She found it at last in a thick oak, a few minutes after the sun’s last sliver vanished. Twelve feet from the forest floor gaped a large black hollow. She hooked arms and legs around the trunk and poked a cautious eye above the last branch to see it lay empty.
She climbed atop the branch and more closely inspected the hollow: empty of all but ants. Loren could stand ants, especially when they did not bite.
By running her legs along the thick branch, she could lean into the tree’s heart and rest, so she wedged her arms against the hollow to better hold herself in place.
Despite herself, Loren’s mind leapt to Xain. She feared her thoughts might bar a restful sleep. But moonslight pierced the leafy canopy to paint her outstretched legs, and Loren’s eyes grew hazy upon the cool silver glow. Weariness claimed her.
She woke in the morning to a stiff back though less so than she had feared. Sliding gently from the hollow, she climbed hand over foot down the oak’s branches. She felt no hunger, but her urine smelled. That made her drink more water than she would have liked. She could not drink that much every day, but neither could she afford to wither dry upon the road. Water loss could creep upon the unwary traveler and leave them weak.
Her thirst sated, Loren decided to visit the road before traveling on—a quick glance to see what could be seen.
She reached the road at the crest of a hill. She hunched low as she walked out onto it, scanning the land in all directions. Her eyes found no travelers on horseback or foot.
She gave a small sigh and palmed the dagger’s hilt. “Luck is with us still,”
As if in answer to her muttered words, a small smudge appeared to the north. It bloomed larger as she watched, unable to move.
Loren finally dropped to her stomach, for she could see what raised the cloud of dust: two men on horseback, riding south hard and fast along the road.
seven
Loren scuttled for the trees, keeping low. The forest enveloped her like an old friend, and she felt safer in its shadow. She plunged farther into the brush covering the forest floor.
But Loren paused once she lost sight of the road. She could not be sure the men were constables, but something in her heart said they were. And if so, she should keep an eye on them. But how could she ensure that they would not spot her?
The land rose steeply to form a low ridge that ran alongside the road for what looked like many miles just south of where Loren stood. She ran for the rise. Trees thinned as the ground rose, forcing her to dart from cover to cover, until she finally stood atop the ridge, a large cave at her back descending into the earth. Loren stepped behind the trunk of a tree and poked an eye around it to look north.
The men had drawn near. They drove their horses hard, the beasts’ flanks streaked with white. They would pass her in minutes. She need only hide and wait. Once they left her behind, her journey to Cabrus would be safe.
Loren slid a hand along the dagger’s hilt. “A good scare, certainly, but nothing to worry about. We are safe.”
She moved back behind the tree and slid down against its trunk. Her heart nearly stopped.
The ground quaked under the impact of heavy feet. Not three yards away, a bear emerged from the cave mouth. Its nose twitched as it snuffled the air, tiny eyes fixed on Loren. Black fur stuck out in great bristles as its hackles rose. Two cubs cowered behind their mother’s hind legs, looking at her with equal parts curiosity and fear.
Loren’s throat went dry as she slowly stood. Her hand slid to the dagger, but she dismissed it. A fool’s hope, she thought. The dagger would serve no better against the bear than her nails.
But the Birchwood held many bears, and Loren knew what to do. It would mean exposing herself to the road again, but that seemed preferable to serving as the bear’s supper.
She sidestepped away from the tree and took several steps backward. The bear hunched down slightly and growled. But it did not advance.
Loren backed slowly down the slope, never moving her eyes from the beast. Another step. Another. If she could only get far enough, she could run without the bear giving chase.
On the next step, her foot snagged a rock. The slope worked against her, and she nearly crashed to the ground. Sudden movement startled the bear, and it took two great steps forward with a roar. Even at a distance, Loren could smell its reeking breath.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. The constables had pulled their mounts to a halt directly adjacent to where she stood. They spurred their horses into the woods toward her.
Perhaps they thought her some chance girl in trouble and did not recognize her from the forest. But they would know once they saw her close. Loren must leave, and quickly.
An idea sprang to mind. She stomped the ground as hard as she could, throwing her hands into the air and bellowing an angry roar.
Most bears would have backed away, but this one had cubs. The beast took two half steps and broke into a run. The ground shook, and Loren’s legs tensed in readiness.
Just before it reached her, Loren leapt to the side. The bear could not stop so quickly, and the loose soil gave way beneath her. She tumbled and rolled head over paws down the slope. A great plume of dust followed her down.
Loren could take no moment to exult in her quick thinking and ran up the ridge as fast as she could. Frightened cubs fled into the cave, but Loren paid them no mind.
She reached the top of the ridge and plunged down its far side, her feet lent sudden speed by the slope. Just as she passed over the top, Loren heard loud shouting behind her, joined by a roar. The constables had found her bear. Perhaps it would occupy them long enough for Loren to make good on her escape.
She forced herself to slow, though every part of her screamed to go faster. Her quick wits would mean nothing if she fell and broke a leg, or her neck. She picked her way on solid ground and rocks, avoiding any patch of ground that looked like it might slide out from beneath her.
