Near sundown of the second day, the first horse faltered. Martin put it down quickly and said, “I’ll run for a while.”
For nearly three miles the Duke ran; though the fatigued horses’ pace was slower than normal, this was still an impressive feat. Baru took to the trail for a while, then Galain, but still they were reaching their limit. The horses were reduced to a loping canter and trotting. Then they could only walk.
In silence they moved through the night, simply counting the passing yards as each minute took them closer to safety, knowing that, somewhere behind, the mute moredhel captain and his Black Slayers followed. Near morning they crossed a small trail and Martin said, “Here they must split forces, for they can’t know we haven’t turned east for Stone Mountain.”
Arutha said, “Everyone dismount.”
They did and the Prince said, “Martin, lead the horses toward Stone Mountain for a while, then turn them loose. We’ll continue on foot.”
Martin did as he was bidden while Baru masked the tracks of those on foot. Martin caught up with them an hour later.
As he ran down a woodland trail toward them, he said, “I think I heard something behind. I can’t be sure. The wind is picking up and the noise was faint.”
Arutha said, “We continue toward Elvandar, but keep alert for a defensible position.” He started a stagger-legged run, and the others took off after him, Jimmy supported in part by Martin.
For nearly an hour they half ran, half stumbled along, until the sounds of pursuit could be heard echoing through the woods. They felt a surge of energy as fear drove them onward. Then Arutha pointed toward an outcropping of rock, in a semicircle that formed an almost perfect natural breastwork. He asked Galain, “How far until help?”
The elf studied the woods in the early morning light and said, “We are near the edge of our forests. My people will be an hour away, perhaps two.”
Arutha quickly gave the elf the pack containing the Silverthorn and said, “Take Jimmy. We’ll hold them here until you return.” They all knew the pack was against the possibility the elf didn’t return in time. At least Anita could still be cured.
Jimmy sat down on the rock. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would double the time he’ll take to find help. I can fight standing still better than I can run.” With that he crawled over the stone breastwork and pulled out his dirk.
Arutha looked at the boy: tired, bleeding again, almost collapsing from fatigue and blood loss, but grinning at him while holding his dirk. Arutha gave a curt nod and the elf was off. Quickly they got behind the rocks, drew weapons, and waited.
For long minutes they huddled down behind the rocks, knowing that as each minute passed, their chances of rescue increased. Almost with each breath they could feel rescue and obliteration racing toward them. Chance as much as anything would determine their survival. If Calin and his warriors were waiting close to the edge of the forest, and Galain could quickly locate them, there was hope; if not, no hope. In the distance the sound of riders grew louder. Each moment passed slowly, each instant of possible discovery dragging by, and the agony of waiting increased. Then, in almost welcome relief, a shout was sounded and the moredhel were upon them.
Martin rose up, his bow already drawn by the time he had a target. The first moredhel to see them was propelled backward out of his saddle by the force of the arrow taking him in the chest. Arutha and the others made ready. A dozen moredhel riders milled about, startled at the sudden bow fire. Before they could react, Martin had another down. Three turned and rode away, but the others charged.
The outcropping reared up and spread out, making it impossible for the moredhel to overrun them, but they came at full gallop anyway, their horses’ hooves making dull thunder upon the still-damp ground. Though they rode close to the necks of their horses, two more were taken by Martin’s bow before they reached the stone redoubt. Then the moredhel were upon them. Baru leaped atop the rocks, his long sword a blur as he sliced through the air. A moredhel fell, his arm severed from his body.
Arutha ran up and jumped from the rocks, dragging a Dark Brother from the saddle. The moredhel died under his knife. He spun in place, his rapier coming from its sheath as another rider charged. The Prince stood his ground until the last, then with a sideways leap and a slash unseated the rider. A quick thrust, and the moredhel died.