Chapter 11 #3
rewrapped the hoof.
“Next time, tend to yer horse first,” Ned
said as Shaw retied Roark’s wrists. “We’re wasting good time.”
Roark nodded and bit down on his grin.
Wasting time was exactly what he was trying to do. Grabbing the
saddle horn of the cob with his tied hands, he leaned back and
swayed like he was suddenly dizzy. He lifted his booted foot and
missed the stirrup, taking three swipes at it before finally
stuffing his boot toe into the stirrup, swung his leg up, missed
the saddle, and fell back onto the soft bank of the stream.
“Get him up on his damned horse,” Ned
ordered.
Roark lay on the ground, his eyes purposely
unfocused as Shaw and Cam grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled
him to his feet. He swayed against them and let his arms and legs
hang like dead weight as they heaved him up onto the cob, belly
down, head on one side of the saddle and his legs dangling over the
other.
“Sit up, curse you,” Shaw spat.
“I’ms trying,” Roark slurred as he half-assed
swung one leg over the cob’s rump, taking two tries before he
succeeded. He lay there panting and rolled his eyes. “I’ms a little
dizzy, lads.”
“You was fine when you was tending yer
horse,” Shaw grumbled.
“Musta stood up too fasht.” Roark slowly
pushed himself up to sitting, grabbed the saddle horn to steady
himself, and pressed his lips tight when Shaw didn’t tie his hands
to it.
“Let’s go,” Ned barked. “Daylight’s
wasting.”
They rode north, keeping the western woods to
their shoulders. Roark managed to fall off the cob two more times
before they tied him to the saddle. When they stopped at noon to
water the horses and relieve themselves, Roark unwrapped Artur’s
hoof and chipped the dried mud away.
“Damnation.” Still kneeling, he motioned for
Ned and showed him the stallion's hoof. “The bruise is getting
bigger,” he told Ned. “And his limp’s been getting worse.”
Ned pulled on his scraggly beard. “So?”
“So, it’s only going to get worse if he keeps
walking on it,” Roark told him. “He’ll move slower and slower until
he founders.”
Ned eyed Artur’s hoof, which the horse wasn’t
putting any weight on, and spat on the ground. “Damned horse ain’t
worth spit if he founders.” He drew his short sword.
“Wait.” Roark threw his tied hands up and
swayed a little. “You don’t have to kill him. Just leave him here
to rest up. There’s plenty of water and good grazing. You can come
back this way after you’ve turned me in to the laird’s men, catch
him and sell him if he’s healed. If he hasn’t,” Roark shrugged,
“then you’ll likely find his bones picked over by scavengers.”
“Do what you need for him and be quick about
it,” Ned said.
Roark uncinched his saddle and pulled it off
Artur. He left the hoof unwrapped and removed Artur’s bridle and
reins, pressed his forehead to the stallion’s and patted his neck.
“Take care of yourself, my friend,” he said.
He mounted the cob, only taking two swipes at
the stirrup before stuffing the toe of his boot into it, and
glanced at the woods. The woods Alina should’ve been long gone
from. So why’d he see a flash of light like the sun reflecting on a
glass lens blinking at him from the woods’ edge?
They continued to ride north until dark
without any sign Alina had passed that way, which Roark hoped meant
she was on her way northwest to Silver Water Keep. He hadn’t seen
any more flashes of light from the woods, yet he still had the
feeling she was following them. At least Ned and his men seemed to
think she was long gone.
“If that girl makes the firth,” Cam grumbled
as he struck his flint to start the campfire, “odds are some ship
captain’ll snatch her and get the reward.”
“Quit yer whining,” Ned told him. “Not that
another ten pounds o’ silver wouldn’t be nice, but we gots our ten
pounds guaranteed right here,” he said, nodding at Roark, whom Shaw
was tying to a tree.
“We’re not there yet,” Shaw said, yanking the
rope tight around Roark’s chest. “I fer one ain’t gonna count my
silver ’til it’s in my purse.”
“Look, lads,” Roark said. “I know you’re
doing this for the silver and likely don’t care, but we didn’t kill
the laird’s son.”
“Yer right,” Ned said. “We don’t care.”
“What you should care about though,” Roark
continued, “is that the girl is no serving wench, she’s Princess
Alina, daughter of Northland King Jerrik of Sea Ridge.”
“So?”
“So, King Jerrik has six warships at his
command and will be coming for his daughter any day. That’s why we
were riding for the North Sea Firth. Why she’s still heading
there.”
“Even if that’s true,” Ned said, “what’s it
got to do with us?”
“Northmen are well known for their
honor-bound sense of revenge,” Roark told them. “Almost as much as
they’re known for their skill with a long sword.”
