Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (5 page)

The stones stood at least twenty feet high from the water’s surface, like river willows given form by human hands and grown from living stone. They joined in great arches that supported the road, curving across the top of the river’s swells like the path of a thrown rock. The bridge stone was dark and wet, the top stones caked with a white crust.

“How could such a thing ever come from human hands? How could they build such towers of stone in the deep, deep water?”

Loren realized no one could hear her, and her cheeks flushed, hand creeping back to her dagger.

“Well, for lack of anyone better, I shall talk to you, then. Though I think the wonder of this bridge is lost upon you.”

The dagger said nothing.

“I must give you a name.” Loren glanced over her shoulder. “But perhaps it can wait until I have more time to think and do not fear the pounding of boots behind me.”

She expected the bridge to shake like the rickety wood-and-rope bridges common to her home. But it stayed solid as the road. It unnerved her to cross the stone and see the water swirl twenty feet below.
 

Immediately, Loren cut off and away from the road. Trees grew plentiful again, and she dipped into the space between their trunks. She kept walking until the ground rose and she could scarcely see the road. Then she struck south, following the road’s straight course and keeping it just on the edge of eyesight.

In the Birchwood, Loren had often walked beneath trees that stood fifty feet or taller. Here, she barely saw a single trunk that reached more than twenty or twenty-five feet. “Though I am grateful for their company, these trees are bare saplings next to those from home,” she murmured, her finger brushing the dagger.
 

Midday came and went. The sun began its slow journey back to the earth. Loren felt a gnawing in her stomach and reached for the travel sack where her meat and bread waited. But just then, she spotted a telltale patch of brown fur beneath a nearby shrub. Quiet as a ghost, she drew her bow and notched an arrow.
 

Silent she drew, and silent let fly. The rabbit gave a thin death scream.

She dressed it quickly and struck a small fire. The rabbit tasted delicious, so Loren ate as much as she could—long past the point of enjoyment. Salted meat would last her long if carefully rationed, but on an uncertain road a wise traveler ate sparingly from reserves. She drank carefully, too, taking only a small sip of water.
 

Still limbs brought thoughts of Xain, urgent and unwelcome. Loren pushed down a sour feeling as the meat lost its savor. Soon, she stamped her fire’s dying embers and resumed her trek south.

The rest of the day passed without event, but she felt a curious sense of growing urgency. It spurred her legs until she no longer walked but half ran through the woods. Loren thought she might feel better if she
did
see the constables, if only to end her aching uncertainty. What if they trailed her in hiding, waiting to see if she would reunite with Xain? She felt eyes boring into her back and hoped they were only her imagination.
 

As the sun neared the horizon, Loren decided that she must rest. If the constables had indeed trailed her, she would gain nothing by pushing on through the night. She would only waste precious hours of sleep and dull her senses for the morrow. With no one to trade night watches, Loren spent her last hour’s walk in search of a good place to sleep.
 

She found it at last in a thick oak, a few minutes after the sun’s last sliver vanished. Twelve feet from the forest floor gaped a large black hollow. She hooked arms and legs around the trunk and poked a cautious eye above the last branch to see it lay empty.
 

She climbed atop the branch and more closely inspected the hollow: empty of all but ants. Loren could stand ants, especially when they did not bite.
 

By running her legs along the thick branch, she could lean into the tree’s heart and rest, so she wedged her arms against the hollow to better hold herself in place.

Despite herself, Loren’s mind leapt to Xain. She feared her thoughts might bar a restful sleep. But moonslight pierced the leafy canopy to paint her outstretched legs, and Loren’s eyes grew hazy upon the cool silver glow. Weariness claimed her.

She woke in the morning to a stiff back though less so than she had feared. Sliding gently from the hollow, she climbed hand over foot down the oak’s branches. She felt no hunger, but her urine smelled. That made her drink more water than she would have liked. She could not drink that much every day, but neither could she afford to wither dry upon the road. Water loss could creep upon the unwary traveler and leave them weak.

Her thirst sated, Loren decided to visit the road before traveling on—a quick glance to see what could be seen.

She reached the road at the crest of a hill. She hunched low as she walked out onto it, scanning the land in all directions. Her eyes found no travelers on horseback or foot.

She gave a small sigh and palmed the dagger’s hilt. “Luck is with us still,”

As if in answer to her muttered words, a small smudge appeared to the north. It bloomed larger as she watched, unable to move.
 

Loren finally dropped to her stomach, for she could see what raised the cloud of dust: two men on horseback, riding south hard and fast along the road.

seven

Loren scuttled for the trees, keeping low. The forest enveloped her like an old friend, and she felt safer in its shadow. She plunged farther into the brush covering the forest floor.
 

But Loren paused once she lost sight of the road. She could not be sure the men were constables, but something in her heart said they were. And if so, she should keep an eye on them. But how could she ensure that they would not spot her?

The land rose steeply to form a low ridge that ran alongside the road for what looked like many miles just south of where Loren stood. She ran for the rise. Trees thinned as the ground rose, forcing her to dart from cover to cover, until she finally stood atop the ridge, a large cave at her back descending into the earth. Loren stepped behind the trunk of a tree and poked an eye around it to look north.

The men had drawn near. They drove their horses hard, the beasts’ flanks streaked with white. They would pass her in minutes. She need only hide and wait. Once they left her behind, her journey to Cabrus would be safe.
 

Loren slid a hand along the dagger’s hilt. “A good scare, certainly, but nothing to worry about. We are safe.”

She moved back behind the tree and slid down against its trunk. Her heart nearly stopped.

