by Simon Brown
Lynan started slipping back into the fog when a thick unguent was rubbed into his cut. Again, terrible pain tore through him. There was a brief moment when he thought it was over and he could retreat back into his troubled sleep, nightmare and all, but it was only the lull before the storm. His whole body spasmed when Prado used a heavy needle and sinew to close his wound. Prado was sitting on his chest to stop him moving, and his thugs held onto his head and legs. Lynan screamed, then slipped back into unconsciousness.
He did not know how long he remained unconscious, but when he came to, he found his hands were tied to a pommel and Prado’s arms were coiled around his waist. Ahead, he saw Bazik, and he could hear Aesor clopping along behind. His jaw throbbed with a terrible ache, and it felt as if it was twice its normal size. His tongue filled his mouth, and he tried to ask for water but could only manage a wheeze.
“Our friend is awake,” Bazik said, looking over his shoulder. Prado only grunted.
Lynan tried turning his head to look around, but the pain in his jaw only got worse, so he twisted from the waist instead. They were following a narrow but well-worn trail that wound its way up a gentle tree-covered slope. Leaves dripped water on him. A weak sun shone from a pale blue sky through the canopy, but the light made him feel colder. He again tried asking for a drink, but was ignored.
After a while the trail leveled off and the trees started thinning out. Lynan glanced quickly at the sun and saw they were heading north. He could see the Arran Valley to his right, its broad descent ending in a patchwork of fields and orchards. To his left, the ground was largely flat and covered in long grass with occasional clumps of wideoaks and heartseed breaking the skyline. Farther east, the horizon was lost in a green haze which he thought might be a river valley.
The Barda River, he told himself hazily. Why are they taking me this way? We are heading toward Hume and not Kendra.
As the day drew on, it got warmer, and Lynan’s drying clothes started to tighten around him. They left the shelter of the woods and headed into the plain, making their way from copse to copse, Prado obviously seeking cover wherever he could. As the sun neared its zenith, they stopped under the shade of a group of wideoaks. Lynan’s bindings were cut and he was pushed from the saddle to the ground. Prado knelt next to him and inspected his handiwork.
“You’ll live. There’s no infection and the stitching is holding. You won’t chew for a while, though.” He forced Lynan’s head back and held up a flask. Water splashed over the prince’s mouth, some of it spilling down his throat. He coughed and spluttered and his jaw felt as if it was splitting open, but Prado grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back again, forcing him to drink more.
Bazik came over and tapped Prado on the shoulder. “Captain, you should see this.”
Prado followed Bazik to the edge of the copse. They peered westward, back the way they had come. They talked urgently among themselves. Prado gave a command and returned to Lynan, forcing him to his feet with a kick to his back. Bazik and Aesor lifted him to Prado’s horse and tied his hands to the pommel again. The horses were tired and needed a rest, but Prado started off at a hard canter, heading straight east.
Lynan tried desperately to match the horse’s rhythm, but found he was bound so tightly to the pommel he could not lift above the saddle. He was being jolted with every fall of a hoof and the agony was too much for him to bear. He cried out, but was ignored. He tried to focus on the horizon. The valley seemed as far away as ever. He cried out again, and Prado cursed. Lynan heard a sword being lifted from its scabbard. Before he could react, Prado brought down the hilt of the sword against the back of Lynan’s head, and he fell into a black pit.
Kumul kept the lead, able to maintain his mount at a brisk trot and at the same time keep his eye on the road. The others followed behind, Ager deep in thought and Jenrosa doing her best to stay in the saddle. She knew how to ride but had not had much experience of it since living in Kendra.
They rode for three hours before Kumul called a halt. “I’ve lost the trail,” he told them. “The ground is drying and I can no longer tell the old tracks from the new.” He slapped his thigh angrily.
“We should keep on, anyway,” Ager said stoically.
“What if you’re wrong?” Kumul asked. “What if Prado doubled back and is now heading south for Kendra?”
