By Ways Unseen Read online

  “What is this place?” Haydren asked again. The stairs finally ended, leaving them on a long stone walk beside a slow-moving stream.

  “Escape route,” Sir Cullins replied. “If we are ever hopelessly besieged, the royal family can escape through here. It lets out in a rock pasture outside the castle walls, well beyond where any encamping army would have outposts. As guardian of royal students, I have access to it as well.”

  Sir Cullins, with the torch, led the way; Haydren followed thoughtfully behind, gently rubbing the pommel of his sword. Sir Cullins quietly taught him about the forming of the tunnel – that the stream had begun it, but the walk was hewn by laborers, and the ceiling had been raised as well.

  Finally, as they rounded a bend, torchlight shone in the distance. “Sir Cullins?” Haydren said apprehensively.

  “There are stables built inside the tunnel, at the end,” Sir Cullins replied. He turned and glanced at Haydren. “You will finally be treated as a royal, Haydren: you will have the Earl’s horse on which to fly. But we will have to work quickly: the stableman I drugged may wake up at any time.”

  As they neared, Haydren could hear the horses stamping impatiently. Sir Cullins slowed, then stopped and turned to Haydren.

  “Something’s wrong,” he whispered. “Draw your sword. I left the man outside, asleep in his chair, but he is not there.”

  Haydren swiftly drew his sword, which flashed in the blazing light of the torch. Sir Cullins’ eyes widened as he beheld it.

  “Where had you been keeping that?” he whispered.

  “I had it with me when I arrived at the castle,” Haydren explained. “Mickel hid it at first, but gave it to me tonight.”

  “Haydren,” Sir Cullins said with a sigh. “I will do what I can to protect your parents, but it would have been better for them not to know you were leaving,”

  “I told Mickel to try to leave Hewolucs; he refused,” Haydren replied. “But I thank you for whatever you might be able to do for them.”

  Sir Cullins nodded and drew his sword silently, placed the torch upon the path and crept forward. As they neared the nickering horses, still nothing moved and no more noises were made. The stalls, except for the horses, were empty.

  “Saddle your horse quickly, the black one. I will keep watch,” Sir Cullins said, moving a little deeper down the tunnel. “Lead your horse out when you are ready, and I will open the door for you.”

  Haydren obeyed, and when he approached, Sir Cullins moved directly to a large boulder that sealed the end of the tunnel and set his shoulder against it. With a slight grunt of effort, he rolled the boulder once, and Haydren could feel a fresh breeze wafting in. Turning right out of the exit, Sir Cullins led Haydren into the night.

  Instantly, the alarm rose: “There they are! Move now!”

  “Stay where you are!”

  “In the name of the Earl!”

  “Haydren, ride!” Sir Cullins shouted as the night erupted around them. Men approached from all directions, swords gleaming in the moonlight.

  Haydren’s horse reared, its shriek piercing the gloom. Great rock monoliths which were to screen the royal family’s escape now crowded Haydren, and he quickly pushed further away from the tunnel as the soldiers closed in. Sword rang on sword behind him as Sir Cullins protected his escape.

  Before Haydren could swing into the saddle, a soldier appeared from behind a large boulder. Dropping the reins, Haydren’s sword flashed in a brilliant arc, seeming to come alive in his hand. The soldier faltered, and the blade struck home. Another soldier appeared; dragon and metal whirled, and a clear ringing rolled across the plains. The dragon was victorious once more, and Haydren finally turned and mounted his horse.

  “Run!” echoed behind him, and Haydren unmistakably recognized the sword-master’s voice, followed by a cry. Gritting his teeth and holding back tears, Haydren spurred the horse and sprang into the night. The horse’s hooves echoed sharply among the stones; Haydren knew Sir Cullins would have to hear him escaping.

  “I am fleeing! Save yourself!” he shouted. The wind ripped the words into the night, denying him comfort that they had found their target. “Flee yourself!” he shouted again.

