From inside fists started to bang at the door and then he heard men throwing their weight against it. The wooden plank shuddered on its iron rungs, but luckily, at least for the short term, it seemed to be holding. Nikolis turned then and ran down the hallway, gathering up and then half-dragging, half-carrying King Alginor.
Progress was slow and labored and there was only one reason he made any distance from the audience chamber, before the guards went back through the rear entrance and were after him. The castle was still relatively empty. There was no one to get in his way. They must have emptied everyone out so they would have no witnesses to their treason. But then he told himself he didn’t have time to think about such things; escape was all that mattered now.
He made his way down to the front gate, where only two guardsmen now stood sentry, and ran past them. The guards ran forward as expected, lowering their spears. Though when they saw the King and all of the blood, they stepped backward, not knowing what to make of the situation.
Nikolis let the monarch fall to the ground and rushed over to a where a stable hand was holding the bridle of a fine brown gelding, for a noble who was about to mount the beast. Nikolis pushed the noble out of the way and leapt into the saddle.
He turned the horse about and pointed toward the King. “Help him up!” he shouted. He said the command with such emotion, with such authority, that the guards, seeing the shield and sword sewn about his breast, moved to obey. They must not be part of this plot.
Despite their confusion, and obvious discomfort, they picked up King Alginor and Nikolis dragged him into a relative seated position in front of him. As he turned the horse toward the road that led away from the castle, Jerald and the dozen guardsmen emerged from the gate.
“Stop him!” Camber shouted.
Nikolis dug his heels into the horse’s sides and sent it galloping down the path. Within moments eight guardsmen in blue and white emerged from two towers that flanked the road and raised their spears. Nikolis dug in even harder and wrapped an arm around the King. Purely by instinct the horse jumped over the raised points of the guards’ weaponry and leapt past them.
Faster and faster he pushed the gelding down the main street, rushing by carts and shocked men and women as he went. Every now and then a guard would step out into the road with a spear, but the horse would thunder past him without pause, the guard leaping out of the way with a cry. They weren’t prepared for this. That’s the only reason I’m still alive.
A horn sounded from behind him, but when he got to the front gate luck was on his side. It was still wide open, as was usual for this time of day, though a dozen guardsmen were there waiting for him. They looked as though they had gotten word of what was going on, perhaps from the horn, as their spears were down and pointed toward his advance. “Hold the line!” he heard a man yell.
Nikolis pushed his horse onward, not letting up for a moment. With one arm he held the King and managed a grasp on the reins, while with the other he drew out his sword. He slashed at the guard closest to him as he approached, and he felt the horse take a jab to the flank, but somehow, thankfully, the beast stayed its course, thundering onward.
Horse and riders broke through the wall of men and continued to race down the Sea Road. Nikolis worried that they may encounter resistance as they went, some hidden reserve of men. After all, a plan to murder the King of the Realm could not have been this horribly plotted. But as they galloped along, no one appeared. It was without further resistance that Nikolis came upon the small camp that Timmer Garth, the king’s master scout, had set up outside of the city.
“What is your character, Garth?” Nikolis yelled, reining his horse in before the short man, the gelding’s shod hooves kicking up clumps of dirt.
“What?” demanded Timmer, perplexed. Behind him his daughter, Tyna, emerged from their tent, the blade of a knife extending from her fist.
Nikolis wheeled his mount about and looked down the twisted stone road behind him. No one was visible yet, but he heard them. Dozens of hoof beats were now thundering off of stone, though still more than a mile off at least. They may not have been prepared, but they were reacting quickly.
Bringing his mount back around, he asked, “Are you villain or friend? It seems that I am surrounded by traitors. I ask which you are.”
Most men might have been thrown off, or made nervous, by Nikolis’ crazed behavior, but apparently on this subject the scout had no doubts. With eyes that matched the rider before him in their intensity, and a jaw firmly set, he replied, “I have always been a loyal subject of His Grace.”
“Then take him,” said Nikolis, for the first time revealing the bundle in his arms. When Timmer Garth saw the withered face of the king, his own face paled. Now he hesitated, seeming suddenly lost.
“What has happened?”
“Betrayal,” Nikolis spat. “But we’ve no time to discuss it. You must take him, do not tarry, not to gather supplies, nor even to tend him. Not yet. There is no time. Take what you can for provisions and then get off the road. Go through the woods, as only you know how. I will draw them off of your trail. If they chance to realize what has happened, I have no doubt you will long since have disappeared, if half of what they say of Timmer Garth is true.”
The small man stood unimaginably tall and proud at those words. He moved to take the King from Nikolis, and then Nikolis dismounted. With a nod from her father Tyna was running about the camp grabbing what provisions she could. Garth couldn’t help but inspect the king’s body and it was clear by his gasp that he had spotted the old man’s wound.