Ager shrugged. “There is nothing we can do about that. We must continue and hope to pick up some sign.”
Kumul looked up and saw Jenrosa dismounting. “What are you doing? We can’t rest yet—”
“Have you anything of Lynan’s?”
“What the hell has that to do—” Kumul started angrily, but Ager waved him quiet.
“I have his sword and the coat the forester gave him,” Ager said.
“Cut me a piece from the coat.”
Ager unwrapped Lynan’s coat from his roll and did as instructed. He handed Jenrosa a strip of cloth. Kumul opened his mouth to demand what they thought they were doing, but again Ager waved him still.
“If she is doing what I think she is doing, my friend, we will soon know in which direction Lynan is being taken.”
Kumul closed his mouth and watched on impatiently.
Jenrosa squatted near the road’s edge and gathered a handful of damp grass which she rubbed vigorously between her hands to dry. She then made a small mound from the grass and the cloth and withdrew a small glass from her pocket, using it to focus the sun’s light onto the mound. For a long time nothing happened, and Kumul became increasingly fidgety. His horse felt his frustration and started pulling on the reins.
“The grass is still too damp,” Ager said, but even as he uttered the words a thin stream of smoke started from the mound. Jenrosa chanted something under her breath and suddenly the mound was afire and blazing merrily.
“Bloody wonderful,” Kumul fumed. “Now we can all roast chestnuts.”
Jenrosa and Ager ignored him. When the fire burned out, she gathered the ashes in her hand and stood up. She chanted something once more and threw the ashes into the wind, carefully watching which way they scattered before settling to the ground. Jenrosa pointed east. “That way,” she said.
“This is mumbo-jumbo,” Kumul declared to Ager. “She is only a student magicker—”
“Kumul, which way is the wind blowing?” Ager asked him.
“From the north. What has that to do…” His question died in his mouth.
“And the ashes blew east,” Ager finished. “There was a trail about two leagues back.”
“I remember it,” Kumul said, “but there were no recent tracks on it.”
“Prado would have cut across from the road to the trail,” Ager said. “I think that is the way we must go.”
“North and then east?” Kumul asked. “Where is Prado going?”
Ager shrugged. “We must follow, whichever way he goes.”
Kumul nodded stiffly. Jenrosa remounted and they rode back until they reached the trail. They had only followed it for a short while before it started to climb out of the valley, and they entered the beginnings of a wood.
Kumul pointed to the ground. “It is still wet here, and there are tracks of three horses, one set deeper than the others.” He looked up at Jenrosa and offered a smile. “You were right.”
“I’m glad I’m useful for something,” she said without humor, but was surprised to find Kumul’s words made her feel better.
“You forget you saved Lynan from Silona,” Ager told her. “You may have saved him again.”
“Not yet,” she replied grimly.
The slope forced them to a slow walk, and Kumul ordered them to dismount and lead the horses to give them at least some respite from carrying their weight. Less than an hour later he stopped suddenly and studied the ground beside the trail. “They stopped here. Someone was lying on the grass. There is some blood.”
“God,” Ager muttered weakly. “They have wounded him.”
“We must go faster,” Kumul
said, and mounted. He patted his horse’s neck. “I am sorry, but we need your strength,” he said to the mare.
The trail was still slippery from the night’s rain and the going was hard, but the thought of Lynan being wounded spurred them on, and their mounts seemed to sense their eagerness. They reached the eastern lip of the valley an hour before noon and risked a ten-minute rest to give the horses a break, then went on, their pace picking up as the slope became easier and finally leveled out. By the time the sun was at its highest point they had broken through the woods and looked out over a great plain.
“That is the Barda River in the distance,” Ager said. “I have sailed along it many times when working for merchants. They use barges to carry goods from Sparro to Daavis.”
“Well, that answers Kumul’s question,” Jenrosa said.
The two men looked at her. “What question?” Kumul asked.
