Flight From Blithmore (35 page)

The
winds were determined to not let them go without a fight. It whipped through
the valleys and dips, sometimes swirling up clouds of dust, forcing them to
squint or shield their eyes to see. They had a very brief lunch around noon,
and then pressed onward. Brandol asked to ride in the carriage with Isabelle to
get some rest for his night watch. Henry knew the entrance to the pass couldn’t
be more than a few miles away, and was glad they would reach it with plenty of
sunlight remaining.

The
endless expanse of the forest stood like an ocean of trees on the near horizon.
The Iron Forest got its name from the trees covered with bark so hard that
saplings could not be cut down without great effort. These trees formed a
forest so impenetrable that the only way through had been forged long, long ago
and had become the fixed eastern border of Blithmore and Neverak, and the
western border of the countries of old-Avalon on the other side.

Not
long after lunch, when they were out of earshot of Maggie and Brandol, James
struck up a conversation with Henry. “I won’t be going through with you,” he
said over the wind’s whining.

Henry
didn’t respond.

“I
know that disappoints you, but I won’t be much use to you once you leave
Blithmore.”

“It’s
Isabelle I’m concerned about,” Henry said. “She wants you near. You’re the last
of her family, and this may well be goodbye forever.”

“I
know. I’ll tell her once we reach the mouth of the pass.”

Henry
nodded, not bothering to hide his displeasure. First Ruther gone, now James.

“It
was a difficult decision,” James explained.

“That
won’t make it any easier for her.”

James
looked at Henry for a long moment and then shrugged. “She doesn’t think the
same of me since Ruther left.”

“Each
of us changes a little every day, some days change us more than others. Out
here we’ve been pushed to our limits, and it’d be unfair of me to judge you
when your emotions were at such an extreme.”

James
smiled as though he agreed with Henry. “Perhaps after I finish some things, I
will come to join you.”

“How
will you follow us if we don’t know where our journey ends?”

“It
will be a challenge,” James admitted.

Henry
knew better. If James left, there would be no reunion of brother and sister.

“I—I
never intended to do those things to Ruther, but I wanted him to believe I
would even at the cost of you trying to stop me.”

Henry
didn’t believe James. He’d heard the rage in his voice and seen what was in his
eyes. Maybe he was wrong about James, but it didn’t matter now, anyway.

“And
Maggie?” he asked. “Did she know your true intentions?”

James
looked away for a moment. “No, she didn’t, but I don’t want to part with you
thinking ill of me.”

“I
don’t, James. I bear no grudge.”

“Thank
you. I hold you in the highest regard. I couldn’t think of a better man to
marry my sister.”

“Thank
you.” Henry hesitated before speaking what was on his mind, then decided that
if he didn’t say it now he’d probably never get a chance. “How did you get that
scar, James? Is it why you refuse to leave Blithmore?”

James
ran his fingers along his scalp as a dark expression covered his face. “I do
not wish to speak of it.”

Henry
shook his head. James was a lost cause. “My apologies for asking.”

“You
don’t need to apologize.” James’ expression was one of deep sorrow. “You are a
far better man than I. You proved that today, and I think my mother would—” He
stopped and his face turned pale. “God help us. They’re right there. On the
hill!”

Henry
turned to look up the north hill. Ten soldiers of the Emperor’s Elite Guard
rode toward them. Maggie screamed and spurred her horses on faster. Henry and
James broke into a gallop. Shouts came from the top of the hill as their enemy
urged one another onward.

“How
far are we from the pass?” Henry yelled to James over the sound of the horses
and the wind.

“Two
miles at the most,” James answered. “By the time they get down that hill, we’ll
be ahead of them, but not by much.”

The
Elite Guards blew their horns, though Henry could not imagine why. Did they
expect his party to stop for them? When the horns continued, Henry realized
what James must have already known. The horns called more soldiers. This was no
accident. It was an ambush.

After
only a quarter mile, the Guards were no more than thirty yards behind them,
well in range to use their arrows. Even with the swirling winds, nine arrows
aimed from trained bowman would soon find their mark. The tenth Elite Guard
stayed at the peak of the north hill blowing every ten seconds into his horn,
an ensign for reinforcements.