The ground quaked under the impact of heavy feet. Not three yards away, a bear emerged from the cave mouth. Its nose twitched as it snuffled the air, tiny eyes fixed on Loren. Black fur stuck out in great bristles as its hackles rose. Two cubs cowered behind their mother’s hind legs, looking at her with equal parts curiosity and fear.

Loren’s throat went dry as she slowly stood. Her hand slid to the dagger, but she dismissed it.
A fool’s hope,
she thought. The dagger would serve no better against the bear than her nails.

But the Birchwood held many bears, and Loren knew what to do. It would mean exposing herself to the road again, but that seemed preferable to serving as the bear’s supper.

She sidestepped away from the tree and took several steps backward. The bear hunched down slightly and growled. But it did not advance.

Loren backed slowly down the slope, never moving her eyes from the beast. Another step. Another. If she could only get far enough, she could run without the bear giving chase.

On the next step, her foot snagged a rock. The slope worked against her, and she nearly crashed to the ground. Sudden movement startled the bear, and it took two great steps forward with a roar. Even at a distance, Loren could smell its reeking breath.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. The constables had pulled their mounts to a halt directly adjacent to where she stood. They spurred their horses into the woods toward her.

Perhaps they thought her some chance girl in trouble and did not recognize her from the forest. But they would know once they saw her close. Loren must leave, and quickly.

An idea sprang to mind. She stomped the ground as hard as she could, throwing her hands into the air and bellowing an angry roar.
 

Most bears would have backed away, but this one had cubs. The beast took two half steps and broke into a run. The ground shook, and Loren’s legs tensed in readiness.
 

Just before it reached her, Loren leapt to the side. The bear could not stop so quickly, and the loose soil gave way beneath her. She tumbled and rolled head over paws down the slope. A great plume of dust followed her down.

Loren could take no moment to exult in her quick thinking and ran up the ridge as fast as she could. Frightened cubs fled into the cave, but Loren paid them no mind.
 

She reached the top of the ridge and plunged down its far side, her feet lent sudden speed by the slope. Just as she passed over the top, Loren heard loud shouting behind her, joined by a roar. The constables had found her bear. Perhaps it would occupy them long enough for Loren to make good on her escape.

She forced herself to slow, though every part of her screamed to go faster. Her quick wits would mean nothing if she fell and broke a leg, or her neck. She picked her way on solid ground and rocks, avoiding any patch of ground that looked like it might slide out from beneath her.
 

But despite her caution, bad luck caught Loren at last. A rock she’d thought sturdy shifted underfoot and sent her down with a cry. She twisted to plant her hands in the turf. It hurt, but Loren knew the bow on her back would not withstand a tumble.

The bow.
She could find a high spot in a tree, wait for the constables to approach, and plant shafts within them before they knew what had happened.

As quickly as she thought it, Loren cast the idea aside. Even if she could shoot with such skill, Nightblade did not—
could
not—murder.
 

Her only hope lay in escape. So she pushed off the ground, wincing at her stinging palms, and kept running.

Before long, Loren heard the thunder of hoofbeats coming down the slope behind her. They had evaded the bear, or killed it. She risked a glance over her shoulder but could not see them through the trees. At least that meant they could not see her. Still, she could not outrun them forever.
 

Loren scanned the forest and saw something that might help: a fallen trunk with a hole beneath it. She dove in, careful not to snap the bow against the entrance.
 

Not a moment too soon; the thundering hooves grew louder, and then they were upon her. But Loren had hidden in time. A flash of red-boiled leather showed between the trees a few yards off, and the hoofbeats receded.
 

Loren waited until she could no longer hear the horses and then waited longer still. In the wood’s silence, her pulse was rolling thunder. When she finally felt sure they must be gone, she slid out from under the log.
 

A cluster of firethorn stood nearby, unruly but straight as a hedge. It ran south, crosswise to the slope. Loren ducked behind it and slid along on hands and feet. She crept in silence and shadow, poking her head above the tops of bushes every few moments to look for the constables.

Now that she had a moment to observe, Loren could see that this side of the ridge also ran down to a road. It ran south as far as she could see, though she had to imagine it cut west and joined with the main road eventually.
 

Now she must gamble; either the constables would make for this smaller road and follow it, hoping to catch her, or they would climb the ridge and make for the King’s road once again. The latter seemed the likelier course. They had only spied Loren, not Xain. They might surmise she had separated from the wizard and return to the main road in hope of catching him.

But then her nerves warned her that the surrounding forest had grown too quiet.

An arrow sped from between the trees to
thunk
into a tree beside her
.
Loren’s body jerked in shock. She dropped flat and slid beneath the firethorn. The arrow had come from above. The constables had somehow circled around to her rear. She had underestimated their woodcraft, perhaps for the final time.

Why would they try to kill her? They wanted Xain, not Loren.

As if in reply, she heard Corin’s voice. “Stay your hand! Leave her whole!”
 

Bern, the one with a harsher look, shouted a reply that Loren could not make out. Crashing footsteps sounded from up the ridge, much higher than she had feared. Perhaps she could yet evade them.

Once she passed beneath the firethorn, she rose to flee in a crouching run. Now that Loren had their measure as woodsmen, she would withhold nothing.
 

Loren used every trick learned from a life in the Birchwood, thoughts fading to a dull murmur as instinct claimed her. Loren’s feet found the hardest ground. She twisted and weaved to avoid snapping any branch, wrapping her cloak tightly about her. Sounds faded behind her, and Loren pressed on.