But despite her caution, bad luck caught Loren at last. A rock she’d thought sturdy shifted underfoot and sent her down with a cry. She twisted to plant her hands in the turf. It hurt, but Loren knew the bow on her back would not withstand a tumble.
The bow. She could find a high spot in a tree, wait for the constables to approach, and plant shafts within them before they knew what had happened.
As quickly as she thought it, Loren cast the idea aside. Even if she could shoot with such skill, Nightblade did not—could not—murder.
Her only hope lay in escape. So she pushed off the ground, wincing at her stinging palms, and kept running.
Before long, Loren heard the thunder of hoofbeats coming down the slope behind her. They had evaded the bear, or killed it. She risked a glance over her shoulder but could not see them through the trees. At least that meant they could not see her. Still, she could not outrun them forever.
Loren scanned the forest and saw something that might help: a fallen trunk with a hole beneath it. She dove in, careful not to snap the bow against the entrance.
Not a moment too soon; the thundering hooves grew louder, and then they were upon her. But Loren had hidden in time. A flash of red-boiled leather showed between the trees a few yards off, and the hoofbeats receded.
Loren waited until she could no longer hear the horses and then waited longer still. In the wood’s silence, her pulse was rolling thunder. When she finally felt sure they must be gone, she slid out from under the log.
A cluster of firethorn stood nearby, unruly but straight as a hedge. It ran south, crosswise to the slope. Loren ducked behind it and slid along on hands and feet. She crept in silence and shadow, poking her head above the tops of bushes every few moments to look for the constables.
Now that she had a moment to observe, Loren could see that this side of the ridge also ran down to a road. It ran south as far as she could see, though she had to imagine it cut west and joined with the main road eventually.
Now she must gamble; either the constables would make for this smaller road and f
ollow it, hoping to catch her, or they would climb the ridge and make for the King’s road once again. The latter seemed the likelier course. They had only spied Loren, not Xain. They might surmise she had separated from the wizard and return to the main road in hope of catching him.
But then her nerves warned her that the surrounding forest had grown too quiet.
An arrow sped from between the trees to thunk into a tree beside her. Loren’s body jerked in shock. She dropped flat and slid beneath the firethorn. The arrow had come from above. The constables had somehow circled around to her rear. She had underestimated their woodcraft, perhaps for the final time.
Why would they try to kill her? They wanted Xain, not Loren.
As if in reply, she heard Corin’s voice. “Stay your hand! Leave her whole!”
Bern, the one with a harsher look, shouted a reply that Loren could not make out. Crashing footsteps sounded from up the ridge, much higher than she had feared. Perhaps she could yet evade them.
Once she passed beneath the firethorn, she rose to flee in a crouching run. Now that Loren had their measure as woodsmen, she would withhold nothing.
Loren used every trick learned from a life in the Birchwood, thoughts fading to a dull murmur as instinct claimed her. Loren’s feet found the hardest ground. She twisted and weaved to avoid snapping any branch, wrapping her cloak tightly about her. Sounds faded behind her, and Loren pressed on.
She looked upon the road again. Now she could see a caravan sat upon it, wagons pulled into a rough line. People in bright clothing sat clustered in a group at the front. Men in shirts of mail and shining helms stood guard around them.
But the back of the caravan lay unattended.
Loren made for the tree line. Many yards of open space stretched between forest and wagons, but that could not be helped. If she could make it to one of the wagons unseen . . .
The closest guard turned and walked away. Loren seized her chance. She broke from the trees and raced across the rocky ground, as fast as she dared while staying deadly silent. Her cowl flew back, raven hair streaming in her wake.
She expected to hear a cry of alarm or the sound of drawn steel. None came. Loren reached the back of the rearmost wagon and slipped down the line to the third from the last. Still no one in sight. Without a sound, she leapt up and over the wagon’s edge to the shadows within.
eight
Loren’s hasty eyes inspected her surroundings. Bolts of cloth lay on wooden shelves lining either side of the wagon, and a thin aisle ran up the center.
A merchant’s caravan. Loren hoped that would help. From what she knew of the rich, they did not appreciate the eyes of the law and had skill at turning them away. But even a cursory look would find her here. The merchants had packed their racks too tightly for Loren to slip in among them.
She almost turned and left but heard footsteps in the dirt nearby. Her heart skipped a beat, and she burrowed farther down the aisle. Then Loren saw that she had been wrong: One shelf near the wagon’s front lay empty in the shadows. She slid into the shelf, squeezing as far from the aisle as she could manage.
A great bellow sounded outside, followed by the hiss of drawn steel. For a moment, Loren feared she had been discovered. But the sounds retreated, and she realized the caravan had spotted the constables. Hooves approached and pulled to a stop not far from her wagon.
Loren heard Corin’s burbling voice: “We are the King’s men, about his business.”
“And what business has the King with us?” came a sharp reply—a woman’s voice.
Bern spoke. “We pursue a man and a girl. They fled us south on the King’s road. We spotted the girl on that ridge. She may have come among you.”
“No girl came,” said the woman. “We have seen no one since yesterday. Who is this man you seek?”
