A World Without Heroes (56 page)

“Glad to have you,” Jason said, a little worried that Tristan was getting out of breath so soon.

“You realize we are about to die,” Drake said.

“Probably,” Tristan agreed. “But this is a better way to go.”

Jason kept silent.

From behind, dogs began baying in an exuberant chorus. The four men looked back and saw nearly twenty eager mastiffs and boarhounds tearing after them, followed by a horseman.

“They don’t waste much time,” Jason muttered bitterly.

The four men broke into a sprint. Tristan discarded his pack. On the far side of the alfalfa field they vaulted a low wooden fence. Tark caught his foot on a post and went down hard, scrambling back up with the adrenalized vigor of a man about to become dog chow. The next field was a wide expanse of knee-high grass. Jason glanced back. The pack of fierce canines was already halfway across the alfalfa field. The man on horseback was now visible as Kimp, cantering along easily behind the dogs, a flanged mace in one hand.

Already Tristan was breathing in ragged gasps, his face red and sweat-glossed. His pace was beginning to flag. Jason slowed his pace to stay with him. Tristan angrily motioned him forward. “Go on,” he wheezed.

Drake had the lead. Tark raced with remarkable speed for such a compact man. Jason could barely keep up with them. He concentrated on his feet beating against the grassy ground, trying to lengthen his stride and make his legs pump faster. The yowling of the pursuing dogs was rising in intensity.

Jason already felt a stitch forming in his side, like a screw twisting inward. He rubbed at it. Tark was a couple of steps ahead, his short legs churning desperately.

Glancing back, Jason saw that Tristan had turned to face the approaching dogs, longsword clutched in two hands. The dogs were almost upon him.

Jason witnessed Tristan’s last stand in a strobe of backward glances.

Tristan slashing a leaping mastiff.

Tristan down on one knee, hacking at a boarhound, whines now mingling with the vigorous baying.

Tristan fighting to his feet, fists swinging wildly.

Tristan on the ground with dogs swarmed around him, gutting a mastiff with a dagger as a boarhound found his throat.

Jason stumbled and went sprawling on the dewy grass.

Tark skidded to a halt and yanked him up.

A dozen dogs still pursued them. Jason had dropped the billiard ball in the fall. The only weapon he now bore was his poniard. Tark had his knife. Several paces ahead Drake held his sword.

Out of a grove of trees on one side of the field came Jasher on a splendid black charger, riding straight toward Jason and Tark. He was leading a gray horse.

“Prongs!” shouted Tark, swerving to the left.

“No! He’s a friend!”

Jasher raised a crossbow. He fired a quarrel. It was a long shot to the dogs. Jason glanced back. A boarhound pitched forward, a shaft protruding from its chest.

Jasher discarded the crossbow and produced another one. A mastiff fell. The crossbow went into the grass, replaced by another. Another mastiff went down with a yelp.

Jasher was almost upon Jason and Tark as he produced a fourth crossbow. “Take the horse,” he ordered, releasing the reins.

The freed horse thundered straight at Jason. How was he supposed to stop a speeding horse? He dove out of the way, reaching back halfheartedly for the loose reins. He missed the reins, and the horse raced past, gradually slowing.

Jasher leveled his crossbow and shot another boarhound.

“Turn and fight!” Drake called. He flung a short sword end over end. The blade stuck in the ground at Jason’s feet, and he seized it.

Jason and Tark whirled to face the remaining dogs. With a fifth crossbow Jasher reduced the dogs to seven as he bolted past them to intercept Kimp.

Drake trotted away from Tark and Jason, creating some space. Brandishing his sword, he shouted at the onrushing canines. Four of the dogs veered after him.

Three dogs—two boarhounds and a mastiff—charged at Jason and Tark. Jason sidestepped the leap of the mastiff, slashing its head as it soared past. A bounding boarhound rammed Tark into a backward somersault, taking his heavy knife through the chest in the process. The second boarhound came at Jason low, sweeping his legs out from under him with its rushing bulk.

The boarhound tore at the leg of Jason’s pants, teeth penetrating to the flesh. Suddenly the mastiff he had slashed was upon him as well, going for his throat. Jason gave it his forearm instead. He had dropped the short sword. With his free hand he desperately pushed against the writhing bulk of the ferocious canine.

The boarhound was no longer savaging Jason’s leg. Then Tark tackled the mastiff. Arm pistoning frantically, Tark stabbed the dog repeatedly, until it went limp.

Sitting up, Jason observed that the boarhound at his feet had
also been dispatched by Tark. Off to one side, untouched, Drake stood calmly with a bloody sword in hand, surrounded by four dead dogs. Turning his head, Jason saw Jasher and Kimp closing on each other. Jasher held his doubled chain. Kimp brandished his flanged mace. Both horses galloped wildly.

As they reached each other, Kimp sprang from the saddle, straight at Jasher. Jasher swung his chain, but it was too late—Kimp collided with him, and both men flew off the back of Jasher’s horse to roll in the grass.

Both men arose immediately. Kimp used his free hand to intercept Jasher’s chain on its way to his tattooed head, while simultaneously swinging his club with a quick, one-handed backhand that struck Jasher in the chest.

The hasty blow from the mace was not particularly forceful, but it was accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. There came a brief glare of intense light, and then Jasher blew apart in a roaring explosion that hurled Kimp backward in fiery ruin.

