The stone steps rang under his booted feet as he descended the long flight of stairs to the entry hall. No one noticed him until he came to the outer door, where the doorkeeper gave him a surprised look.
“Planning on going to war?” asked the young man, opening the door and grille for him. He seemed uncertain whether to bar his way or not.
“I’m not sure yet,” replied Don. “I should discuss this with your mistress, but I am getting ready for a ride, and a number of others are saddling horses as well.” His wording was awkward, but something made him reluctant to tell a direct lie. It seemed to satisfy the other man, who visibly relaxed as he held the heavy door open.
“Do you need help?” he asked. “Who else is going?”
“No. No,” answered Don, over his shoulder. “I am not sure who else will be going, but I think that those who must go have already been notified.”
Several soldiers in the compound stared at Don with what seemed like undue interest as he strode across to the main stable. Entering, the scene was much busier than he had expected. A young warrior was overseeing the saddling of his horse, and four stable boys were saddling other beasts. About five horses were already saddled and were tethered along the central hall.
“Outlander,” snapped the warrior, coldly. “You seem to know of this ride. Why wasn’t I told?”
“I am sure that I would know the least about the plans,” answered Don. “Perhaps you can discuss the matter over breakfast.”
“Who else is going?” asked the other, irritably. His voice was loud and seemed to echo from the stone walls. Don felt hollow inside. This young man had to be dealt with or the plan would fail. What could he say?
“Would you expect the lady to confide in an outlander more than you?” asked Don, as he stepped down the aisle to the stall holding his horses. The stable boys were joking with each other as he saw that his mount was already saddled.
Don looked back to see the young warrior raise his chin. “Your point is well taken!” he said. “Boys! Hurry with my animal. One of you go to my quarters and fetch my shield and armor. Quickly!” he shouted.
Don ignored him as he strapped on his saddlebags. He then slung the bow and quiver at the pommel and the cased javelins on the off side. He checked all equipment. It all seemed to be in perfect order. He glanced up to see the young warrior stalk out of the stable. He pulled his razor from his belt pouch, then he stepped over and slit the girths of four of the horses. That was all he could reach. The other four were being saddled or were still held by stable boys, who paid him little attention. Don led his mount down the center of the stable and back as though checking his gait. One boy tied up another horse, and disappeared into a stall around a corner. Don was able to slit that girth -- almost through. But time was passing. He could not wait much longer. Just then, the young lord returned, in full armor. But he would perhaps add an element of confusion.
“My horse seems to be favoring his forefoot,” observed Don, loudly. “I am going to ride him around the courtyard. You stable boys. Tether these other mounts in the courtyard as well!”
“Yes!” echoed the young man, lightly mounting his own horse. “Lead them out. I will raise the other sluggards.”
“No hurry,” said Don, as he rode out. “You can discuss all this at breakfast. Do you see a limp?”
The other pulled his mount to a stop and watched Don as he rode past him and out the door. “No,” he shouted. “He moves well.”
“Perhaps I will go for a short gallop to be sure,” said Don, as he rode out of the stable door and across the courtyard. For a moment, Don thought that the other man would accompany him. He rode boldly to the gate, signaling with a forward swing of his arm for the gate to be opened. The warder obeyed, unlinking a heavy chain and swinging one of the massive doors outward. Don trotted his mount out, looking anxiously downward at his left front foot as he moved. He glanced back. The other man had reined his horse to a stop near a hitching rack and was dismounting. He was out of the keep, but five horses stood saddled, girths uncut. He would have to ride fast. Don urged his mount to a gallop.
The road stretched out before him, the air was crisp and cold, and the morning sun reddened the sky. A great tightness vanished from his chest. But he still wondered, had he been tricked after all?
He soon reached the crossroads and reined to the left, westward, down the narrow canyon trail. Snow still covered the road, and it had been used but little. The squeaks of saddle leather and the drumming hooves on crusted snow were the only sounds to be heard. Snap’s breath steamed up like that of a dragon’s. But where was the girl and Red? Could they have taken another trail?
He rode on for perhaps another mile, worries growing. Then he heard a cry. Turning, he saw a horse and tiny rider coming down from a side canyon. He reined up and waited. She reined Red to a stop within arm’s-length of him and gave him a weak smile. She did not look much like the Lady Lilith, now.
“I took a light exercise saddle,” she said. “It will have to serve as a trade for your equipment. To have taken anything else would have been suspicious.”
“Of course it will serve,” he returned. “But we must ride. Four horses are saddled, girths uncut, and one warrior was in full armor when I left. That is, we must ride if you are right about all this.”
“Everything I said was true,” she retorted with spirit. “And you are right! We are not clean away, not yet. We must hurry!”
They reined the horses to the South and were off at a gallop. She rode well. The two horses frisked along for the first few miles like colts out for a run in the pasture. There was no sign of pursuit. They crossed the river on an ancient bridge of molded stone, crumbled, but still sound. The trail then led out across a wide valley, the green northern slope facing a sparse cover of artemisia, thrusting gray arms above crusted snow. They could leave the road for the cover of the pines, but their tracks would be obvious, and the deep snow would slow them. The trail was hard packed and even melted clear in spots. They pressed on.
