to make up on Jack’s abductors, not to mention the frequent stops he had to make to make sure he was still on their trail. They only had to stop when they were tired.
When they came down from Bell Mountain, Martis made a vow to protect Jack and Ellayne with his life for as long as he lived. This vow drove him now—drove him on, in spite of his hunger and his lack of food, despite his wounded head that ached abominably. In Lord Reesh’s service he’d carried out a number of missions in the wild; alone, he’d trekked all the way across the mountains and camped in Heathen lands. But for all of that, his proper hunting-ground was the streets and alleys of Obann: there he was supreme. Here he had the skill to follow eight men through the woods, and not much more. The few berries he snatched in passing, and wolfed down without breaking stride, hardly served to keep him from starvation.
It was worse when the trail led him out onto the open plain. What he wouldn’t give to have his horse, Dulayl! But Dulayl had remained behind in Ninneburky, and Martis’ own legs were gradually giving out.
Killer birds, flightless and as tall as horses, stalked these plains. Once, mounted on Dulayl, he’d only just managed to outrun one. Should one of them cross his path now, it would easily kill him. That was another thing that wouldn’t worry eight armed men. But Martis could only put his fear aside and plod and plod and hunger and thirst for as far as he could go. And his head was killing him.
Step by step, his speed slackened. He was not aware of it. Ahead, at some vague distance, loomed the green hills.
“I’ll not stop; I must keep going!” he panted to himself. But as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, and its touch grew hotter and hotter, and the coarse, tall grass clung to his ankles, his vision blurred and his head swam. And finally he did stop, and he fell forward, and the scent of the grass in his nostrils was the last thing he knew before he slid into a peaceful darkness.
Not many paces distant, a gigantic bird with a great hooked beak cocked its head and waited to see if the man would get up again.
When he didn’t, the bird took a leisurely step toward him.
Sergeant Kadmel’s troop had to travel single file through the woods, which slowed them considerably. But with Wytt to guide them, at least there was no danger of their losing the trail.
Ellayne rode behind young Aswyll, thankful that the horses weren’t trotting. Their slow progress maddened her. Where were those men taking Jack? Who were they? But then Wytt came scampering back with news that greatly cheered her.
“Whiteface follows Boy!” he chattered at her.
“Martis is alive?” she cried.
“He hunts,” Wytt said, “but he is slow. We catch up to him quick.”
She relayed the information to the sergeant, who was not well pleased.
“I hope we catch him before he catches up to the snatchers,” Kadmel said. “What one man thinks he can do against eight, I just don’t know.”
They’ll find out what he can do, thought Ellayne—and they won’t like it.
In another hour they’d passed out of the woods and onto the plain. They were closing in on Martis, Wytt reported, but the bandits, or whatever they were, were still a good ways ahead. And then Wytt darted off alone, disappearing in the grass.
“Tell him not to do that, girl!” Kadmel snapped.
“Just follow him!” Ellayne said.
“In another two hours we’ll have to stop and make camp.”
“Please, Sergeant!”
Kadmel fumed, but ordered his company to trot.
They told Jack they were going to Silvertown, but that was all he could get out of them. They expected a generous reward for capturing the king, and most of their talk centered on their various plans for spending it.
“I’ll bet I run out of women before I run out of money!” bragged one.
“Keep your
When they came down from Bell Mountain, Martis made a vow to protect Jack and Ellayne with his life for as long as he lived. This vow drove him now—drove him on, in spite of his hunger and his lack of food, despite his wounded head that ached abominably. In Lord Reesh’s service he’d carried out a number of missions in the wild; alone, he’d trekked all the way across the mountains and camped in Heathen lands. But for all of that, his proper hunting-ground was the streets and alleys of Obann: there he was supreme. Here he had the skill to follow eight men through the woods, and not much more. The few berries he snatched in passing, and wolfed down without breaking stride, hardly served to keep him from starvation.
It was worse when the trail led him out onto the open plain. What he wouldn’t give to have his horse, Dulayl! But Dulayl had remained behind in Ninneburky, and Martis’ own legs were gradually giving out.
Killer birds, flightless and as tall as horses, stalked these plains. Once, mounted on Dulayl, he’d only just managed to outrun one. Should one of them cross his path now, it would easily kill him. That was another thing that wouldn’t worry eight armed men. But Martis could only put his fear aside and plod and plod and hunger and thirst for as far as he could go. And his head was killing him.
Step by step, his speed slackened. He was not aware of it. Ahead, at some vague distance, loomed the green hills.
“I’ll not stop; I must keep going!” he panted to himself. But as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, and its touch grew hotter and hotter, and the coarse, tall grass clung to his ankles, his vision blurred and his head swam. And finally he did stop, and he fell forward, and the scent of the grass in his nostrils was the last thing he knew before he slid into a peaceful darkness.
Not many paces distant, a gigantic bird with a great hooked beak cocked its head and waited to see if the man would get up again.
When he didn’t, the bird took a leisurely step toward him.
Sergeant Kadmel’s troop had to travel single file through the woods, which slowed them considerably. But with Wytt to guide them, at least there was no danger of their losing the trail.
Ellayne rode behind young Aswyll, thankful that the horses weren’t trotting. Their slow progress maddened her. Where were those men taking Jack? Who were they? But then Wytt came scampering back with news that greatly cheered her.
“Whiteface follows Boy!” he chattered at her.
“Martis is alive?” she cried.
“He hunts,” Wytt said, “but he is slow. We catch up to him quick.”
She relayed the information to the sergeant, who was not well pleased.
“I hope we catch him before he catches up to the snatchers,” Kadmel said. “What one man thinks he can do against eight, I just don’t know.”
They’ll find out what he can do, thought Ellayne—and they won’t like it.
In another hour they’d passed out of the woods and onto the plain. They were closing in on Martis, Wytt reported, but the bandits, or whatever they were, were still a good ways ahead. And then Wytt darted off alone, disappearing in the grass.
“Tell him not to do that, girl!” Kadmel snapped.
“Just follow him!” Ellayne said.
“In another two hours we’ll have to stop and make camp.”
“Please, Sergeant!”
Kadmel fumed, but ordered his company to trot.
They told Jack they were going to Silvertown, but that was all he could get out of them. They expected a generous reward for capturing the king, and most of their talk centered on their various plans for spending it.
“I’ll bet I run out of women before I run out of money!” bragged one.
“Keep your
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