Nikolis moved to the pairs’ tent and grabbed the wooden support pole from within. He moved back to Timmer and eased the king’s robe from his body. Garth looked confused as Nikolis removed the bloodstained garment but put up no argument. In little time he found a cloak of thick, dark wool, and wrapped it about King Alginor’s feeble form.
By that time Nikolis had remounted his steed, and now laid the pole vertically beside his left leg, letting it rest in the stirrup below. This caused the end of the shaft to jut up into the air, and upon this Nikolis draped the king’s cloak. He brought his horse about to the left, and then Garth saw his plan.
The illusion was complete. The pole propped the king’s cloak up so that by appearances Nikolis still rode with the injured man. The stirrup would support the wooden rod, and its movement would make the cloak move with the rider in as natural a manner as possible.
Courage started to leave Nikolis as he sat astride the horse, catching his breath. For that reason and so many others, he knew he had to continue on. Tyna was every bit as capable as her father, for in the few seconds that they had used to take care of the King, she had gathered more than he could have imagined into a makeshift pack on her back, created by placing the items in the canvas of their now dilapidated tent, and tying it up with cord.
Taking a deep breath, Nikolis nodded to Timmer Garth, and knew that he need say nothing more. The fate of the realm weighed heavy on both of their shoulders, he was sure, but they knew what they had to do. Nikolis dug his heels into his mount, sending it flying down the road. He glanced back only once to watch Timmer, Tyna, and the shrouded form of the king disappearing into the woods.
Nikolis put miles between himself and Garth. He glanced back only once to chance a look at the spear wound his horse had sustained. It didn’t look good, but it could have been a lot worse. Blood was flowing freely down the horse’s leg, but it looked to have been only a glancing blow. With the King now gone, and only the stone road ahead, Nikolis’ thoughts started to wander. What if they do not follow me? What if they head into the woods and find Garth? Can I even trust Garth? What if he believes me the traitor, and turns back for the guards’ aid?
He could not think on such things. He had to trust that matters would go according to plan or he would lose himself to despair.
After an hour passed, he felt his mount slowing. Then the hoof beats behind him grew louder and with no other choice, he tur
ned off of the road, into the woods, hurrying the gelding along as fast as possible.
The ground was uneven, and roots snarled up at dangerous angles, but he had to push the beast on. There was no time to delay. He heard his pursuers stop at the same place he had, and then they too turned into the woods. The sound of the hooves on earth, and the sudden rustle of leaves and snaps of twigs, told him they were not too far behind.
Within moments he could tell that his mount was tiring, its wound getting to it. When the gelding could finally go no further, Nikolis dismounted, slapped it on the rump, and sent if off in a random direction. Then he found a rocky slope that pursuing men on horse would have a hard time following and began to climb.
Within moments his own wound was burning, the crossbow bolt digging painfully into his flesh, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He dared not pull it out, for then his blood would flow freely, draining from his body unabated. For now, only a small, steady stream ran from the wound. There was no time to tend to it. He drew his sword, and using it as a crutch, pushed himself onward.
When he reached the top of the slope, he saw many dips and rises ahead in the rocky terrain. The horsemen would either have to follow him on foot, or go around, though it wasn’t long before he got an answer on their choice. Footsteps on stone sounded behind him, and quickly grew ever closer. Nikolis dared not turn about; he had to keep moving.
“Stop there!” said a voice, after he had gone only a few more steps. Now Nikolis did turn about, finding himself face to face with two guardsmen in blue and white, the sinister serpent emblazoned on their chests. They wore conical helms and chainmail shirts, and drew out their longswords the moment they were upon him.
“Where is the King?” one of the guards demanded.
“I have hidden him!” Nikolis replied, as he raised his own blade and sprang forward, lunging at the larger of the two men.
The guards seemed shocked that this lone, injured, man had dared come at them, and so they were quickly put on the defensive. Nikolis disarmed the first guard with a slash to his wrist and knocked him over with the forearm of his offhand. Then he spun about to meet the second guard, who was clearly worse with a blade than the first.
As Nikolis came at him with practiced lunges and slashes, the guard seemed to get tangled up in his own weapon and was soon kneeling down, trying to stop the flow of blood that was pumping from his thigh.
With both guards busy trying to cover their wounds, Nikolis turned and ran off, not caring in what direction. He knew more men would be in quick pursuit, so he found his way through the jutting rocks as quickly as possible.
He wandered for hours. Now and again he would hear footsteps behind him, and he would stop and hide behind a large rock, or fallen tree, until they passed. Then he would be off again, putting as much distance between himself and his pursuers as humanly possible.
When the sun finally disappeared, night setting in about him, he had to stop and rest. The rocky terrain seemed to be coming to an end. He found a spot in a small hollow in which he could lie down. Though he was only able to relax for a moment or two before he heard many forms moving about, and soon voices were sounding clearly through the night, not nearly far enough away.
The flicker of torchlight could then be seen, and though it was soon gone again, it would return only a moment later. He got low to the ground, remaining as quiet as he could manage. If the torches he spotted were any indication, there were dozens of them, if not more, moving about in the darkness. They will find me eventually if I stay put. That is certain.