  Behind him was silence, and before him was darkness; and into this darkness he fled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DIRECTIONS

  “This is, of course, in the plan?”

  “Should he stay in Hewolucs forever?”

  “But, alone…”

  “He is not alone. We are with him.”

  34 Nuamon 1319 – Spring

  The silence behind him did not last long: horns sounded, and the echo of many hooves came faintly to his ears. He pressed his horse onward, crouched low behind its snapping mane. His one hope was that he was riding a horse bred and chosen to be the fastest in the land.

  As he glanced behind him, he saw torches flare and begin to spread from the castle. He tried to track their progress, to see if they followed him; but between the clouds which now fought to obscure the moon, and the undulations of unseen rises and depressions, he could not discern their directions.

  Faintly against the stars, to his right, he saw a tall rise. He slowed, guiding the horse to the rise and reining to a stop. As it danced beneath him, eager to continue running, he turned and opened his eyes wide to the south and east. He could see one long line of torches moving steadily northward – not toward him, but apparently traveling up Shoreline Road. The other detachment was moving swiftly west, along West Road toward Kontar.

  But no one appeared in direct pursuit. Was it possible they were making so much noise they could not hear his own thundering horse? Or did they track him without light, and he simply could not see them moving below him?

  The greater problem was where to go from here. He considered the chances of traveling west, around Kontar where one detachment undoubtedly headed. The longer route north of Kontar would give them time to block off his escape, but they right now blocked the shorter route south. He was caught between two precipices; too near either side and he would fall into oblivion.

  As he watched, mulling over his next move and wishing Sir Cullins could have been there to help, the torches to the south suddenly winked out. He glanced to the east, and saw that detachment spread in a long line and moving toward him steadily. Horns echoed through the night.

  It was not terribly subtle; clearly they hoped he had not watched the progress of the southern detachment and were trying to drive him toward them. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

  He dismounted and untied his saddle bags, throwing them over his shoulder. A bridge across the crevasse had appeared, but would not stay for long. He turned his horse to the south, gently nuzzling it.

  “I need your help, friend,” he whispered. The horse swiveled its ears toward him, as if listening. “You have borne me well this far; now I need you to lead them south. Go!” He slapped the horse on its haunches, and it bolted forward, galloping directly toward the southern detachment.

  The horns were sounded louder, and the thunder of their horses rolled over the grasses. Without waiting to see the progress of his horse, Haydren turned northward and ran.

  Sir Cullins often made the students run circles in a large grassy field – usually for punishment of some sort, though often they ran simply because he said so. It was not until he ran now that Haydren was truly thankful for the discipline.

  But though he ran with all the speed he could muster, his pursuers appeared to be faster. He lowered his head and pumped his legs, but when he glanced up he knew it was still in vain. Cursing, he threw his saddle bags behind a large clump of tall grass, took several steps further, and lay down behind another large clump.

  The horses charged steadily nearer, and Haydren could begin to hear the shouts of the men. Horns rang in his ears, echoing and pounding till he thought his skull would burst into powder. He ducked, cradling his head in his arms as they neared, hoping first he would not be seen by the riders; then hoping he wou
ld be seen by the horses, and not trampled. Soon he could feel the ground shaking beneath him, and he held his breath.

  The pitch of the roar changed, and the cries and horns turned. He uncurled, glancing up, and saw the nearest horse beginning a sweeping turn to the south, just within a few feet of his head. The soldiers, now well-lit by torchlight, were focused southward as they turned their trap, unaware it had missed. He could not believe his luck.

  As soon as the last horse showed Haydren his rump, Haydren leapt to his feet, snatched up his saddle bags and quickly tied together the bags and his scabbarded sword and lashed them against his back. He turned north and continued running, keeping a swift but easy pace.

  As he ran, he contemplated what he might do next. They would soon discover that his horse no longer bore him, and surely they would continue their movements north and west. Now, though, he had no horse and no chance of outdistancing them, or of reaching the border without resupply.