“God
help us,” James repeated.

Up
ahead, eight more soldiers rode directly toward them, coming down from the
south hills. Nine behind them. One on the hill. Eight ahead. Eighteen in total.
The hills on each side were too steep for the carriage to have a chance at
climbing out of the valley.

 “Would
you still call Ruther your friend?” James asked him.

 “What
do we do?” Henry asked. “Surrender?”

“I
brought a spare sword,” James said, his brutal soldier voice returning. “It’s
in my pack. Give it to Isabelle. Remember what I taught you!”

The
few lessons James had given Henry were suddenly a great blur in his mind.

“Tell
Maggie and Brandol to grab whatever they can use as weapons. We’ll need the
horses if possible. Prepare yourself, Henry. I do not think we will see the
sunset tonight.”

Forty-One
-

Battle at the Pass

James
waited
to hear Henry relay his orders to the others. The moment Maggie’s carriage
stopped, Brandol jumped out screaming in terror. Isabelle exited moments later
with James’ spare sword and a heavy pot for Maggie. Henry went to retrieve his
sword from the rear compartment of the carriage. Satisfied Henry had carried
out his orders, James rode toward the Elite. His seven years of experience in
the King’s Guard told him they would not survive the battle. Brandol, in his
insanity, would die first followed by Maggie and James. Henry and Isabelle
would be captured and taken north. James’ mindset was simple: kill as many of
the Elite Guard as he could before dying.

Each
time he entered the field of battle, James heard the voice of his training
officer in his mind: “Why do you attack first, Oslan?”

“To
reduce the number of enemies as soon as possible!” James’ own voice shouted in
response.

“Correct!”

The
knives in James’ belt jingled as he put Sissy into a gallop. He pulled the
first one out when he was still forty yards away from the first guard. The
throw felt perfect, and the guard did not expect it. The guard fell sideways
off his horse and clutched his bleeding stomach.

The
other guards broke rank. James drew his sword, as did the other seven guards in
the front pack. James prepared himself for a soldier’s death, one hand on his
sword, the other gripping his next knife. His sword clashed against the blade
of the closest guard and slid off without causing harm. He threw his knife at
the second guard and missed. The third guard had a clear shot at his right
side, but did not take it.

Once
James had passed the group of guards, three of them turned to face him. The
rest rode on toward the carriage. Now James understood. The guards’ orders were
to capture only for Isabelle and Henry and harm no one else. James had been
involved in several skirmishes during his service to the King, but never
against anyone so foolish.

He
drew another knife out, but it nearly slipped from his fingers. Before he lost
his grip, he did something he never thought he would: he used the same hip
flick he’d observed Ruther perform in their contest. James had practiced it
often when Ruther wasn’t watching and had developed a deadly aim. A second
guard fell to his knife. It happened so quickly, even James was surprised.
Beyond the two remaining Elite Guards, James saw Henry, Isabelle, and Maggie
fighting back thirteen more with swords and pots, and since it appeared that
Isabelle possessed the most skill with a sword, James needed to reach them
soon.

He
charged Sissy into the last two guards. They met him with all the force they
could, defended his blows, and drove him back. He charged a second time and
they pushed him back again. His next knife flick missed. He charged them a
third time, this time expecting them to perform the same maneuvers. They did.
He yanked Sissy’s reins hard to the right and slashed with his sword at the
right guard. The guard deflected it, but not well. As James passed, his sword
struck either the shoulder or the neck of the guard. He did not turn to look,
but hoped it was the neck.

The
Elite Guard showed no desire to engage James one-on-one, and turned to the
hills. James rode toward the carriage to help his friends. Brandol was hiding
under the carriage holding something over his face. Maggie still had her pot.
Isabelle was fighting rather well, which James expected since he had given her
several lessons over the years. The one wounded guard was nearest to her. Henry
slashed his sword back and forth wildly, ignoring everything James had taught
him, and endangering Maggie and Isabelle almost as much as the enemy.

