Chapter 31 #2
A volley of arrows hissed upward. I ducked behind a stone merlon just in time, heart punching against my ribs.
Chips of limestone exploded beside my cheek, and bits struck me across the face as they flew past. I drew a steadying breath but coughed as the smoke from the burning tree wafted up and choked my lungs.
I pulled my cloak’s cowl over to cover my mouth and drew a few breaths before I inhaled deeply, dropped the cloth, and nocked a regular arrow.
I leaned out, fired and ducked back, then repeated the action a few seconds later. I couldn’t move in a pattern; they would anticipate my movements and retaliate. I was only able to get in a few more shots, and couldn’t even pause long enough after firing to see if my arrows had found their marks.
The next time I ducked out to let fly another arrow, a sharp sting sliced across my cheek and ear as a returning arrow was fired back.
I dropped back down immediately and touched the spot.
Blood trickled from my cheek and the arrow had cut clean through part of my ear.
If I’d been an inch or two in the wrong direction, the arrow would’ve found my eye or neck.
The thought sent a shudder running through my body.
Had I given Baron and the others enough time?
How long did I have before a returning arrow plunged into my heart?
I scanned the darkness, desperate for any flicker of movement, any hint of their escape.
But the southern forest swallowed everything in smothering black.
Good. It meant they were far beyond eyesight.
Or it meant they hadn’t made it. I refused to consider the second possibility.
Running footsteps came from the stairs beneath the trapdoor.
Fists slammed against the locked trapdoor beneath my feet, hard enough to rattle the stone.
Splinters were already beginning to pop.
I figured I had a minute at best…but probably less.
I had no more time to give. Everything I’d already done had to be enough.
I tied the rope around the merlon, hands shaking from urgency mingled with fear, and tossed it over the battlements, still crouched low for cover.
As I swung over the wall, an arrow pierced my left shoulder.
I cried out and gave an involuntary jerk that made me accidentally kick the torch from its bracket.
It tumbled down and landed directly in the coil of rope tied to the merlon.
Another arrow zipped past my face. I didn’t have time to stop the rope burning. I turned and slid down the rope, wondering how long I had before the fire consumed the rope and sent me plummeting down.
I went as fast as I could, keeping the rope locked between my boots to slow my descent, and clenched my teeth against the agony of the arrow piercing my shoulder.
My left arm screamed in pain any time I tried to move it, and the palm on my right hand developed a rope burn as I fought to keep myself balanced.
A few feet from the ground, the fire must have finished consuming the rope because it snapped, sending me tumbling to a short, grassy span of land between the castle’s outer wall and the moat.
My legs buckled under me and I fell onto my backside, twisting so the arrow protruding from my shoulder didn’t get snapped in half.
Above me, there was a colossal crash and heads started appearing above the merlon’s upper edge.
“There he is! Shoot him!”
I leapt into the moat before they could loose the arrows and swam toward the opposite shore, kicking furiously to compensate for my limp left arm.
The water was frigid and foul enough to make my eyes burn.
Something slimy brushed my ankle, and I kicked hard, refusing to imagine what was floating in that sludge.
I reached the opposite bank and clawed my way out, soaked, freezing, and reeking worse than any tavern cesspit.
Another arrow flew past me and I tore for the cover of the northern woods, hoping that the guards would chase me instead of Baron and the others, who had hopefully made it to the southern side.
I threw one look over my shoulder before plunging into the woods and smiled.
The drawbridge was fully on fire and the castle was alive with the panicked bustle of people rushing to put out the fires that were spreading all over it.
There was no way horses would cross that; they’d be trapped inside.
That only left the servant footbridge that people could cross, and most would be needed to help extinguish the fires.
I crashed through the underbrush. Guards would come and I planned to give them a trail to follow. Every muddy footprint I left behind was another step of safety for Father and the men. Yet each step also made the arrow shaft stuck in my shoulder wobble, and a pained moan escaped my lips as I ran.
I tramped through the woods, running even though each breath tore at my lungs. Had I gone far enough?
Behind me, a faint howl came and my blood ran cold. Baying followed.
Dogs.
My stomach dropped. They’d track my scent in seconds. Even the moat stench clinging to me might not be enough to throw them.