“He is between our heights,” said Bern. “He may have worn a blue coat, or a dark green cloak. His hair hangs long and curled.”
“We saw him, or one like him,” said the woman.
Loren put a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“When?” said Corin.
“Yesterday. Just after the sun had set. He came upon our camp at night and offered us fair payment for a horse. He refused to rest the night, though we offered him hospitality. Instead, he rode on, south along this road.”
The constables remained silent through a long moment, or if they spoke Loren could not capture their words.
“He did not have a girl with him?” Corin said at last. “She would have been young, in forester’s garb.”
“Of course he didn’t,” said Bern. “We just saw her.”
“No one came with him,” said the woman. “Alone he arrived, and alone he left. Nor have we seen any other since. If you pursued him, I am sorry to have sold him the horse, but we could not have known he deserved justice.”
“Of course, my lady,” said Corin. “Last night, you say?”
“I do.”
“Then we must be on our way. We thank you—”
“Hold,” said Bern. “The girl is near.”
Again, they fell quiet, though this time Loren felt sure the constables must be speaking softly. That proved true, as their voices gradually swelled in anger. Finally, Bern spoke again, loud and clear.
“If you have not seen her, it will not matter if we search your wagons.”
“They carry only goods for trade,” said the woman, indignant.
“My stalwart friend is perhaps overeager,” Corin spoke, his anger barely in check. “But mayhap the girl arrived without your knowledge and stowed herself away.”
Loren searched around her in panic. They might not see her from the wagon’s rear, but then again they might, and if they entered they would find her for certain.
“Come now,” said the woman. “Our guards stand vigilant. She is not here.”
“Let us see, then.” Bern’s voice had found a nasty edge that Loren did not like.
Her eyes roved again over the wagon’s interior but failed to find a better hiding place. Yet as she glanced at the floor, her eye snagged a shaft of sunlight upon a board protruding from it. She leaned out and gripped it with her fingers. The board sat loose. Loren lifted, and a large panel rose silently.
Beneath lay a compartment, cunningly hidden. Several packages sat within, swaddled in brown cloth. But more important, plenty of space remained for Loren to hide herself. Like a snake she slid into the compartment and soundlessly lowered the panel upon all her fingers. She could not be sure it lay flush, but she could do no better.
She heard the constables move down the caravan toward her wagon, drawing nearer. She heard a gruff snort, and the wagon shook. Heavy boots thudded onto its floor, and Loren barely kept from yelping in fright.
Loren spied Bern’s grim features through cracks in the panel. The constable walked the wagon’s length, peering into every corner and sticking his nose right into the shelf where Loren had hidden. After a moment, he turned and stalked toward the wagon’s rear. Then the whole thing shook again as he clambered out.
The constables moved slowly away while Loren waited for twenty minutes that felt like an eon. At long last, she heard conversation again, though too far off to decipher, followed by the thunder of galloping hooves. Still, she waited for some clue or sign of safety.
Instead, she heard voices. One a man’s, deep and booming. The other belonged to the woman she had earlier heard.
“They found none of the compartments?” the woman said.
“None, my lady,” replied the guard. “I followed him every moment. He never so much as glanced at his feet.”
“That is good. Though too close a thing regardless. I care not for surprises.”
“Nor I, my lady,” said the man.
Their conversation ceased. Loren thought they must have moved away. After a few minutes of silence, she reached up to lift the panel away. A quick glance told her no one stood behind the wagon to see. She slid out of the compartment, replaced the panel, and
crept to the back of the wagon.
Guards now stood in thin-stretched rows down both sides of the caravan, eyes turned outward. Her escape would prove more difficult than her arrival.
But as Loren surveyed their positions, trying to work out the best angle to leave, a child appeared from nowhere. She sprang up from below the edge of the wagon’s rear panel, a tiny thing with skin as black as pitch. Yellow brocade glinted on a muted purple gown, matching the shine of her innocent eyes wide as dinner plates. They grew wider still as the girl gaped at Loren.
“Who are you?” The girl’s cry was cloaked in a whisper. “Are you the one the constables sought?”
Loren fled for the wagon’s front. It had a smaller opening than the rear, but still large enough to easily slip through. But as she dropped to the ground, Loren found herself facing a yard of bared steel.
She froze. Her eyes traveled the sword’s length to the man who held it. He dwarfed any man she had ever seen. His skin, like the girl, nearly glowed in its darkness. All but his hands, which were bright pink. But Loren could scarcely look away from his eyes, for they were solemn and uncompromising as stone. He wore a shirt of chain and a silver helmet like the other guards, but also steel pauldrons wrought with gold inlay.
Loren took him in—before her knees buckled and she collapsed to the ground. She cowered at his steel point.
“Who are you?”
Loren recognized the man’s booming voice from earlier.
“I . . . I . . . ” The word Nightblade appeared in her mind and vanished like smoke.
“Gregor! Lower your blade.”
The woman arrived, her voice even more distinct in the open air. From her eyes and the shape of her face, Loren knew at once that this must be the girl’s mother. But where the girl was all bounce and innocence, Loren saw a grim determination steelier than her captain’s sword in the woman’s face.
Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) Page 4