The
senior officer saw James approaching and the carnage he’d left behind, and
ordered his remaining men into two groups: five for James, and eight for the
others. James recognized the look in these five men’s eyes as they surveyed
what he’d done to their comrades. They had the same love for each other that
James had for the men he’d served alongside. Orders or not, they were going to
kill him.

James
pulled a hard left this time, leading them away from his peers who were now cut
off from his help. He rode as far away as he dared, knowing that going too far
would make them simply turn around and go back.

As
he turned around, he threw again. It wasn’t a perfect shot, but bad enough for
the guard that if he moved too much, he would not survive the battle. The
remaining guards began cursing and taunting James. He held the longest knife in
his hand now, using it as a small dagger for emergency parries and quick
slashes. The guards pressed him back further. James hacked at them viciously,
using every last bit of wit he had to try and outmaneuver them. However, it was
four on one, and even with two weapons he was no match for the guards.

He
sliced at the leader, whose name he guessed from the shouts of other guards was
Wellick. Wellick blocked him so well that James almost lost his sword. Instead
he fell off of Sissy, landing on his back.

“Level
the field of battle!” James’ training officer had shouted at him time and
again.

James
wasted no time following that advice with a knife throw into Wellick’s horse’s
underbelly. Wellick barely avoided being crushed by his horse’s fall. Another
guard rushed James, swiping for the head. James used a maneuver taught to him
by another one of his field officers. He parried the block close to the hilt,
gripped the attacker’s wrist with the left hand, and pulled hard. Now two
guards were on their feet.

Wellick
ordered his other men back to the carriage. James chanced a glance and saw two
guards dragging off Maggie. Henry fought back two more guards, trying to make
it to his sister while more guards chased Brandol up the hill, all the while
waving something in his hand. In all the commotion, James could not see
Isabelle.

Before
he was able to spot her, Wellick and the second guard attacked. James removed
his last knife from the horse’s flank to use again as a dagger. Wellick, who
showed more skill between the two, was on James’ left. James moved his sword to
the left hand, but all he could do was parry, and wait to make a brief attack.

The
guard to his right was eager for a kill. If one of his strikes went wide, James
might have enough time for another throw. Over Wellick’s shoulder, James saw
Henry take a nasty blow to the arm. Henry’s sword fell from his hand, and Henry
exposed his back to pick it up. James knew Henry was a dead man until the guard
who made the strike jerked violently and then fell to the ground.

James
parried several more attacks, but made only two of his own. Finally the guard
on the right overreached for a kill shot. James flicked, too eager for the
finish, and caught the man low. The injured guard thrust at James as he fell,
cutting James’ leg.

Wellick
brought his sword down hard on James’ blade, which was still supported by his
left hand. James could not withstand the blow, and lost his balance falling
down on the weak leg. Again he prepared himself for the good death—the
soldier’s death. Wellick put his foot down on James’ throat, cutting off his
supply for air. James struggled mightily, grabbed the man’s boot as a last
ditch effort to prevent him from crushing his neck.

“Today
is not your day for death, Oslan,” Wellick said. There was no contempt in his
voice, only truth and a hint of respect. “But it will be if you don’t tell me
which one is Henry Vestin.”

Spasms
ripped through James’ chest as he struggled for air. He looked into Wellick’s
eyes, as he considered reaching for his sword only inches from his body. He
could never make it in time. Wellick knew this, too. James released his grip on
Wellick’s boot. His eyes scanned the remains of the battle going on behind
Wellick. Another small company was coming down the hill to the south. James
could not see anyone he knew. Then he saw Brandol. The journeyman ran faster
than James would have guessed. The guards still had not caught him as he
scampered up the hill waving around a paper. Not any paper, James realized, but
the writ of passage. In a flash of inspiration, James realized Ruther had not
betrayed them. Brandol was the thief. He’d hidden the writ of passage and then
stolen the gold, too.

Wellick
shifted his weight slightly which allowed James to see Henry lying on the
ground, his body half under the carriage. What about Isabelle and Maggie? James
still couldn’t find them. His vision blurred. Wellick’s foot was an anvil on
James’ neck, and James could do nothing now but point. Brandol and Henry looked
remarkably alike. Wellick couldn’t tell them apart and was afraid to bring back
the wrong one.