  Though he had maps in his pack, he knew the eastern countryside well enough to plot in his head. Right now, he was in a broad, largely uninhabited expanse of prairie, where tracking would be difficult. To the north, away from roads and towns, the Ghlande River ran, and eventually met up with the Bawelen River. That river flowed all the way through the Endolin Mountains till it emptied in the Turidian Sea. But before then, it crossed into the mountains within sight of the border with Coberan Province – in the depths of which he would find Frecksshire.

  Glancing up at the stars, Haydren corrected his course a little westward. If he was lucky – and, all things considered, he had been so far – he might be able to make something of a boat and float it down the waterways until he neared the border. He would come perhaps dangerously near both Kontar and Raka; but if he traveled at night, he just might make it.

  He slowed his pace a little, pulling a skin from his pack and taking a careful sip. Food would not be an issue, he knew: there was much on the Plains to eat, both plant and animal. But water would be scarce until the Ghlande.

  He continued running that night, long after shouts and horns and thundering hooves to the south indicated his horse had been discovered. The torches flared up again on the road, and both detachments galloped westward. He saw one torch moving back toward Hewolucs; what he did not see, just before he paused to rest, was another detachment of horses leaving Hewolucs, galloping north up Shoreline Road.

  *

  The messenger cast a wary glance at the advisor, garbed strangely in a traveling cloak, then back at the Earl’s expectant face. “He had dismounted, your Grace; when we caught the horse, it was riderless.”

  “Any supplies still on it?” Though he trembled slightly, he kept his voice neutral; he could not give away his determination, not yet.

  “No, your Grace. No saddlebags were left on it.”

  “Perhaps he left with none,” said the advisor.

  Guntsen cast a smirk at him. “Not with the help he had,” he said. He gestured the messenger away, who quickly bowed and left. Guntsen turned and took a seat on his father’s former throne, settling into it casually.

  “It looks good on you.”

  “Does it?” Guntsen asked with a self-assured smile. “You don’t believe this is my first time sitting in it, do you?”

  “In your mind, or when your father’s back was turned?”

  “You don’t think I did it while he was looking at me?” Guntsen asked, pricking a little as he lifted a goblet from a servant’s tray.

  “No, your Grace, I don’t believe you did. Why else would Haydren still be alive?”

  The goblet rang against the far wall. “And what would you have me do now? Can I pursue him myself?”

  “Of course not; as one who so cleverly escaped your men, a far wider net must be cast to capture little Haydren.”

  “What do you propose, then?”

  “Would you leave this task to me?”

  “You may not take my province yet, Lasserain,” Guntsen said.

  “Nor do I want it, yet,” the mage replied.

  Guntsen looked at him closely. “Use only what resources you have already in place,” he said. “I want this done and over with, and no more destruction than is necessary.”

  “As you wish, your Grace,” Lasserain said with a bow. “It is encouraging to see you care so much for your people.”

  Guntsen’s eyes smoldered, but he held his tongue until the mage had exited the throne room. He glanced around the empty room, a flickering smile trying to enjoy what he had waited so long to attain.

  “I have my throne,” he whispered, and glanced ruefully at the goblet that sat against the wall, its contents in a puddle around it and seeping slowly into the cracks of stone.

  *

  Haydren continued walking and running by intervals through the night until the horizon began to glow with the faint orange streaks of approaching dawn. He found a thickly-grassed knoll from which he could see much of the surrounding countryside, and made a quick bed.

  But sleep did not come quickly. His legs and body were weary, but as he lay listening to the plains beginning to wake, it struck him just what situation he was in. Two days ago, he had been looking forward to graduation and induction as a swordsman, whatever that future might bring. He had been trained for it, and he would have had leaders over him - like Captain Beron - to instruct him.

