More forms moved in the darkness, and torches appeared, showing light over a glowing assembly—but what a sight!
Ciletha stared, unable to believe her eyes. She thought she had never seen so many dumpy, short, and lumpen people in her life—and certainly had never seen such a hodgepodge of clothes! They were of all manner of shapes and styles, all extravagant, exaggerated. Oh, any one costume was gorgeous, of expensive, luxurious cloth and brilliant in color, but so many jewellike tones together clashed and jarred and almost hurt her eyes in their dissonance.
Then Orgoru stepped out from among them.
Ciletha stared in disbelief. He wore a doublet and hose of blue and silver with an embroidered cape of the same colors; his hair was curled over his brow, and his eyes were alive with excitement. A sob caught in her throat as she dashed to meet him. “Oh, Orgoru!”
He ran to catch her hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Ciletha! Oh, it’s so wonderful! I wish you could share it!”
The word “wish” chilled her. She glanced past him at the squat, soft-looking people, outrageous in their garish costumes, prancing toward one another with glad smiles, pacing with controlled steps that seemed somehow to be parodies of the movements of magistrates and reeves, their chins tilted high, looking down their noses at one another, tittering and smirking as they glanced at her. Suddenly she understood: she could not share this life with him, because she could never want to. “I’m glad you’ve managed to find what you want, Orgoru.”
“Everything I’ve ever dreamed of! Lords and ladies, people of beauty and nobility, of refinement and culture! Look at them, Ciletha! Aren’t they magnificent?”
She looked, and shuddered. Orgoru frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s been a cold night.” She wondered how he could possibly see these clowns as being noble. But she couldn’t bring herself to disturb his waking dream; she forced a tremulous smile and said, “There are certainly none like them in all the world, Orgoru. How lucky you are!”
“Lucky indeed! So have no fear for me, Ciletha—I am where I have always wanted to be! Oh, I hope you’ll find your heart’s desire, too, just as I have!”
A tall, rawboned young woman began to move toward Orgoru, with a flirtatious glance that seemed ludicrous on her long, lantern-jawed face.
“Thank you, Orgoru.” Ciletha forced the words through lips gone suddenly stiff. “I’m so happy for you, my old friend! See, I’m crying with joy!”
“How good of you, Ciletha! How generous!” Orgoru caught one of her tears on his finger and kissed it.
The courtly gesture seemed incongruous in so earthy a man that she managed to force a smile. “Good-bye, Orgoru. May you find every happiness!”
“Good-bye, sweet playfellow.”
The “sweet” almost undid her; she turned away and stumbled off into the night, fighting back tears. She glanced back over her shoulder, but Orgoru had already turned away to rejoin his strange companions, who went mincing and laughing away, though they looked as though they should waddle.
Ciletha fled blindly into the night. When their laughter had died behind her, the tears burst forth. She stumbled through the darkened woods until she collided with a tree and leaned against its reassuring bulk, sobbing with heartbreak and finally admitting to herself that she had fallen in love with the bumbling but sweet idiot—who, of course, did not love her. She herself was scarcely beautiful, but Orgoru, once you looked past the poor grooming and clumsiness, was good-looking, at least in the face—or would be, if he weren’t so plump. No, of course he’d never noticed her as a woman—and never would have. No wonder that it was only after he was lost to her that she could admit she loved him.
When they were a mile or two from the unconscious foresters, Dirk, Gar, and Miles managed to scrape together a quick camp, cutting pine boughs for beds. Each mounted watch in turn while the others slept, but there was no sign of pursuit, no trace of a night-patrolling forester, and the breeze bore them no faint belling of hounds.
They rose with the sun and hurried on through the woods, as fast as horses could go—a fast walk, but not tiring as quickly as humans would have done. They used every device they knew to break their trail, and though the hounds might eventually find them, they would be very long in doing so.
By evening, they had come among huge old oaks and elms that towered high above them, leaving very little light for the underbrush, which stayed low and thin. There Miles slid off Gar’s horse with a grateful sigh, groaned at the pain in his legs, and told his companions, “We’ve come to the deep woods. We’ll be safer here than back near the road, but not really safe for very long.”
“Which means not at all.” Gar looked around. “Can you think of a good place to hide within the woods, Miles?”
The peasant shook his head. “There are tales of hidden caves with great treasures, whole villages of outlaws, and lost cities overgrown by the forest, sirs, but nothing that I could really believe in.”
“Not surprising—those are motifs common to folktales in many places.” Gar frowned, looking about him.
A crashing in the underbrush, feet coming closer—Gar and Dirk spun their horses to face the disturbance. Miles whirled to face it, too, aches and pains suddenly forgotten.
She burst through the wall of a thicket, running with a limping step and sobbing breaths, looking back over her shoulder in fear, and Miles stared, stiff with amazement. He had never seen a woman move with such complete and utter femininity. He was so stupefied that he didn’t even bring up his staff, and the woman slammed right into his chest. Then he did bring up his arms, but she shoved herself away, lifting her eyes to stare at him.
By itself, there was nothing remarkable about her face. Her features were regular, her mouth rather wide, a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, her chestnut hair wildly disheveled—but Miles stared again, and found himself entranced.
Then her mouth opened in a scream, and Miles had to hold his arms very loosely about her, enough to keep her from running, not enough to frighten, as he pleaded, “No, lass, don’t fear! We’re friends, we’ll protect you from whatever—”
The brush came crashing down, and “whatever” burst out—six stocky men in stained and ragged tunics and hose, encrusted with dirt and grease, four with week-old stubble, three with unkempt beards. They plowed to a halt when they saw two mounted guardsmen facing them, and a peasant thrusting their woman-quarry behind him as he brought up his staff.
“Just go your way now,” Gar said quietly, “and none of us will have anything to worry about.”
The biggest outlaw’s face split in a gloating grin. He gave a harsh laugh and cried, “They fear us, lads!”
“But they’re guardsmen!” the youngest quavered.
“We’re all dead men if we’re caught anyway! What matter the death of a guardsman? Out upon them!” He yanked out a rusty sword and charged Gar with a howl. His mates took life and charged behind him, shouting bloody murder.
Gar didn’t even draw his sword; he swung his horse aside and leaned down to hook a huge fist into the leader’s head as he went by. The leader stumbled and fell to his knees.
Two men pounced on Miles, shouting for the woman, one with a staff and one with a sword that had so many nicks it was nearly a saw. He spun his own staff up to block, then slammed the butt down on the sword. It cracked, and the outlaw stood staring foolishly at the six inches of blade left to his hilt.
One outlaw snatched his bow off his back and strung it while another charged at Dirk with a spear, shouting. The spearhead stabbed straight toward Dirk’s heart—but he leaned aside, caught the shaft, and yanked hard. The man stumbled into the horse’s side and fell. Dirk spun the spear about, shouting, “Archer!” and throwing, hard.