Jason gaped in disbelief. Some distance away a flock of birds took flight. Smoke mushroomed up from the blast. Kimp lay motionless, his clothes aflame. Just like that both men were destroyed.

“Jasher was a seed person,” Jason gasped, sprinting toward the fallen warriors.

Tark followed.

“His seed pops out when he dies,” Jason told Tark. “If we find his amar, we can save him.”

“Be quick,” Drake warned, scanning the surrounding area as he hurried to join them. “Others will come after us. We’re losing our chance to flee.”

Jason found Jasher’s scorched head and neck still attached to part of his torso, lying face up, long hair matted in charred tangles.
Jason turned the remnant of his former protector facedown and checked beneath the roll of hair at the nape of his neck. He found an empty socket.

“The seed got out,” Jason said, on the verge of tears. “Search the grass!”

The three of them fanned out, combing carefully through the knee-high grass.

“Maybe it was destroyed,” Tark said.

“No,” Jason said, refusing to consider the possibility. “He saved us. We’re going to find it.”

“The amar is normally quite durable,” Drake muttered, studying the ground.

The circle of their search continued to widen. Jason periodically looked back toward the castle for evidence of additional pursuit.

Tark returned to where Jasher’s head lay, and squatted, searching meticulously. A moment later he held up the gray, walnut-sized seed. “We missed it. The seed was half buried. It must have detached while he was lying there, before you flipped him over.”

Jason sighed with relief. “We have to plant it in a safe, fertile spot.”

“Far from here,” Drake said.

Tark nodded, slipping the seed into a pouch on his belt.

One of the horses, the black one Jasher had ridden, remained close by. Kimp’s steed had started grazing over a hundred yards away. The gray horse Jasher had led had run off a good distance across the field. It began grazing as well.

“I’ll bring the gray horse back,” Tark said, mounting Jasher’s horse.

“I’ll get Kimp’s mount,” Drake called over his shoulder, already running toward the stallion.

Jason looked around. Where was Rachel? Jasher must have insisted she hang back.

The gray horse shied away from Tark when he got close, but Tark rode it down and caught hold of the reins.

Blood trickled down Jason’s arm to his hand as he watched Drake mount Kimp’s horse. Jason hesitantly inspected his wound. His sleeve was tattered above ugly tears and punctures in his skin. Maybe he could cut a strip of material from his cloak and fashion a bandage.

Tark was waving an arm, pointing in Jason’s direction. Jason turned around. No less than twenty horsemen were emerging from the trees behind him at full gallop. These were not reinforcements from the castle. They came from off to one side.

Drake sat astride his horse, sword in hand, frowning. Behind Drake, across the field, Jason saw Rachel emerge from the edge of the woods on horseback. Tark was returning for Jason, the gray horse in tow. Neither Tark nor Drake could possibly make it in time. Jason waved them away. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. “Drake, save Rachel! Tark, tell her ‘rim’! Tell her ‘rim’! Go!”

Saluting with his sword and spurring his mount, Drake rode away from the soldiers. His horse jumped a fence and galloped madly up a gentle slope toward where Rachel waited.

Tark reined in his horse, hesitating.

“Get out of here!” Jason yelled. “‘Rim’!”

Tark released the gray horse and took off, veering away from Drake.

Jason turned to face the riders. With no recourse he raised his hands in surrender. Most drew up around him. Four went after Tark. Five others chased Drake and Rachel.

Several lightly armored men dismounted, seizing Jason roughly. These were not conscriptors—or if they were, they wore
less impressive armor than the ones who had previously tried to capture him. Their helmets had no face guards. They searched him and relieved him of his poniard.

“Lord Jason of Caberton, I presume?” asked a man still seated on horseback, apparently the commander.

“Yes.” Jason felt defiant. He was captured, his friends were on the run, and he had little to lose. “How’d you know?”

“We were warned early this morning of your possible defection. A recent signal confirmed your decision. Is this the seedman Jasher?” The commander indicated the charred remains.

“It’s his identical twin.”

“We know he traveled with you until recently. Where is his amar?”

“I ate it.”

“This is a foolish time for flippancy.”

“I panicked. It tasted horrible. Do you have any mouthwash?”

“Search the vicinity,” the commander ordered his men. “And check the young lord thoroughly.”

They methodically searched Jason and his clothes. Crouching soldiers scoured the surrounding area with painstaking care. “The amar is not here, sir,” a soldier finally reported.

“Search again,” the commander directed. “There can be no error. And bind the prisoner’s wounds.”

A stinging salve was applied to Jason’s torn arm and leg, after which they were wound with linen bandages. Nobody found a seed.

“One of the other men has it, then,” the commander concluded. “They should be apprehended by now.”

“Your men won’t be back,” Jason said. “Do you know the kind of people who live at Harthenham? I’m not talking about the fat ones. I’m talking about the sort who kill guys like you as a hobby.”

“Enough nonsense.”

Several minutes later a lone rider returned, his horse lathered.

“The man who went north rides Kimp’s stallion, Mandibar. The girl had an excellent mount as well. The horses were too fast. The others remain in pursuit, but unless they make a mistake, our only chance lies in anticipating a destination and heading them off.”

The commander scratched his cheek. “Where was he going?” he asked Jason.

“How should I know? He was running away.”

“Tell me about your friends.”

“I hardly knew them. The one who ran off with the girl is named Christopher Columbus. Tall guy. Really skinny. Green hair. Fangs. Six fingers on his left hand. About a hundred years old. Lots of wrinkles.”