  But now, as the sun rose, the prairie stretched everlastingly around him; the horizon lay unbroken, a featureless line separating sure footing from blue nothingness. He could not know what lay out there; a goblin may even be crouched a hundred paces away. His knees drew reflexively upward, his innards turning back for the nearest city, the nearest human being, the nearest mind to help him know what to do. Could he make it all the way to the Ghlande River? Would there be trees, could he build a raft? Were there rapids that might overturn him and drown him? Was there a better route? How far from the road would the soldiers ride? How far from the road would bandits rest?

  His knoll shrank, inverted, threatened to close around him and swallow him. His knuckles whitened on his sword as he tried to slow his breathing. He had been trained, for years; he could handle himself with a goblin, and probably with several bandits. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply; he was alone, yes: so much the better to avoid notice. He was responsible only for himself; if he grew hungry or thirsty, only he would suffer. If he reached the river and did not find what he needed, he could press on toward Quaran; he had a straight line to reach that city, while the soldiers would have to approach at right angles along the road. If he focused on one day at a time, rationing his supplies as best he could, he would survive better than an untrained commoner.

  He breathed deeply again, and sleep came.

  For two more days and nights he traveled. On the third day the skies opened, and he was able to fill his water skins from various puddles that sprang up as he slept huddled under his cloak. It was not the freshest water, but it would allow him to keep moving.

  The next day the weather cleared and he rested under high blue skies and a cool westerly breeze; by the time the sun was bidding the land farewell he was moving again, anxious to put as much distance behind him as he could. In the last light of dusk he spied the Ghlande far to the north where it began its final, gentle descent toward the Bawelen River.

  Suddenly, ahead of him, a fire flared up. Even at this distance, he could see four men huddled around it, beginning to prepare a meal. He crouched, watching the proceedings, wondering if he should simply try to avoid them altogether. Crowding out the warning of danger were four days of cold meals, and a day of cold, lashing rain huddled under a pitiful excuse for a tent. There was no doubt in his mind these four men were not simple travelers – those kinds of people stuck to the roads. But though they were most assuredly bandits, they might not assume he was wealthy. If they did, he had been a swordsman in the Earls ranks – at least he was supposed to have been – and surely he could handle four overconfident men.

  The smell of t
he roasting meat reached his nostrils then, and his mind was made up. He stood and moved toward the fire. Just before stepping into the circle of light, he glanced quickly at the four of them once more. On each of their waists hung the unmistakable form of a scimitar, the preferred weapon of the bandits roaming the country. But before he could change his mind and slip back into the night, one of them looked up from the fire and spotted him.

  They did not jump to their feet in alarm, as he expected them to. Instead, the one who spotted him smiled, nudged the man beside him, and motioned Haydren forward.

  “Come have a seat,” the man called. “There’s plenty for a lonely traveler.”

  “I thank you,” Haydren replied, stepping fully into the firelight, his hand resting on his sword – he was, he thought, just hungry and cold, not stupid. “It’s been many days since I’ve eaten a warm meal,” he said, still keeping a respectful distance from the four until he determined what intentions they might have for him.

  “You probably were caught in that storm as well,” the man said. “Come, warm yourself beside the fire.”

  “You heard him,” a deadly voice whispered behind Haydren. “Move.”

  Haydren’s veins froze, but his muscles did not. He freed his sword in an instant, turned, and struck the bandit behind him. He whipped around to face the four by the fire, who stared at him in surprise. Haydren couldn’t help but smile as he held his sword in practiced grip before him.

  Their shock soon passed, and the four began to rise and pull the scimitars from their sheaths. Haydren’s smile faded, and he moved swiftly before the men in front of him could fully prepare themselves. In the back of his mind, he remembered Kitrel; Sir Cullins had said it was only beasts that had attacked the patrol, but he also said many people believed both beasts and bandits were linked. Even if Kitrel’s death was not by these men, the slaughter against the caravan in which Haydren had come to Burieng most likely was. With these thoughts driving him, Haydren moved among the bandits, his blade dancing and ringing against their pitiful scimitars.