I sprinted harder, weaving through trees, until the howl of the pack closed in.
I scrambled up the nearest trunk, bracing myself on a thick branch about six feet up.
I’d dropped my bow and empty quiver at the top of the tower before I slid down the rope.
Would my small throwing knives be enough against hunting dogs?
Four hounds burst into the clearing, teeth gleaming in torchlight. They clawed at the trunk, snarling and jumping up. I swallowed hard, fingering my grip on the handle of my first knife.
“Sorry, boys,” I whispered, and let the knives fly.
They fell one by one, but my last knife went awry and only managed to injure the final dog.
He howled worse than ever, knife lodged into his leg.
Could I outrun it? How long until the dogs’ handler came behind?
With the arrow in my shoulder, I would be useless in hand to hand combat, and I couldn’t collect any of my knives until the last one was killed.
The dog continued to snap at me for several more minutes as my anxiety grew to a critical level. I had to keep moving. Could I perhaps drop and retrieve one of my knives before the dog was upon me?
It was my best option. The moment the dog stopped to lick at his wound, I jumped from the tree, ripped a knife from a dog I’d already killed, and turned the blade on the final bloodhound.
With a snarl, he leapt on me. His teeth sank into my side just as I plunged the knife into his chest. My own scream mingled with its dying howl.
For a minute, I fought to control my breathing. Everything hurt, but I had no time to rest. With an agonized groan, I pushed myself to my feet, retrieved my knives, and pushed on, going slower so I could cover my tracks.
Several times throughout the night, I had to duck into the underbrush to avoid occasional search parties combing the forest, all waving torches, cursing about the archer who had slipped from their grasp, and lamenting that they had lost the trail.
The distant shouts of soldiers carried unnervingly well in the cool night air, too close at times, then fading, then close again.
Each time a twig snapped under my boots, I froze, heart battering against my ribcage, wondering if the next sound would be the twang of a bowstring.
At dawn, I veered into a wide arc so I could head toward the southern forest. Now that I was heading toward Baron and my father, I was careful to no longer leave a trail.
Every step was repeated misery. The arrow shaft jutting from my shoulder burned like it was a hot poker beneath my skin, and the dog bite along my ribs throbbed with each ragged breath.
I kept one arm clamped against my side to slow the bleeding, and the pressure made spots dance in my vision.
But pain was a luxury I couldn’t indulge.
The forest spun around me in wavering shadows.
Still, I forced my legs to move. I had to catch up.
I pressed onward, weaving through the trees, forcing myself deeper into the dark.
Every brush of a branch against one of my wounds made my knees weaken, and twice I had to lean against the rough bark of an oak just to keep from collapsing.
My breath came in harsh, uneven pants, and sweat stung my eyes despite the chill of the morning.
I strained to hear anything—hooves, hounds, even the soft treading of feet—but all that met my ears was the frantic thudding of my own pulse.
My pursuers must have either followed the false trail or given up.
I kept going, gritting my teeth and swallowing back the helpless, rising terror that I might bleed out alone before I found Father and the others. I refused. I would not let that be how my story ended.
When I finally found the men farther south, the morning sun filtered weakly through the leaves. They were moving at a dishearteningly slow pace. Baron carried Lincoln with grim determination and Father limped between Little John and Will Scarlet.
Relief flooded my chest at the sight of them.
“You made it!” I called out from behind them.
They turned and gasped as one.
“You look dreadful, Laurel!” Will Stutely blurted.
“Thanks, Will. You always know how to make a girl feel good.” I winced, hands reaching up to where the arrow still protruded from my shoulder.
Baron put Lincoln down and hurried over, meeting me just as I caught up to Little John, Will Scarlet, and Father at the rear of the group. “How bad is it?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said with a tight smile. They were in much worse conditions than I was.
Father wrinkled his nose. “You don’t smell fine.”
I gave a slight laugh. I regretted it the moment my ribs contracted and pain from the dog bite flared white hot. I fought to keep my expression neutral. “You should talk,” I snapped in a grand attempt at my usual bravado. “You reek.”
Only then did I look down and see how much blood soaked my clothes and body. The moat stench clung to me just as badly as the smell from Father and the Merry Men not washing for so long.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted, brushing away Baron’s hands. “We need to get to safety.”