Halfway up the next hill Don looked back at Deborah. He noticed that her face was gray and drawn and moisture sprinkled her brow, despite the crisp chill. His breath caught in his throat.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you ill?”
“Only a pain in my side,” she answered. “It hurts, but it is nothing serious. Don’t slow down!”
The miles passed quickly, even though Don slowed the pace to a ground-eating trot. They stopped briefly at lunchtime to rest their horses and eat some bits of bread and dried meat from Don’s saddlebag. They all drank from the river that they had been following all morning. “Kolaroo,” she said, pointing at the black water. “That is its name. Though up here some call it the Collar.” Don nodded, not recalling a mention of such a river before.
After the brief stop, they continued downstream, keeping to the well-travelled trail. Don noticed another wall of mountains barring their way. These were not as high as the Western Wall, but were high enough. Still, the river must have a way to get through them.
There was no sign of pursuit, and they met no one. Twice they took to the trees south of the river to avoid small settlements, and they crossed the river several times as well. But the fords were clear of ice, and the crossings were made without danger.
Don remained uneasy. Was their escape going to be this easy, then?
Chapter 10
†
A Run Down the River
Why is my pain perpetual, and my wound incurable, which refuses to be healed? Will you be altogether unto me as a deceitful brook, and as waters that fail? Jeremiah 15:18 KJV
They had just passed a spur of dark timber on the second side trail south of the river when Deborah, who had been riding slightly ahead, suddenly reined to a stop. She slumped over, holding her stomach. Don reined close to her side and saw that she was weepin
g.
She faced him, eyes blinking back tears. Her lower lip was white where she was biting it. She looked unsteady, so he braced his hand against her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Donald,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go on like this. I’ll take shelter in the woods somewhere. I’m slowing you too much.”
“No,” answered Don. “Don’t be silly. I see no one following, and we are nearly beyond your dread lady’s domain. You must go on!”
“It hurts too much,” she cried, holding her side.
Don stepped down and helped her off her sorrel mount. The horses seemed to be glad for a rest. She stood, bent over, holding her side. “Where does it hurt?” he asked. “Your side?”
She nodded, in obvious pain. Don wiped his forehead with the back of his glove, as he stood helpless. Perhaps she had a stitch in her side, or some kind of cramps. She seemed unable to talk. He took his leather bottle and shook it. It sloshed, so he untied and unstoppered it and offered her a drink. She accepted a swallow, but still seemed unable to stand erect.
Minutes passed. He spread his cloak on the frozen skiff of snow, and she sat down, with a whispered thanks. Don scanned their trail. Nothing seemed to be moving, but just as he started to look away, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. On a distant ridge, perhaps three miles away, several dots were moving. There were three at least, maybe four or five.
Riders, of course. Perhaps not connected with them at all. Perhaps!
Don tried to think. Deborah was in pain and he did not know what was wrong. It was apparently not her stomach, since she could drink. Darkness was still a long time away. He could not defeat them all, sword against sword. But the trail just ahead went within forty feet of a thicket of young pines that would give good cover. Perhaps his bow could even the odds.
“Deborah,” he said. “Listen carefully. Red is still in good condition. I know you are in pain, but I think it is a stitch in your side that is not going to be fatal, even though it hurts.”
“Don,” she whispered, “It feels like knives.”
“Listen. I see some riders coming,” he said, insistently. “Get back on your horse. You are small and have a light saddle. If you can ride as fast as Red can run, no armored man can catch you.”
“No,” she said, firmly, as she stood up. “I won’t leave you.”
“Very well,” urged Don, taking her hand. “But you must get mounted.”
He pushed her up, and gave her the reins. She sat with a hunch in her back, face as pale as sun-dried linen. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and mounted. The riders were now out of sight in a depression to their rear. This was their chance. He spurred Snap to a trot, leading them past the thicket, then doubled back and rode back above the trees where they would be concealed from the road. The snow was deeper here, but was powdery. He dismounted, drew his knife and lopped off a pine bough. Running quickly, he swept away the traces of their tracks where they doubled back. He then strung his bow, and slung the quiver over his shoulder. He gave Snap’s reins to Deborah who was still in the saddle.
“Watch from here,” he ordered. “If I fall, you ride on. Understand?”
He smiled as she nodded. Then he moved away from her, wading the knee-deep snow, working his way between the low-growing trees. He finally found a hiding place within short bowshot from the road and waited.
There were five, after all, and the first rider was the young warrior from the stable, dressed in full mail armor. It pained Don, but the horse was going to have to be the target. Closer and closer they came, at a brisk trot.
But he could not simply ambush them! Standing out in the open He shouted: “Go back! Stop following us. At your peril!”