“Prado is heading for the river,” Jenrosa said. “Ager said he must be meeting someone. What if the rendezvous is far from here, like in Hume? He can’t ride the whole distance and hope to stay ahead of pursuit—he’s carrying royal baggage, remember?”
Ager’s eyes widened. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Prado is going to use the river. He’ll make much greater time! If Jenrosa hadn’t set us on the right trail, we would never have found out. Lynan could have been lost to us forever.”
“But what rendezvous?” Kumul asked. “This is making less and less sense to me. Why risk taking Lynan if not to return him to Kendra? Who could Prado possibly be meeting? Lynan’s not worth anything as hostage. Areava would pay to have him killed, not rescued.”
“He might not be worth anything as a hostage,” Ager said lowly, “but he’s worth something as a symbol.”
“What are you getting at?”
Ager shook his head. “I’m not sure yet—”
“Look!” Jenrosa cried, pointing. Kumul and Ager peered out across the plain but saw nothing. “Under those trees,” she said, almost shouting.
“Which trees?”
Jenrosa moved her horse so it was standing next to Kumul’s roan, and physically moved his head with her hands. “Are you blind! Those trees!”
At first Kumul noticed nothing, but after a moment he could see shapes moving in the shade of the small copse Jenrosa had found for him. He straightened in the saddle.
“That’s them,” he said with certainty.
By now, Ager had seen the distant figures also. “That was well seen, Jenrosa. It’s hard to be sure with only one eye, but I reckon they’re at least four hours’ ride ahead of us.”
Kumul lined up a finger with the copse, looking along the line with his right eye and then his left. He muttered a quick calculation and said: “Closer to three hours.”
“They’re moving,” Jenrosa said. “They’re riding out, heading straight for the river.”
“If we get to the Barda before they find a barge, we have them,” Ager said.
“The sooner we’re there, the better, then,” Kumul answered, and the companions kicked their horses into a ground-loping canter, trying to conserve the mares’ strength for a last dash. They left the wood behind and rode out onto the plain into the light, their hopes high for the first time since they had discovered Lynan missing.
The horses beneath Prado and his men could not continue their canter for long, and Prado slowed them down to a steady walk before they were blown.
“They will catch up!” Aesor shouted.
“We will get to the river first,” Prado told them. “That’s all that matters. Their horses cannot continue that pace for any longer than ours.”
“They could have fresher mounts,” Bazik said.
“And at least ten leagues to make up,” Prado angrily returned.
“But what if there are no barges at the river?” Aesor asked.
“The Barda bends sharply here, forming a steep bank. Pilots anchor there for the night. We’ll find something.”
“I bloody hope so,” Bazik said to Aesor in a voice low enough for Prado not to hear. “I’m not keen on tangling with Kumul Alarn.”
Aesor looked sourly at Bazik but did not reply. He fought the temptation to spur his horse into a gallop, but knew that if they exhausted their mounts too soon they were lost. He threw a glance at the prince, still slumped in Prado’s arms like a sack of wheat, and wished he was as blissfully ignorant of events. He told himself to concentrate on staying on his horse, but could not resist looking furtively over his shoulder every few minutes; each time he looked, he was sure the enemy was closer. He saw that they alternated riding between a quick walk and a canter. Bazik was right, they had fresher mounts and were pushing them to the limit.
They were over a league from the river when two things happened. The prince jerked into consciousness and groggily sat up; the sudden shift in weight upset Prado’s horse, and Prado had to pull back on the reins to stop the beast pulling to one side. Aesor cursed and for the hundredth time looked behind him.
“Prado!” he cried. “They’ve gone to the gallop!”
Prado savagely kicked his horse and it bucked, tossing its head high before breaking into a gallop and heading straight for the river, with Bazik and Aesor close behind.
Lynan had no idea what was happening, and all he could make out was the green blur of the plain and the smell of fresh water somewhere up ahead. His captors were in full flight, and he could tell from the rigid expressions on their faces that they were afraid. A deep recess in his mind figured out his friends might be the threat, but he had not the strength or the will to do anything about it. He tried closing his eyes to regain some kind of clarity, but the effect made him feel so unbalanced he had to open them again.
