Flight From Blithmore (14 page)

Nineteen
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The First Stop

“Just
when I think
I’ve seen every last fascinating specimen of tree and
bush, I find out I’m wrong. See! Here, coming up on the left, are more trees
and more bushes. They certainly are green and they certainly are fascinating!”

James
stirred in his saddle, partly from annoyance and partly from restlessness. He
disliked long treks. Ruther seemed intent on making it longer. His eyes swept
the forest scene, noting the amount of light filtering through the trees,
searching for any possible ambush points, and detecting any sign of recent
travel through the area. Seeing nothing of concern, he allowed himself a long
sigh.

“I
can’t imagine why you gave up being a storyteller, Ruther, because we all find
you so entertaining,” Maggie said on cue. James noticed that each time Ruther
made an obnoxious comment, Maggie felt compelled to respond.

Ruther
let out a long laugh. “I haven’t heard such intelligent insults since I told
stories to children.”

Henry
snorted softly.

James
shook his head with disdain. “Can we end the childishness, Ruther?”

“Well,
pardon me,” Ruther responded with mock offense. “What about Maggie? Just
because I don’t have breasts . . . . ”

“I
wouldn’t be so certain,” Maggie cut in.

Ruther
made a rude noise. “You’re taking the side of the man who named his horse
Sissy.”

“It’s
pronounced
Seesee
,” James reminded him. “Don’t mock my horse.”

“I
wouldn’t if you’d tell me where the name comes from.”

James
suddenly had to squint in order to see. “Stop for a moment,” he said to those
behind him.

They
had been following an old wagon road through the woods for the last three days.
Judging by the shadows of the trees, James guessed it wasn’t quite noon. The
forest line of fallen sticks, overgrown weeds, and thick scraggly bushes ended
where a long pale green prairie began. Tall grasses and sparse wild flowers
grew along the flat ground. A lighter, fresher scent reached James’ nose, and
he found it pleasant compared to the musky air of the woods. Even Sissy liked the
new setting better, and she lowered her head at once to sample the grass.

“I
expected to be in the forest until nightfall,” he told Henry.

“We
traveled faster than planned.” They both stared out into the open, afraid at
what might find them once they left the shelter of the trees.

“I
thought the trails would be more cluttered. We only stopped three times to
clear our path, and this is better than other types of delays.” James turned
his head and examined Henry’s face. He saw the same concern in Henry that he
felt in his own heart. “What are we going to do about Isabelle?”

Henry
glanced back; James did the same. Ruther and Maggie were still bickering as
they approached.

“Ruther
doesn’t want to stop,” Henry explained. “He thinks it’s more dangerous to go
into town for a physician than let her body heal itself. He also believes the
Emperor wouldn’t hurt her if he wanted her for a concubine. It makes sense.
Maggie won’t say so, but she’s afraid to stop, too.”

James
turned his eyes to the fields in front of them. All he saw was open space and
no cover. Lots of potential danger. “What do you think?”

“She’s
had only water for three days— water we’ve poured down her throat. She hasn’t
moved. She needs to be examined by a physician.”

“I
agree. Has Brandol said anything to you?”

“No.
He doesn’t say much at all.”

“Would
you like my advice?”

“
Yes
.”

James
heard the desperate tone in Henry’s voice. His eyes stared off into the
distance, focusing on nothing in particular. “When I began training for the
King’s Guard, they made the first few weeks hell for us. We were up all hours
of the night running, riding, sword playing . . . . Then, when we thought we
might die of exhaustion, they made us shoot arrows. If we weren’t accurate, we
had to dig holes and fill them. About a third of the men couldn’t handle it,
and they went home or asked to become regular soldiers. It broke them down.

“You
have to be careful not to break down anyone in your party. The others need to
feel as safe as possible. They need a sense of self-determination. If you have
a decision to make that may endanger someone’s life, speak to the group first.
Someone like Brandol—maybe even Maggie—they could run at the first sign of
trouble. We can’t have anyone broken. That person will have nowhere to go.”

Henry
rode back to Maggie and Ruther and announced they’d be stopping for lunch. They
ate at the edge of the forest, still under the cover of trees. James couldn’t
relax during meals. He wanted to be ready to move in a moment’s notice.

The
meal seemed quieter than normal, but it might have just been James’ perception.
Ruther and Maggie had stopped bickering. Brandol said nothing, as usual. James
ate quickly and then took out one of his hunting knives, sharpening it over and
over again to a hair-splitting taper. Normally, he enjoyed practicing his
knife-throwing after meals, it cleared his mind, but today he stayed near the
group to participate in Henry’s discussion. Also, he’d grown tired of Ruther’s
comments about wounding defenseless trees.

“Well
. . . ” Henry began. He cleared his throat before going on. Then he glanced at
James with a look in his eye that seemed to ask for help. James gave Henry an
imperceptible shake of the head. Henry had to do it. “Well, there is
something—”

“Yes,
we’ll go into Fletchersville with you,” Ruther said.

“Ruther
and I already discussed it, Henry,” Maggie explained as she helped Brandol put
food and dishes back into the packs. “We don’t fight all the time.”

“I’m
more than willing to do anything heroic with enough ale in me.”

“What
about you, Brandol?” Henry asked.

Brandol
glanced back at the group as he and Maggie tidied up the camp. Most of his
focus went to James’ knife. “I ain’t got no choice, do I?”

“Yes,
you do,” Henry said, “but I need you to choose now because what I intend to do requires
planning. We need to take Isabelle to a physician and find out if she needs
medicine.”

“To
do that, we need to know where the nearest physician is,” James added.