“So?” Shaw gave the rope around Roark a tug
and tied off the ends. “We don’t have the princess now, do we?”
“No,” Roark said, “you don’t. However, you
did take her escort, me, from her, and you are chasing her.
Somehow, I don’t see her father, a fierce Northman king, as caring
whether you caught her or not.”
“Shut up,” Shaw snarled. “Lessen you wanna be
gagged.”
Roark leaned his head back against the tree
trunk and closed his eyes. The men had a tense discussion over
continuing their search for her while the beans cooked. Good. He’d
spooked them with his talk of Alina’s father. He’d learned they
were itinerant field workers who’d seen him and Alina riding into
the Mounths’ southern foothills, and after hearing about them at an
inn, they took off after them. They’d spent a miserable two days
waiting out the storm while he and Alina had been in their cozy
cave.
The cave. Roark let his mind wander back to
his memories of those two wonderful, passion-filled days and
nights. Memories that would likely have to serve him for the rest
of his life, no matter how long or short it turned out to be. His
only regret was he wouldn’t be spending whatever time he had left
with Alina.
An owl hooted in the woods, and Roark sat at
attention. It called out again with three short hoots and Roark
dipped his head and lifted it, slowly, purposely, and bit down on a
grin.
He’d meant for Alina to be on her way to
Silver Water Keep, to safety, yet he wasn’t surprised she’d stayed.
She meant to free him, and though there was only so much he could
do to help her in his current position, he could stay alert and at
the ready.
***
Alina hunkered down behind a granite
outcropping and focused on the camp. The three brigands hadn’t even
looked up from the fire when she’d let out her owl hoots, but Roark
had. He’d not only heard her, but had known it was her. Courage and
determination filled her anew. She could do this.
She ate the handful of cold beans she’d
packed and waited until the men had eaten their supper, which she
was glad to see they shared with Roark, and settled in for the
night. Two of the men lay on their bedrolls while the third sat
with his back propped up against his saddle, guarding the camp and
Roark.
Their horses were tied off to a line, minus
Artur, who Alina had crept out and checked on after Roark had cut
him free, deciding, as Roark apparently had, that the stallion was
better off loose and resting his injured hoof than being forced to
keep up with her, Etain, and Beasty.
Alina waited until the guard woke the next
man for his shift. By the moon and the stars, they were taking a
third of the night each shift, and neither of them had checked the
horses once. She let out another three short hoots and slunk back
into the cover of the woods and her cold camp and horses. Wrapping
the blanket and otter cloak around herself, she propped her back up
against a tree and dozed on and off until the sky started to change
from black to a misting grey.
Starting out on Etain and leading Beasty, she
kept to the woods and followed Roark and the brigands downhill and
north toward the foothills. From what Roark had told her, once they
made the northern foothills, they would only be one day away from
villages and farms, and another day from the shores of the North
Sea Firth. Which meant she had tonight to get Roark free.
The lower they got into the foothills, the
thicker the woods grew, which made keeping hidden easier, and
following a bit trickier. Alina was no trained tracker, but she’d
learned enough from her father and Uncle Bors to not fret about
losing them.
Besides, tracking four men on horseback who
didn’t seem worried about being followed wasn’t difficult. She
hadn’t even needed to use the spyglass to keep track of them, but
had snuck looks at Roark with it throughout the day.
He rode with his wrists bound and tied to his
mount’s saddle with another rope around his neck that the same
rider kept hold of, and was wont to yank on periodically. Yet he
still rode with his head high and a straight spine, unlike his
captors, who rode slouched and slumped with their threadbare cloaks
pulled tight around their shoulders in the spring chill.
After their noon break, she gave Etain a rest
in preparation for the night, and switched to riding Beasty. She
was pleased at how well the gelding responded to her. As high
strung as he’d acted when he’d first showed up, he turned out to be
a gentle soul, as long as you were gentle with him.
“Play your part well tonight, Beasty,” she
told him, “and you’ll be Roark’s new mount.” She patted the roan’s
neck and his ears twitched back. “You’ll like Roark, he’s got good
hands and an amazing seat.”
They were well into the foothills when the
men finally stopped and made camp for the night. Alina ate the last
of the beans and tied Etain to a tree, saddled and ready to ride.
She left Beasty saddled, took a swig of wine from the skin he’d
showed up with, poured the entire vial of White Milk into the skin,
shook it to mix it with the wine, and tied it back onto Beasty’s
saddle. She checked her blades, slung the bow and quiver of arrows
over her shoulder, and led Beasty toward the men’s camp. She
stopped at the wood’s edge, hid behind a tree, and set the spyglass
to her eye. Then she let out three short hoots.