure and reached it across.
It was long enough, but only the twigs at the end touched the far side. It would never support his weight.
The running figures in the forest drew closer.
Cries floated in the wind.
Another riderless horse broke through, rearing and snorting when it saw Edmund. It raced southward, steam blowing from its nostrils.
Quickly Edmund hewed off the tree limb’s smaller branches until he had a long pole. Then he cast his enlargement spell. The tree limb doubled in size, shooting out well past the far side of the gorge.
Hurry!
Balancing, he began to inch across.
Careful! Careful!
Halfway, Edmund glanced back. A handful of figures on foot advanced through the veil of snow.
A gust of icy wind threatened to drive him off the branch. Teetering, he shuffled forward again. When he’d gotten close enough, he leapt onto the other side of the gorge then kicked his makeshift bridge into the fissure. It fell, clattering against the ravine walls until it impaled itself like a spear into the drifts below.
Five heavily cloaked figures wearing snowshoes advanced upon him, leaving behind thirty or forty other dark shapes that lay on the ground. One of them was clearly a horse. It cried out a shrieking trumpet of a scream as it fought to stand, then crumpled again.
The figures drew closer. A familiar voice spoke through the blowing snow.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Master Filth!”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Ah! It is so good to see you.” Kravel unwound the thick scarf from his pallid face.
Five goblins emerged from the forest, stopping short of the fissure.
Kravel examined the gorge and shook his head with a laugh.
“You are a wonder, Filth. Simply a wonder! How you’re able to do these things is beyond me. So how did you cross? Fly?”
Blood in Snow: (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book Three) Page 13