There was a shout as the riders turned towards him. One, carrying a bow, launched a hasty shot at him that did not come close. That settled the matter as to whether they were hostile. But some fallen trees blocked their path, so they turned and started to ride around them.
They were slightly quartering away to Don’s left as they passed. Don took a slight lead and fired a broad-head at the first horse. Without stopping to watch the arrow’s flight, he nocked and loosed another shaft as fast as he could. The first arrow could not have been shot truer. It took the lead horse at the base of the throat. The animal reared in pain and then jumped sideways. The thrown rider hit the crusted snow with a highly audible clunk. The other shaft had been loosed too hastily. It missed the second horse entirely.
The second rider was carrying a javelin across the saddle bow. He raised it to throwing position and charged uphill toward the clump of trees. The third rider rode to help his downed companion. Don did not have time to view the others. The second horse shied sideways just as Don’s third shaft left the bow. It would have been a clean miss, but the rider’s knee intercepted the shaft. With a wince, the rider cast the javelin toward Don, but his throw was hasty and missed by several yards. The rider turned off to the left and rode on, holding his leg just above the arrow, which was firmly embedded.
He quickly nocked a fourth arrow just as the first rider was climbing up to ride double on the third horse. The first horse was down and struggling just ahead of them. It was an easy shot. Don placed the arrow to the feathers in the third horse’s ribs just behind the rider’s knee. It was a lung shot, but the animal would not go far.
The wounded rider circled back, several hundred yards below Don, calling for help. The other four riders reined their mounts downhill to meet him and get out of range of the arrows. Don tried a long shot at the last in line, but missed. Then they were all out of range. Don watched for a long moment, then saw one of the horse’s legs fold as it fell onto its belly, throwing two riders into the crusted snow.
Don stayed to see no more, but struggled back to Deborah as fast as he could. She was there, waiting. He slung the bow and quiver over his pommel, mounted, and they were off. Up the hill they went at a gallop. Deborah’s pain seemed to be forgotten for the moment. The woods screened them for most of the way to the top, but they came out in the open just as they were going over the ridge. They heard a shout below. Looking back, they saw several riders start up the hill after them.
A mile sped by; then two. Don glanced back. He could see no immediate signs of pursuit. He had reduced the odds somewhat, and his horses had had some rest. But their mounts were tiring rapidly now. They urged them over a rocky section of the trail that crossed a sharp spur of a ridge and fell off steeply to the north. Don assumed that the river lay in that direction. At the top of that ridge, Don looked back. A mile to their rear he could see three spots coming. The chase was still on!
An obvious ambush site presented itself just over the ridge. The trail ran immediately below another thicket of dense pines. Don motioned Deborah ahead, then doubled back and made a small disturbance in the trees. He tied a bit of red cloth from his scarf to a limb where it could be seen from the road. Then he went on, hoping that it would look like a clumsy ambush.
He quickly caught up with Deborah, who sat sideways in the trail, her eyes wide and questioning. In spite of everything, Don noticed for a moment how beautiful her face was, with its oval shape and large eyes. He did not stop, though. They raced down the hill, stirrup to stirrup.
He never knew if the fake ambush was effective, but something seemed to delay the riders. When he saw them next, it was clear that they had fallen further behind. The pursuers had not given up, but Don’s spirits rose as he saw the sun falling. It would be close, as he looked at their lathered mounts. But he began to hope that darkness would fall before they could be overtaken, and in the dark they had an excellent chance of escape.
They climbed another hill, and he had to slow to a walk. Steam was rising from their horse’s hot flanks. They had to have some rest, but the sun was setting. The chase could not go on for much longer. He looked to the right and could j
ust see a glimpse of the river, now in a narrow gorge.
Ahead, the river course seemed to become a canyon with vertical cliffs on both sides. He could see another steep ridge ahead, and saw that the ridge and the canyon made a “T” with the river running parallel to the crossbar, which was a cliff. The vertical bar was the ridge that they must cross. The canyon would be to their right. They smiled at each other, without speaking, then urged their weary mounts up the trail.
The dusky evening was well advanced and the sun only a red glow to the west when they rounded a sharp corner. A rim-rock escarpment paralleled the road above them to the left, and another cliff fell off to the right. They could hear the roar of the river below, in the gloom.
Their horse’s hooves rang on stone. Don was just about to say that he thought they were safe, when he saw a sight that chilled his blood. On the road ahead, two armored riders blocked the road with drawn swords. There was no way around them. Don heard a cry to his left, and he looked at Deborah in astonishment.
“I’m sorry, Donald,” she cried. “There must have been a short cut!”
Heart sinking, Don looked back. His worst fears were realized. Behind them came a third rider at a slow trot, war spear at the ready. They were neatly trapped. The cliffs above were impassable, and the rocky slope below, while not quite a cliff, was too steep for anything but a mountain goat.
Alone, Don might have had a chance to fight free. But any swordplay would leave Deborah defenseless. If they wanted to kill her, she could not escape. The jaws of the trap were closing rapidly.
The Stonegate Sword Page 18