Mustering as much strength as he could manage, he dragged himself out of the hollow and moved off into the night.
The darkness was his shield as he crept slowly about, freezing in place when he heard a voice getting closer, or footsteps from behind. The land was flat again, and the trees were thick. They provided cover, but they also gave ample opportunity for him to brush past something and make noise. At one point, when he snapped a twig underfoot, he heard a voice shout, “Over there!”
As two figures approached, he got low to the ground and remained still. The two guardsmen appeared from the darkness and nearly stepped on him. It was then that he realized the torches that they held so closely to their faces were blinding them.
After many minutes of waving their torches at the darkness, they apparently gave up, for they moved off in another direction. Without pause he was up again and on his way.
As he wandered aimlessly through the dark forest, despair again started to set in. What hope did I have of avoiding a dozen men for the rest of the night? And even if I did, when the night is over, and the light of morning comes, how could I possibly continue on unnoticed? He walked on for over another hour lost in these thoughts, before he finally heard a sound that gave him hope.
Off in the distance came the undeniable rush of water. As he continued eastward, it grew louder and louder, until finally he emerged out of the trees, onto a bank of soft earth. Beyond, stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction, and wider by far than he could have possibly imagined, was the White River.
Recollection of a dozen maps he had viewed over the years told him it was so. Its size alone told the tale. It had to be the White.
As he approached it, the thundering river grew louder and soon he could no longer hear anything else, not even his own ragged breath. The pursuers were still behind him. They would find his footsteps eventually if they looked close enough. It would be treacherous to cross a river half as wide and deep during the day, never mind one this furious by the dark of night, but what choice did he have?
A crescent moon illuminated the rolling waters, but that only served to make more visible his peril. As he approached the riverbank edge, he thought for a moment about shedding his clothes, and holding them above his head to try and keep them dry. But when he looked again, he realized that would be impossible, and would most likely only result in him losing the garments. The current was too quick, the water too deep.
He heard shouts again, getting closer, but did not bother to look this time. Pushing his fears aside, the only other thought that remained in his mind was what he would do to those responsible for this entire plot when he got ahold of them. Then he stepped off of the bank toward the dark water and plunged into its depths.
PART THREE
THE LONE BLADE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The bolt had to come out. For days he had put it off, limping along the eastern shore of the White River. Each day the pain grew worse. Though only a small amount of blood streamed out now and again when he shifted his weight, the flesh all about the wound was a dark purple, and each day it seemed to spread. It looked horrible.
When he woke up that first morning after he crossed, crawling out of the ditch he had hidden in to sleep, he knew it needed to be removed, but he put it off, telling himself he needed to find food and water and better shelter. There were bushes here and there, with small, red berries on them. They tasted awful, but they filled his stomach. Not daring to go back near the river, he had to rely on the rare stream, or rain puddle, for drinking water.
On the second day, he heard screeching from above and his two ravens flew down from the sky. Mayjen had a small patch of missing feathers that was curious, but Jayjen appeared fine. How they had found him was a mystery, but it gave him a measure of comfort to have them around. Luckily, he had flint and steel in a small pouch at his waist, and he used them to get a small fire going. He finally shed his wet clothes and then, encouraged by the warmth of the blaze, passed out as pain and hunger consumed him.
When he chanced upon a small stream a few days later, he decided to follow it, looking for a place to camp. After a half-day’s walk, he found a small enclosure of tall pine trees in the midst of which was a scattering of brown boulders. It was the best place to settle in that he had discovered, and so he gathered some dry moss and twigs, and started another small fire. He searched in vain for something large enough to boil water in, somet
hing he could fashion into a kettle, but found nothing. As the sky grew dark around him that night, he decided that it was time.
The bolt head was barbed, designed to go in easily and come out with as much difficulty as possible. Just touching it, stirring it but half an inch, sent so much pain coursing through his leg that he nearly passed out again. It had occurred to him that it might be better to push the bolt through to the other side, but it wasn’t in nearly far enough for that. He would do more damage to more of his leg than he would extracting it.
Drawing his sword, he placed the tip of the blade in the fire. Then he tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt and tied it around his leg, above the wound. There was a small stick nearby that he clenched between his teeth and then he grasped the bolt with one hand, steadying his leg with the other. He took a deep breath and pulled.
The bolt came free with a roar of agony, the stick broke between his teeth, flesh ripped, and blood began to flow freely. Nikolis started coughing and panting, his eyes watered and pain consumed him. Then there was only darkness.
When he awoke some time later his leg still throbbed and the pain was overwhelming, but he forced himself to sit up and crawled down to the stream. Cupping his hands, he poured water over the infected area, each douse bringing another wave of agony. Then he forced himself to touch it, to pull away any loose skin, anything he could manage that looked unhealthy. After that he crawled back up to the campsite and took his sword from the fire.
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