Flight From Blithmore (37 page)

Ruther
stood up, but had to steady himself. “Woah . . . ” he said nervously as he
swayed and watched the world spin around. Descending the stairs almost did him
in, but a last second clutch against the wall saved him from breaking his neck.

The
owner looked up the stairs, startled at the noise. “Are you all right, Mister?”

“Yessssss,”
Ruther slurred and tried not to vomit on the owner of this fine establishment.
“I need you to give a message to Quincy.”

“Quincy
the jeweler?”

Ruther
nodded because he knew it would be quicker than to try and say yes again.

“Tell
him Ruther realized he was right. He was right.”

“That’s
all? What kinda name’s Ruther?”

Ruther
simply nodded. If he did not get on his horse soon he was going to pass out. He
lurched forward and grabbed the double crown out of the owner’s pocket and
returned him the change, scattering it across the table. The owner stared with
more surprise than anger.

“And
this isn’t mine to give you . . .
ssssssooo
. . . I’m leaving.”

Forty-Three
-

Ruther’s Rage

By
the time Ruther
set out it was evening and growing colder
every minute. He managed to ride into the night before exhaustion set in and he
almost fell off Ghost. When he woke and saw the sun’s position in the sky, he
knew he’d slept too long. At least twelve hours had passed, probably more.
Cursing himself, he got up and moved on without delay. He chose to ride high in
the hills to the north of the party’s trail to give himself a better chance of
finding them before they spotted him. The drawback to this was he caught the
full force of the wind relentlessly trying to push him south.

At
one point during the day, Ruther thought he had caught up to them, but it
turned out to be a pack of deer on the trail. The deer twitched as he rode by,
ready to spring off if needed. Ruther left them alone and pushed onward. The
forest loomed many miles ahead like a huge city wall stretching out in both
directions. After all the mocking he’d done of Wilson’s tales of the Iron
Forest, the thought of going in alone made his hairs stand.

To
make up for the lost time, he rode late into the night. He knew James and Henry
would be pushing their group late as well, so he kept going until he couldn’t
stay awake. When he awoke, he only lingered to gather edible mushrooms growing
in the shade of two bent trees.

He
rode hard the third day, stopping only to let Ghost rest and eat while he
searched for more food growing wildly around him. He envied every bite of grass
the horse chewed, but let his hunger drive him to reach the others that much
sooner. Even if they did turn him away again, naked and cold (because he was
determined to stand on the carriage naked if he must), at least they might give
him some food.

He
listened for sounds of horses or travelers, but heard nothing. A ways ahead of
him stood a large, knobby tree towering above the hills. He thought about
climbing it to give himself a better view of what lay ahead. He had not climbed
a tree in many years. What if he fell? Ruther decided against it.

Then
he heard a horn in the distance, possibly near to where the tree stood. Shouts
followed. Ruther squinted and then he saw them: Neverak soldiers, just past the
lone tree, coming out of a small dip in the hills and riding down into the
valley where the main road fed into the Iron Pass.

Ruther’s
first instinct was to flee. The urge was so strong that he pulled the reins of
his horse before catching himself.

“What
kind of friend are you?” he muttered in a strange, but strong voice—a voice not
at all similar to his uncle’s.

He
rode swiftly until he was a hundred yards from the tree and secured Ghost to a
stake from his pack. As he ran for the tree, he refused to think about what he
was doing, even as the horns of Neverak began to blow again. Images of his dead
body pierced with numerous wounds would not help keep his hands steady. He
heard more shouting over the hill, but the hillcrest blocked his view of the
scene.

The
tree was a large one, gray and twisted from too many cold winds blowing as they
were now. Yet the tree was a survivor, a trait Ruther hoped to share. The knobs
grew out every few feet covered in tough, weather-worn bark, making the tree
easy for him to climb. The branches were thick and numerous. As Ruther climbed
higher, the scene in the valley below unfolded itself to him, nearly making him
lose his balance.

The
first thing he saw was James riding straight at a body of Guards as though he
had a lance to knock them over, yet he carried nothing but a sword.

“The
fool is going to kill himself!” Ruther said.

