by Sandra Elsa
#
The third day, she was awakened by the baying of hounds. The first bark lifted her to her feet. Pulse racing, she scrambled up the treacherous slopes. Long before the hunters arrived at the place she’d been sleeping, she was high above the road.
The huntsman maintained the pack at Hallowisp only for sport. These would be the hunters’ hounds from the auction in Temn, trained especially to hunt and take down without killing, two-footed prey.
When the herbalist owned her, Pink had seen the results of several of these hunts. The slaves usually survived, but neither hounds, nor hunters, were gentle.
With the speed of a fleeing doe, she climbed higher into the mountains. Scrambling over rock outcroppings, she heard the hounds begin to bay in earnest; they had her scent.
As she ran, she remembered Gelora's, cutting remarks about the stupidity of slaves as she worked on a runaway, torn up and recaptured by the dogs. "All they have to do is cover their scent and the hounds have nothing to hunt. Run through the water, bathe in strong scented herbs, but are they smart enough? Bah... Little better than animals, that's what slaves are." Mistress Gelora had so detested slaves that she said things in front of Pink as though she were incapable of comprehension. For the first time since Pink had been sold to the old woman, she was glad of those four hard years.
A pond glinted in a depression down the slopes to the northeast. It was faraway but it was her best chance. She flew toward it as fast as her feet would carry her.
The sound of rocks sliding under scrabbling paws where the hounds turned off the road, reached her ears. She looked backward over the top of a small ridge, to check their progress. What she saw, spurred her to greater effort.
There were five hunters. The hounds had the scent and they were sure of their quarry. The men worked their way methodically up the mountainside, beating the brush to make sure she had not doubled back. The dogs strained at their leashes. Pink did not stay to watch.
Blisters a distant memory, Pink tore down the slope toward the pond, and leapt into it barely registering the shock of the icy mountain water. She used handfuls of sand to scrub herself and her clothing down. Standing on the edge of the pond she dug through her bundle and grabbed the small jar of cucumbers.
As she poured the juice onto her filthy tunic and wiped herself down with it, Pink thought, Dill, to ward off evil. If ever it has truly worked for such a purpose, let it be today. The hounds were getting louder and she bolted again. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of racing paws, and heavy panting.
One of the hounds had gained his freedom and was closing fast. Pink slipped on the slick stones and rushing water of the rill and the hound was on her. He grabbed her arm and began to shake it as though she were no more than a rag doll.
She could do little but scream. Agony raged through her torn flesh. She caught the dog’s eye and moaning in pain, begged him to stop.
A miracle occurred. She didn’t pause to question it. As she begged the hound for her life and her freedom, he stopped worrying at her and sat back on his haunches. The baying of the other hounds quickly became louder, her screams drawing the hunters more surely than the hounds’ noses.
Keeping a wary eye on the dog at her feet, she wrapped the arm in her tunic, and fled downstream in the widening trickle of water that flowed from the pond.
Confused baying announced the hunters’ arrival at the pond. Raised voices and cracking whips told her when they found the hound that let her go. She left the stream after several hundred yards, trusting to the dill to cover her scent. Climbing out onto a hard ridge of shale, she followed the ledge of rock deeper into the mountains. The terrain grew steadily harsher. Bewildered barking grew more distant. She did not slow until her muscles refused to hold her weight.
Dizziness overwhelmed her and she stumbled, sliding down a ravine, headfirst. She lay at the bottom, unable to move.
Breathing was agony. Legs quivered uncontrollably and blisters—forgotten during flight—burned as though a fire consumed her feet. Her flayed arm was still wrapped in the grimy tunic. The shredded chemise, exposed scrapes and bruises, too numerous to count. Red, black, and purple covered her stomach and chest from the slide.
Amidst the pain, the absence of baying still lightened her concerns. The hounds and hunters had continued down the rill. She tried to force her body to move on, but it refused.
When the hunters arrived at the end of the flow of water, however far away that might be, they would return. Whether or not they would find trace on the second pass she didn't know. But she was done.
Lifting an arm and dragging herself to a more comfortable position was beyond her abilities. She closed her eyes and prayed to Falo, goddess of lost causes, that neither the hounds’ noses nor the hunters’ eyes would be able to pick up her trail. If they did…she prayed it ended quickly.
