“The rebellion has at least kept them from crushing us beneath their boot heels,” stated Alfred, wrapping himself in blankets. “Are you certain you’ll be warm enough that far from the fire, Your Highness?”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said happily, “I’ll be next to Sir Hugh.” Sitting up, clasping his small arms around his knees, he looked up at the Hand questioningly. “What did you do at the battle? . . .”
“. . . Where are you off to, captain? It seems to me the battle’s being fought behind you.”
“Eh?” The captain started in fear at the sound of a voice when he had figured himself to be alone. Drawing his sword, he whirled around, and peered into the brush.
Hugh, his weapon in hand, stepped out from behind a tree. The assassin’s sword was red with elven blood; Hugh himself had taken several wounds in the vicious fighting. But he had never for one moment lost sight of his goal. The captain, seeing a human and not an elf warrior, relaxed and, grinning, lowered his sword, which was still clean and bright. “My lads are back there.” He gestured with his thumb. “They’ll take care of the bastards.” Hugh, eyes narrowed, stared ahead.
“Your ‘lads’ are getting cut to ribbons.”
The captain shrugged and turned to continue on his way. Hugh caught hold of the man’s sword arm, jerked the weapon from his hand, and spun him around. Astounded, the captain swore an oath and lashed out at Hugh with a meaty fist. The captain ceased to fight when he felt the tip of Hugh’s dagger at his throat.
“What?” he gabbled, sweating and panting, his eyes bulging from his head.
“My name is Hugh the Hand. And this”—he held up the dagger—“is from Tom Hales, and Henry Goodfellow, and Ned Carpenter, and the Widow Tanner, and the Widow Giles . . .” Hugh recited the names. An elven arrow thudded into a tree nearby. The assassin didn’t flinch. The dagger didn’t move. The captain whined and squirmed and shouted for help. But there were many humans who were shouting for help that day, and no one answered. His deathscream mingled with many others.
Work completed, Hugh left. Behind him, he could hear voices raised in song, but he paid scant attention. He was imagining the puzzlement of the Kir monks, who would find the body of the captain far from the field of battle, a dagger in his chest, and in his hand the missive, “No more shall I send brave men to their deaths.” . . .
“Sir Hugh!” The small hand was tugging at his sleeve. “What did you do in the battle?”
“I was sent to deliver a message.”
22
The road Hugh followed was, at the beginning of the journey, a broad, clear stretch of highway. They met numerous people on their way, for the interior of the isle was well-traveled. As they neared the shore, however, the road narrowed. It was rough and ill-kept, littered with splintered branches and broken rock. The hargast trees, or crystaltrees as they were sometimes called, grew wild in this region and were far different from the carefully cultivated “civilized” trees grown on the hargast farms. There is nothing quite so beautiful as an orchard of hargast trees—their silver bark gleaming in the sunlight, the carefully pruned crystalline branches clinking together with musical sounds. The farmers work among them, pruning them, preventing them from growing to the outlandish size that obviates their usefulness. The hargast tree has the natural ability not only to store water but also to produce it in limited quantities. When the trees are kept small—about six to seven feet in height—the water they make is not used to enhance their own growth and can be harvested by driving taps into the trees’ bark. A full-grown hargast tree, over a hundred feet tall, uses its water itself. Its bark is too thick to tap. In the wild, the hargast’s branches grow to tremendous lengths. Being hard and brittle, they break off easily and shatter when they hit the ground, scattering lethal shards of sharp crystalline bark. A hargast forest is a dangerous place to traverse and consequently Hugh and his companions met fewer and fewer people on the road. The wind blew strongly, as it always does near the coastline; currents of air sweeping up from the underside of the isle eddied and swirled among the jagged cliffs. Strong gusts caused the three to lose their footing, trees creaked and shuddered, and more than once they heard the ringing, shattering crack of a falling tree limb. Alfred grew increasingly nervous, scanning the skies for elven ships and the woods for elven warriors, although Hugh amusedly assured him that not even the elves bothered with this worthless part of Pitrin’s Exile.
It was a wild and desolate place. Cliffs of coralite jutted into the air. The tall hargast trees crowded close to the road, cutting off the sunlight with their long, thin leathery brown filaments. This foliage remained on the tree during the winter and only fell off in the spring, prior to growing the new filaments, which would suck moisture out of the air. It was nearly noon when Hugh, who had been paying unusual attention to the trunk of every hargast tree growing close to the roadside, suddenly called a halt.
“Hey!” he shouted to Alfred and the prince, who were trudging wearily ahead of him. “This way.”
Bane turned to stare at him questioningly. Alfred turned—at least part of Alfred turned. His upper half swung around on Hugh’s orders, but his lower half continued acting on previously given instruction. By the time all of Alfred managed to obey, he was lying in the dust of the road. Hugh waited patiently for the chamberlain to pick himself up.
“We leave the road here.” The assassin gestured toward the forest.
“In there?” Alfred peered with dismay into the tangle of underbrush and densely packed hargast trees, standing unmoving, branches clinking together with an ominous musical sound in the swirling winds.
“I’ll take care of you, Alfred,” said Bane, taking hold of the chamberlain’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “There now, you’re not scared anymore, are you? I’m not scared, not at all!”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Alfred gravely. “I feel much better now. However, if I might venture to ask, Sir Hugh, what necessitates our going this way?”
“My airship is hidden in here.”
Bane gaped. “An elven airship?”
“This way.” Hugh gestured. “And be quick about it.” He cast a glance up and down the empty road. “Before someone comes along.”
“Oh, Alfred! Hurry, hurry!” The prince pulled at the chamberlain’s hand.
“Yes, Your Highness,” answered Alfred unhappily. He set his foot into the mass of last spring’s rotting filaments on the roadside. There was a rustle, the underbrush leapt and quivered, and Alfred did the same. “What . . . what was that?” he gasped, pointing a trembling finger.
“Go!” grunted Hugh, and shoved Alfred ahead.
The chamberlain slid and stumbled. More out of terror at falling headlong into the unknown than out of agility, he managed to stay on his feet in the thick undergrowth. The prince plunged in after him, keeping the poor chamberlain in a constant state of panic by descrying snakes beneath every rock and log. Hugh watched them until the thick foliage had blocked them from his sight—and him from theirs. Reaching down, he picked up a rock and removed from beneath it a sliver of wood, which he thrust back into the notch that had been made in the trunk of a tree.
Entering the forest, he had no trouble finding the two again; a wild boar blundering through the thickets could not have made a greater clamor. Moving with his accustomed soft-footed tread, Hugh was standing right beside them before either of the two was aware of him. Purposefully he cleared his throat, figuring that if he didn’t give some indication of his presence, the chamberlain might drop dead from fright. As it was, Alfred nearly leapt from his skin at the startling sound, and almost wept with relief when he saw it was Hugh.