As
Brandol thought about his decision, James watched his eyes. Brandol reminded
him of the greenest soldiers in the King’s Army right before a skirmish. What
could cause someone to grow up with so much fear?

“I—I
guess,” Brandol said, “but please don’t put me in no danger.”

The
group spent most of the afternoon making plans. James wanted to be prepared for
any possible scenario; Ruther reminded him several times such a thing was
impossible.

“While
we’re having this discussion, we should decide something else right now,”
Ruther said. “How many of these stops are we going to make before we leave the
borders of Blithmore? Won’t it help us to have a general plan?”

James
went to the carriage and got his map, unrolling it for everyone to see. “The
distance from here to the Iron Pass is almost, ” he drew his finger from their
current location to their destination, “a little over one thousand miles. If we
keep our current pace, we’ll reach the Iron Pass with only four more stops in a
town. Eight weeks. That’s our goal, right Henry? The Iron Pass in eight weeks?”

Henry
nodded.

James
traced his finger along the map again, adding up numbers inside his head. “That
is possible, maybe even probable with good weather and no misfortune. Time will
be crucial.” He tapped his finger down three times to make his point. “The more
time passes, the more we eat. The more we eat, the more stops we have to make.”

Maggie’s
eyes flickered to Ruther and his large stomach.

“The
more stops we make, the greater the danger,” Henry added.

“I
doubt the armies of the King think we’ll leave the country,” James said. “Most
likely, they believe we’ll relocate somewhere else and hide out. However, if
they do think we’re going to run for a border, we still have another advantage.
The Iron Pass is very rarely traveled—superstitions and old wives’
tales—they’ll assume we intend to make for the southern coast and hire a ship
to take us over the sea, or try the dangerous passes on the western mountains.”

After
a hearty draught from his flask, Ruther leaned over James’ shoulder for a
better look at the map. “Where are these other four stops?”

“We’re
right here.” James put his finger on the map at the forest edge, pointed out
the Drewberry River not far from their location, and traced it southeast
through Blithmore. “We’ll follow the river more or less, not too close because
they may anticipate this. We’ll have one stop in Fenley. A second one will have
to be somewhere in the small towns in the hills, Washborough or Hasting,
depending on how early the snows come.”

“Fenley’s
a good place.” Ruther put his finger on the map until James brushed it away.
“I’ve been there several times.”

“It
gets tricky planning exactly where the third stop will be, but we will have to
stop twice after Fenley. No matter what, our fourth and last stop before we
head into the Iron Pass will have to be at Bookerton. I see no other choice.”

“Bookerton?”
Ruther repeated. “Are you mad? It’s huge. It’ll have its own legion of
soldiers, plus a full regiment of guardsmen.”

“I
know that better than anyone,” James replied.

Ruther
murmured something dark under his breath.

“It’s
nearly evening,” Henry said. “We should be getting ready.”

* * * * * * *

A
half hour later, Ruther had donned his best costume: the dapper nobleman from
Richterton. Brandol was dressed as his squire. “See, friend,” Ruther told Henry
with ale-aided exuberance, “I told you these costumes would come in handy.”

“I
never said they wouldn’t.” Henry examined the costumes with a scrutinizing eye.
“But I admit, I’m convinced.”

“They
weren’t cheap,” Ruther added with a large smile.

“Henry!”
Maggie’s voice called from inside the carriage. “Henry, come quickly!”

Even
before Ruther and Henry reached Isabelle, Ruther saw something was wrong. The
carriage shook on its axels with a frightening violence. From between Henry,
Maggie, and James, Ruther saw Isabelle’s body convulsing in a never-ending fit.

“Isabelle!”
Henry exclaimed in terror. “What happened?”

“She
gave a gasp for air—and I thought she’d woken,” Maggie explained as she tried
to hold Isabelle steady, “but she began to quake and—”

“Ruther,”
Henry cried. “Go now!”

Ruther
needed no further urging. He jumped on his horse, Ghost, and whistled to
Brandol.

As
they rode off, Ruther heard James call out. “Take care of her, Henry!” He
turned back to see James following them, armed with Ruther’s bow and quiver.

Sundown
approached as Ruther pushed Ghost as fast as he could go, only letting up when
reaching the outskirts of Fletchersville, a town renowned for making the finest
bows and arrows in Blithmore. He’d visited the town twice on previous
employment opportunities. Both occasions were far enough in the past (and had
been so poorly received), he doubted anyone would remember him, especially in a
costume. Brandol clutched him tightly around the chest, and as they drew
further into town, the grip became so forceful that Ruther had to wheeze out a
plea for Brandol to release him.

They
passed farms, homes, and shops. The few people who saw them ride by fixed them
with curious stares. At the first sign of an inn, Ruther directed their course
toward it. The inn was a small place, not the kind where Ruther normally took
jobs. The quaint building stood between a stable large enough to service
several nearby establishments and, on the other side, a bow shop. He dismounted
and gave the reins to Brandol. Brandol returned the act with an insolent stare.

“Mind
yourself, squire,” Ruther warned, “or I’ll whip you.”

The
young man realized the seriousness of their pretense and began securing Ghost.
Ruther entered the inn with the same haughty air he had observed so often among
Richterton’s nobles. Several heads turned in his direction, and the stares
lingered on his clothes. Enjoying the attention, Ruther posed in the doorway
and allowed the guests to examine as much as they wanted. The owner of the inn
came out from the kitchen in a hurry as Brandol entered behind his master.

“Hello,”
the owner said with a large smile that revealed no teeth. “Would you care for a
seat?”

“I
may, perhaps, in a moment,” Ruther replied, slipping into a voice matching his
mannerisms.