“I don’t know. I think so.”
“You think so? Chris, where are you?”
And then, behind him, Chris heard a crashing, the shouts of men, and the whinny of horses.
The riders were coming after him. And he had left a trail of snapped branches and muddy footprints. It would be easy to follow.
Shit.
Chris ran harder, pushing himself to the limit. And suddenly he realized the young boy was no longer visible ahead.
He stopped, gasping for breath, and spun around in a circle. Looking—
Gone.
The boy had vanished.
Chris was alone in the forest.
And the riders were coming.
:
On the muddy path overlooking the monastery, Marek and Kate stood listening to their earpieces. There was silence now; Kate clapped her hand over her ear to hear better. “I don’t get anything.”
“He may be out of range,” Marek said.
“Why is he going to the village? It sounds like he’s following that boy,” she said. “Why would he do that?”
Marek looked toward the monastery. It was no more than a ten-minute walk from where they were standing. “The Professor is probably down there right now. We could just go get him, and go home.” He kicked a tree stump irritably. “It would have been so easy.”
“Not anymore,” Kate said.
The sharp crack of static in their earpieces made them wince. They heard Chris panting again.
Marek said, “Chris. Are you there?”
“I can’t . . . can’t talk now.”
He was whispering. And he sounded scared.
:
“No, no, no!” the boy whispered, reaching down from the branches of a very large tree. He had whistled, finally taking pity on Chris as he spun in panicky circles on the ground below. And he had waved him to the tree.
Chris was now struggling to climb the tree, trying to pull himself up on the lowest branches, getting extra leverage by bracing his legs against the trunk. But the way he did it upset the boy.
“No, no! Hands! Use only the hands!” the boy whispered, exasperated. “You are dumb — look now the marks on the trunk, by your feet.”
Hanging from a branch, Chris looked down. The boy was right. There were muddy streaks, very clear on the bark of the trunk.
“By the rood, we are lost,” the boy cried, swinging over Chris’s head and dropping lightly to the ground.
“What are you doing?” Chris said.
But the boy was already running off, through the brambles, moving from tree to tree. Chris dropped back to the ground and followed.
The boy muttered irritably to himself as he inspected the branches of each tree. Apparently he wanted a very large tree with relatively low branches; none suited him. The sound of the riders was growing louder.
Soon they had traveled a hundred yards or more, into an area carpeted with gnarled, scrubby ground pines. It was more exposed and sunnier here because there were fewer trees to his right, and then Chris saw they were running near the edge of a cliff that overlooked the town and the river. The boy darted away from the sunlight, back into the darker forest. Almost at once, he found a tree he liked, and signaled Chris to come forward. “You go first. And no feet!”
The boy bent his knees, laced the fingers of his hands, and tensed his body, bracing himself. Chris felt the youth was too slender to take his weight, but the boy jerked his head impatiently. Chris put his foot in the boy’s hands, and reaching upward, grasped the lowest branch. With the help of the boy, he pulled himself up, until with a final grunt he swung himself over so he lay on his stomach, bent double over the branch. He looked down at the boy, who hissed, “Move!” Chris struggled to his knees, then got to his feet on the branch. The next branch above was within easy reach, and he continued to climb.
Below, the boy leapt into the air, gripped the branch, and pulled quickly up. Although slim, he was surprisingly strong, and he moved from branch to branch surely. Chris was now about twenty feet above the ground. His arms burned, he was gasping as he went up, but he kept on going, branch to branch.
The boy gripped his calf, and he froze. Slowly, cautiously, he looked back over his shoulder, and saw the boy rigid on the branch beneath him. Then Chris heard the soft snort of a horse and realized the sound was close.
Very close.
:
On the ground below, six riders moved slowly and silently forward. They were still some distance away, intermittently visible through gaps in the foliage. When a horse snorted, its rider leaned forward to pat its neck to quiet it.
The riders knew they were close to their prey. They leaned over in their saddles, scanning the ground, looking to one side and the other. Fortunately they were now among the scrubby low pines; no trail was visible.
Communicating by hand gestures, they moved apart, separating themselves as they came forward. Now they formed a rough line, passing beneath the tree on both sides. Chris held his breath. If they looked up . . .
But they didn’t.
They moved onward, deeper into the forest, and finally one of them spoke aloud. It was the rider with the black plume on his helmet, the one who had cut off Gomez’s head. His visor was up.
“Here is enough. They have slipped us.”
“How? Over the cliff?”
The black knight shook his head. “The child is not so foolish.” Chris saw his face was dark: dark complexion and dark eyes.
“Nor quite a child, my Lord.”
“If he fell, it was by error. It could not be otherwise. But I think we have gone awry. Let us return as we came.”
“My Lord.”
The riders turned their mounts and started back. They passed beneath the tree again, and then rode off, still widely spaced, heading into sunlight.
“Perhaps in better light, we shall find their track.”
Chris gave a long sigh of relief.
The boy below tapped him on the leg and nodded to him, as if to say, Good work. They waited until the riders were at least a hundred yards away, nearly out of sight. Then the boy slipped quietly down the tree, and Chris followed as best he could.
Once on the ground, Chris saw the riders moving off. They were coming to the tree with the muddy footprints. The black knight passed it, not noticing. Then the next—
The boy grabbed his arm, pulled him away, slipping off in the underbrush.
Then: “Sir Guy! Look you here! The tree! They are in the tree!”
One of the knights had noticed.
Shit.
The riders spun on their mounts, looking up at the tree. The black knight came back, skeptical. “Eh? Show me.”
“I do not see them up there, my Lord.”
The knights turned, looked back, looked in all directions, looked behind them. . . .
And they saw them.
“There!”
The riders charged.
The boy ran hard. “God’s truth, we are lost now,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as he raced forward. “Can you swim?”
“Swim?” Chris said.
Of course he could swim. But that was not what he was thinking about. Because right now they were running hard, flat out — toward the clearing, toward the break in the trees.
Toward the cliff.
The land sloped downward, gently at first, then more steeply. The ground cover became thinner, with exposed patches of yellow-white limestone. The sunlight was glaring.
The black knight bellowed something. Chris didn’t understand it.
They came at last to the edge of the clearing. Without hesitation, the boy leapt into space.
Chris hesitated, not wanting to follow. Glancing back, he saw the knights charging him, their broadswords raised.
No choice.
Chris turned and ran forward toward the cliff edge.
:
Marek winced as he heard Chris’s scream in his earpiece. The scream was loud at first, then abruptly ended with a grunt and a crashing sound.
An impact.
He stood with Kate by the trail, listening. Waiting.
They heard nothing more. Not even the crackle of static.
Nothing at all.
“Is he dead?” Kate said.
Marek didn’t answer her. He walked quickly to Gomez’s body, crouched down, and started searching in the mud. “Come on,” he said. “Help me find that spare marker.”
:
They searched for the next few minutes, and then Marek grabbed Gomez’s hand, already turning pale gray, the muscles stiffening. He lifted her arm, feeling the coldness of her skin, and turned her torso over. The body splashed back in the mud.
That was when he noticed that Gomez had a bracelet of braided twine on her wrist. Marek hadn’t noticed it before; it seemed to be part of her period costume. Of course, it was completely wrong for the period. Even a modest peasant woman would wear a bracelet of metal, or carved stone or wood, if she wore anything at all. This was a hippie-dippy modern thing.