They were riding between trees now and their pace slowed. Lynan heard shouts behind him, distant and carried on a breeze. He recognized Kumul’s rumble and tried to shout back but could manage only a croak. The horse swerved to avoid a thorn tree, galloped forward again, then came to a halt when Prado pulled back on the reins. It stamped its feet and shook its head, foam whipping from its mouth.
Lynan could see a river about fifty paces ahead, and what looked like two broad-beamed boats at anchor near the bank. Bazik and Aesor appeared next to them, and Prado shouted, “Now! Our last chance!”
They spurred their horses forward again. Just before they reached the bank, Bazik and Aesor dismounted. Aesor ran to the barge on the right, the smaller of the two, and Bazik to the one on the left. Prado dismounted and took the reins of all three horses. Again, Lynan heard Kumul’s battle cry.
“Kumul!” he shouted, but it was a weak call, and only Prado heard. The mercenary lifted a foot and kicked the prince in the knee. Lynan cried out in pain and twisted sideways, only his binding keeping him in the saddle. He heard shouts in front of him and then screams. Prado used his sword to cut the rope and free Lynan’s hands, then hauled him off the horse. Aesor reappeared and pulled on Lynan’s hair until he stood up.
“Move!” Aesor ordered, and shoved him from behind.
Lynan tottered forward, carefully moving one foot in front of the other to keep himself from falling over. He reached the bank, and rough hands directed him to a plank, then guided him across. He felt the world shift under his feet and he remembered the last time he had tried to board a boat. “Oh, no…” he groaned, but before anything could happen he was manhandled aboard and pushed to the bottom. He tried to raise his head and received a punch in the face for his efforts. His jaw seemed to explode and he screamed. He heard the neighing and stamping of the horses as they were led on board. Twice, hooves missed his head by no more than the width of a finger. Prado was shouting orders and he felt the boat move out onto the water. Kumul’s cries were now closer than ever.
“Kumul…” Lynan tried again to lift his head, but it felt as if it weighed more than all the stone in Kendra’s palace.
Then he heard a loud crack, and he rolled on his back. A white sail flurried, fluttered, and then filled above him, a
nd Kumul’s voice trailed behind and was eventually lost.
Kumul waited until he was sure the horses could make the distance, then lifted his head and shouted the war cry of the Red Shields, kicking his mount to the gallop. Ager and Jenrosa matched him. Kumul drew his sword and leaned over the saddle to hold it forward, parallel with the horse’s head; he had seen enough enemies peel away from him in a charge to know how formidable a sight he made in full flight, and he hoped it was enough to make Prado and his men panic and do something stupid.
They had obviously seen him, for they whipped their own horses to a gallop. It was now a race to the river, and Kumul realized with horrible certainty that unless something happened to stop them, the mercenaries with their prize would win the race easily. His heels dug into the roan’s flanks, trying to urge more speed from her tired muscles, but her head was beginning to sag and he knew she could give no more. Ager and Jenrosa had started to fall behind.
In fury and anger he shouted his war cry again and again. He saw the enemy disappear behind the trees of the river when he was still five hundred paces from them. The next minute was one of the longest in his life. He started pulling on the reins when the first trees whisked by him, and he looked for a clear passage to the river. He heard the sounds of fighting ahead and to his left, and he jerked the mare toward them. The vegetation grew more dense and at last he had to dismount. He started to run, tripped over a root, picked himself up, and rushed forward again. He burst through the last ring of trees and bushes and saw a barge starting to pull away from the bank, Prado with his men and horses aboard. He could not see Lynan, and a cold fear clogged his throat. He sprang forward, but by the time he reached the bank the barge was in mid-stream and the sail was unfurling.
He noticed the second, smaller barge and ran toward it, then stopped in his tracks. A man lay dead on the bank, his head split open from forehead to chin, and beside him were a snapped rudder oar and the torn remains of the barge’s sail.