Straub applauded slowly and ironically. “Brave words, little bantam. Brave words. But hollow and empty, don’t you think? Now your friend will run to the ville with a message.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The boy quickly became tired.
He’d set off from the camp of the brushwooders as though his feet had been set on fire, running with his head thrown back, arms pumping.
He knew which was the trail to the ville, heading easterly. The sun, almost directly overhead, gave him a shadow that ran with him, jumping over puddles, slipping in patches of wet earth and leaf mold.
A black-masked raccoon, foraging below the tall pines, made him jump as it suddenly turned, snarling at the panting intruder into its domain.
In less than five minutes the boy was out of breath, stopping with a painful charley horse that made his thigh muscles tremble and twitch.
He put his hand down to his pocket, making sure that the folded lump of paper was still safe.
The lad knew what it said, knew the nature of the message that he carried back to the distant villethat the eleven-year-old son of Baron Weyman was a prisoner and that his life would depend on a number of conditions.
It was time to be moving on.
RAINEY HAD BEEN CONTENT for the outlanders to take over the recce and, possibly, rescue mission, admitting that his sec force hadn’t faced any serious problems for many years.
“Just the occasional poacher and one or two invasions by a few pathetic scabbies.”
Jak had taken the lead, padding through the forest in almost total silence, occasionally scowling over his shoulder as someone else broke a dry branch or slipped noisily in the damp earth. The worst of the group for clumsiness were the three sec men, all of whom looked like they’d much rather have been sitting comfortably around a warm fire back in the ville.
The albino suddenly stepped off the path, crouching behind a clump of young junipers, waving with his hand for the others to hide.
“Someone coming,” Ryan hissed when the sec men were painfully slow to react.
They all caught the sound of hurried, pattering feet, running straight toward them. Krysty was right at Ryan’s shoulder, and she pressed her mouth to his ear, whispering, “Stumbling. Tired out.”
“Only one,” he breathed.
Jak allowed the runner to pass him before he ghosted out of hiding and seized the boy from behind, one arm around his throat to cut off any cry for help. Though the albino teenager only stood about five and a half feet tall and weighed in just over the hundred-pound mark, he was immensely strong, swinging the prisoner clear off the ground.
The others all emerged from cover, gathering around.
For a single, heart-stopping moment, Ryan thought that the boy who hung limply in Jak’s grasp was Dean. The boy was the right sort of height, with dark curly hair.
But Rainey recognized him first. “Jamie!” he gasped. “You managed to escape. Let him go, outlander.”
When Jak released him, the lad stumbled and nearly dropped to the ground, recovering himself with a visible effort. His face was pale, mud-smeared, with several bruises and cuts, his clothes filthy and torn. He was fumbling in his pocket.
“Where’s Dean?” Ryan asked.
“Got him.” His chest was heaving, and he looked as if he were about to pass out.
“Sit down, son,” Krysty said.
Jamie gave her a grateful, wan smile and sat like a puppet with the strings cut. Trader offered him a drink from his canteen, which the boy took eagerly, gulping at the warm water. “Take it slow, lad.”
“In your own time, Jamie,” Ryan said, kneeling at the boy’s side. “What happened?”
“Took ponies and followed you. Took high trail. Why are you behind us? We were a good distance behind you.”
“Had a problem,” Rainey replied. “Slowed us down by an hour. Guess you must’ve passed us then.”
Jamie nodded. “I suppose that must be so. We reached the old mill. They were there.”
“Who took you?” J.B. asked. “Scabbies? Or was it the brushwooders?”
“Brushwooders. We were knocked down and tied and hooded. Taken to their camp. A few ragged huts and a fire.”