Near
the carriage, Isabelle, Henry, and Maggie were fighting another small swarm of
Guards while Brandol hid under the carriage. Ruther continued to climb until he
found a good spot for standing. A sturdy branch grew out of the trunk and split
into a V. He stood on the branch below and rested his back in the V’s junction.

The
battle had already changed dramatically. James fought several Guards and
Brandol had appeared from nowhere, waving what looked like a flag and running
up into the hills like a scared dog as more Guards chased after him.

Ruther
pulled out his bow and his first arrow. He knew he would miss his first shots
until he got an idea of what the wind was like in the valley. The first arrow
he directed at one of the Guards chasing down Brandol, as they were the farthest
away from everyone else. He did not want an errant shot hitting one of his
friends. He released the string which made a loud
twing
sound. The arrow
flew wide, heading for Brandol. Ruther held his breath as it missed.

His
second shot was better, but not perfect. He aimed closer, this time at a guard
attacking Isabelle. It hit not square in the back, but slightly left. Isabelle
looked as shocked as the guard.

Farther
away, James had somehow survived his suicidal assault and now fought with two
men on the ground. His three friends around the carriage, however, were badly
outnumbered. Ruther had no idea how they’d managed to survive against so many
Elite Guards.

Twing
!

Ruther’s
third shot missed again. He had tried to adjust for the wind, but ended up missing
wide left. He cursed at himself loudly, but his swear was drowned in a man’s
scream. Ruther looked backed to the carriage and watched in horror as a guard
removed his blade from Henry’s limp shoulder and then raised his sword again to
kill. Ruther shot at once and dropped the guard like a stone in a lake.
Isabelle was completely overwhelmed. Ruther knew exactly why she hadn’t been
killed yet. These men were under orders to return the Emperor’s precious cargo
to him unharmed. He would have to worry about her later. Maggie had two guards
chasing after her.

Ruther
aimed with careful regard for the wind and injured one of them. The other got
scared badly enough and thought twice about pursuing Maggie, who retreated up
the hill. She seemed to have lost all her wits and ran blindly away—away from
Ruther, away from everything. A cry pulled his attention back to Isabelle. She
had been caught, and the guards were dragging her up the hill toward the tree.

Now
Brandol was screaming, still waving that flag. Henry had fallen to the ground
and was not moving. Ruther swore at himself as he tried to take out one of the
men chasing Brandol, but again barely missed his friend. The arrow tore
Brandol’s flag clean out of his grasp.

Ruther
heard noises to the north. Another small company of guards was on its way. He
cursed again and counted the men in the new company. Nine more. Ruther knew he
had about thirty good arrows, and five more that he doubted would fly straight,
if at all.

He
took aim at one of the men carrying Isabelle. It was a dangerous shot. He could
easily kill or seriously wound Isabelle. He aimed low.

Twing!

A
zip through the air, followed by a primal cry, informed Ruther where the arrow
had hit. When he looked, he grimaced. “You probably didn’t deserve children
anyway, friend,” he said.

The
other guards were worried now. One of them bellowed, “Move faster! Faster!”
They carried Isabelle in a sort of trot. Ruther had to adjust his footing now
for a better view, but the Guards were close enough that he didn’t have to
worry much about wind.

Twing!

A
second guard tripped, clutching his arm and shouting warnings. The other guards
dropped Isabelle. Ruther was impressed with how quickly she collected her wits
and ran toward the protection coming from the tree. The other three guards gave
chase. One of them took an arrow to the chest. The other two ran for shelter
among the new company now arriving.

Isabelle
ran under Ruther’s tree and continued west along the top of the hill. Ruther
yelled at her to stop, but the wind dulled the sound of his voice. The guards
from the north saw her, and three more rode up the hill from the south carrying
something or someone, Ruther could not tell who or what. He watched Isabelle
sprint away, but she had no chance of outrunning a horse. Ruther aimed for the
guard in front of the northern company, but missed. The guard heard the
whistle, however, and looked in Ruther’s direction. Uncertain if he had been
seen, he took aim again and knocked the guard off his horse with an arrow to
the side.