“There,”
James hissed through his teeth.

Wellick
followed his finger to the hill where Brandol was still running like a headless
chicken. The paper in his hand had vanished.

“Him?”
Wellick asked with obvious disbelief. The boot pressed even harder on James’
neck, hard enough that James thought it might be crushed at any moment.

James
jabbed his finger at Brandol frantically. His face boiled despite the cold wind
that battered it.

Wellick
put his hands to his mouth and called out: “HENRY!”

It
was a miracle. Brandol looked in the direction of Wellick, slipped on a rock or
a loose clump of dirt on that hill, and tumbled down to the guards. The foot
immediately came off of James’ neck, and he inhaled the most delicious air he’d
ever breathed. Then he grabbed the sword from the ground in his right hand as
Wellick turned and watched his guards capture Brandol. James thrust his sword
and made certain Wellick never made such a mistake again.

Four
guards captured Brandol and hauled him off, thrashing and screaming like a wild
animal. Henry still lay where he’d fallen. James was not certain if his friend
was alive or dead. Maggie and Isabelle were nowhere to be found. When James
stood, a burning pain shot down his leg. He ignored the stinging, and walked on
it.

Sissy
was eating grass fifty yards away. A whistle brought her back to him. He
mounted her with a leap, the leg now in agony, and rode back to the carriage.
As he approached, he heard a screeching yell far away, either Maggie or
Isabelle. He turned Sissy to the north and directed her up the hill, trying to
block out his worst fear. Even if these guards were under orders to not kill,
there were other things they could do, particularly to the women. He spurred
Sissy harder, willing her up the hill.

Several
yells came from above the crest. One of them he was certain belonged to
Isabelle.

“It’s
her! It’s her!” a man yelled.

More
shouts followed. James couldn’t understand everything being said.

“Get
the other!” cried another voice. “Get the uh—”

“Where’s
that coming from?”

“In
the tree!”

“The
tree!”

James
could not tell what was happening. Halfway up the hill, Sissy’s fatigue began
to show. The hill’s steepness wore at her.

“Come
on, girl, don’t give up on me!” he urged.

Sissy’s
pace continued to slow.

“Come
on, Sissy!” he yelled.

“Fall
back!” someone shouted. James recognized the tone of authority in the man’s
voice. “Fall back, Guard! Sound the horn!”

A
trumpeting blast followed. Whoever blew the horn must have been nearby, because
James’ ears felt as though they’d been assaulted. In his battle-weary state,
the sound startled him enough to make him let go of the reins to cover his
ears. Sissy reared back and bucked him off. It was the second time in his life
he’d ever been bucked, the other being the first time he’d ridden her. Sissy
hated riders who showed fear.

For
the second time that day, James hit the ground on his back. This time he
rolled. End over end he fell back down the hillside. His fingers tried to rip
into the cold earth and sparse grass, but he couldn’t stop himself. James saw
whirls of colors: brown, green, blue, gray. When he finally stopped rolling
near the bottom of the hill, James saw Henry staring back at him. An eerie
emptiness filled Henry’s eyes. Faint screams floated down from the top of the
hill.

“Isabelle!”
James gasped. He tried to get up. He pushed himself halfway up into a seated
position, but his body would not obey his mind any longer.

Maggie!
Isabelle! He had to help. The world began to spin uncontrollably. He pushed
against the world to make it stop, but it insisted on spinning. He fell for the
third and final time onto his back. His head rolled to the side and again he
stared at Henry and those blank eyes looked back at him. He thought he saw
Henry blink, but then he realized that it was he who had blinked, only he
hadn’t reopened his eyes. Another scream echoed in his head, this one very,
very far away.

Was
that his name he’d heard? Was it Isabelle pleading for him to help?

His
body jerked as his indomitable will tried to force himself to get up, but
nothing could make it go. His eyes refused to open. His leg burned, though the
pain was distant now. Thick darkness formed in his mind, smothering out all
possibility of thought and action.