Two
other guards rode in from behind and one of them scooped up Isabelle.

“Help!”
she screamed. “James! Henry! Help!”

Ruther
aimed again but hit the horse of the guard who was not carrying Isabelle. The
horse stumbled but kept moving. The rider looked around for the source of the
arrow. Ruther shot again, hitting the horse a second time. This time the horse
fell with the rider trapped beneath. Isabelle’s captor, on the other hand, was
almost out of range.

“It’s
her! It’s her!” the guard yelled to others in the company. “I’ve got her!”

Ruther
guessed he had one good shot left before Isabelle’s captor got away. He aimed
carefully and said a silent prayer to guide his hand. He let the bowstring go
and watched the arrow fly. It sailed an inch over the shoulder of the rider.
Ruther hurried to get another shot off, but it fell short.

“No!”
he shouted at himself. “Isabelle!”

Isabelle
continued to scream for help for as long as he could hear her. Unable to help
her, Ruther looked around for the others. Maggie had run far to the east, but
several soldiers saw her and went after her. Ruther caught the right leg of the
first of these.

“Get
the other!” shouted another guard, pointing at Maggie. “Get the—”

Ruther
silenced him, too. It was much easier to hit targets on the hillcrest, but
three other Guards still chased after Maggie.

“Where’s
that coming from?” a nearby guard asked.

“In
the tree!” came a response.

“Who
is he?”

Someone
shouted on the other side of the hill. It sounded like James, but Ruther
couldn’t see a face.

“It
doesn’t matter! We’ve got Vestin and Oslan. Fall back! Fall back, Guard! Sound
the horn!” A horn blasted right under the tree, scaring Ruther so badly his
foot slipped off the branch. He barely caught himself.

“Fall
back!”

More
than a dozen guards retreated, some on horseback, some on foot, and others
being helped or carried away. Not in defeat, but victory. Ruther watched them
go until he heard another cry, Maggie’s.

The
three guards still rode after her. Ruther knew what they intended to do when
they caught her. Something inside him shattered, perhaps his sanity, because he
could not explain nor remember climbing down the tree so quickly.

He
did not get Ghost. Instead, he sprinted after the three guards. He could have
run forever and ever if he needed. As he ran he pulled three arrows from his
quiver and clenched two of them between his teeth. He wanted to yell with all
the ferocity of a lion, but silence was better. So he let his primal rage
reverberate around in his head until it strengthened his heart and stomach.

He
saw the first of the soldiers over the next hill. They had all abandoned their
horses. They shouted and cheered each other on, drowning out Maggie’s pleas for
mercy. Ruther chose the one nearest to her, the one standing over her.

“Hold
her down!”

He
released the string of the bow.

“Be
still, you—”

The
arrow caught him in the shoulder, twisting him around. Ruther aimed next at the
guard to the right, but missed. His hands were shaking, not in fear, but from a
black murderous wrath he’d never known. The guard to the left charged at him.
He was too close for Ruther to get another arrow ready. Ruther dropped the bow
and drew his sword.

In
swordplay, Ruther’s skill did not compare to James’. He had been taught by his
uncle to throw knives, but didn’t carry them in a belt as James did. Good
throwing knives were expensive and hard to come by. As a youth, the bow and
arrow had been his obsession. Swords had been almost an afterthought until he
began traveling through the countryside for performances. He knew about the
possibility of running into thieves, so he’d paid a sword master to give him
several lessons. Though he had learned quickly and well, he was not a trained
soldier, nor an Elite Guard.

But
in Ruther’s state of mind, none of that mattered.

He
gripped the sword in both hands, slashing so violently that the guard nearly
lost his grasp on his own blade. Ruther threw his shoulder into the guard,
knocked him to the ground, and finished it by piercing the guard’s heart. The
second guard attacked viciously, but Ruther’s insanity had not ended, nor had
his bloodlust been satiated. He parried the attacks one after another. His mind
had a clarity he had not experienced in some time. It almost seemed effortless
to beat this man. They crossed swords at the chest, Ruther’s foot kicked out
fast and hard. The guard did not block in time. As he doubled over, Ruther slew
him.