The last thing he did was rummage through his friends’ satchels, commandeering the coin purses and trail rations from each. He would’ve loved to have eaten some of the rabbit that Stu promised them for the morning, but it was unlikely the snares had survived the nighttime assault. And even if they had, all the smart rabbits were probably miles away. He sat down by the fire and made himself swallow some of the food. He would need the energy, and anyway, he didn’t want to follow too closely behind. If they had a rear guard watching for danger, he might get caught, and he didn’t think he’d have trouble following their movements, despite his less-than-stellar woodlore. Based on the noise the beasts made as they left, no doubt they were leaving plenty of tracks as they trod through the forest.
After he had eaten his fill, he stood up and checked the bindings of his weapons in their scabbards. “Let’s hunt some orrrrc, or maybe kobolllld,” he said in his best Aragorn voice, and let out a giggle. He then dropped his torch into the fire and trotted off into the woods, with nothing but the moon through the branches and the path of trampled foliage to guide him.
CHAPTER 13
The path took Chuck in a southeasterly direction, as opposed to due east, though that only surprised him a little. On the one hand, he was used to a relatively linear story line, and if the story said go east to meet the foozle, by gum, that’s what you did. On the other hand, it was all too clear that they weren’t following a story line anymore, so he should try to readjust his mental picture of the world. He was still reeling somewhat from the influx of memories—mostly bad ones—from growing up on the streets but was bolstered by the fact that he had survived it all. More than survived—he had thrived. Perhaps more than anyone in the group, he felt like he could take on this new world.
The kobolds didn’t get any better at hiding their trail, so he felt comfortable lagging behind. The one or two times that he got close enough to hear their movement ahead he paused to eat and take care of nature’s other obligations.
As the day began to brighten—the trees blocked the view of the sun’s climb over the horizon—he began to yawn, feeling the fatigue of only a partial night’s sleep and a long march. “Man, what I wouldn’t do for a Mountain Dew right about now,” he said. With a snort, he added, “And some Cheetos.” Not long after, his eyes began to lose their ability to focus, and he tripped over a root.
“Ugh. End of the line for now.” Hoping that the kidnappers would need to stop and rest at some point, or at least continue to leave a trail, he found another tree in which he could catch a couple hours of sleep. The weight from the extra food and his friends’ weapons didn’t keep him from making it up the trunk in short order, and after he roped himself in, he shut his eyes and fell asleep.
Almost three hours later, the rogue was greeted by the sound of a crow cawing not too far away. He rubbed his eyes, still itchy from sleep, and then slapped himself in the cheeks lightly several times to bring himself to full alertness. The bird cawed again and flew over to land on the branch upon which he was sitting. It let out another squawk at full volume and then looked him in the eyes, as if to make sure he was really awake.
“You again?” He squinted at the bird. “OK, OK, I hear you,” he said grudgingly. “Time to get up, huh? I don’t know what it means to you, but yeah, I’m awake.”
The bird cocked its head, almost as if to suggest that it wasn’t entirely sure it believed him. Chuck stuck his tongue out at it, and it tittered briefly before launching into the air and flying off.
“Well, wasn’t that irritating? I could have used another hour or two. But I guess if I’m up, I may as well get moving again.”
Once down from his perch, he set off again, following the obvious signs of travel. As he walked he kept his eyes on the ground, looking for some sign that his friends were still alive, or at least still with their captors. It seemed, however, that nothing else had fallen loose after those arrows spilled out of Stu’s quiver. On the bright side, he didn’t find any chewed-up bones either.
Around midafternoon he heard the sound of rushing water ahead of him. Chuck slowed instinctively, knowing that the noise of the water might mask sounds of a more hostile nature. The trees had begun to thin noticeably, and soon he was able to see the true end of the forest. Creeping forward toward the tree line, he scanned in all directions for signs of danger. When he reached the very edge of the woods, he crouched down behind one of the last trees and looked out.
In front of him, perhaps thirty yards away, was a shallow river. The riverbed was peppered with large rocks that must have been carried downstream during a previous flood; the terrain was otherwise flat, so the boulders couldn’t have just fallen from a cliff. On the other side of the river was a rolling plain. There were few trees dotting the landscape, but because of the slight hills, the horizon was relatively close. Similar hills blocked his view upstream, and the river curved around and back into the forest downstream. There was no sign of his quarry.
“Devin’s feet,” he cursed, and only briefly wondered what it meant and how he had thought to say it.
He darted to the water’s edge, hoping for some sort of sign. The bank on the near side showed dozens of footprints spread out over a wide area, so it looked as if the creatures had simply walked across in a herd. He picked his way across the river, and ice-cold droplets splashed up from his steps to land on his hands and cheeks. His boots were well oiled and watertight, so while he could feel the temperature of the water through the leather, his feet remained wonderfully dry. The soles were thick and hard, so he barely felt the gravelly riverbed through them.
When he reached the other shore, his heart sank. While the ground was moist, there were no footprints to be seen. He trotted first downstream and then up a hundred yards or more. Either there was a secret cavern in the riverbed (which he judged unlikely) or they were trudging through the water to hide their movements and make pursuit more difficult. He cursed his laziness and regretted that the bird hadn’t woken him up earlier. Casting around hopelessly, he realized he would have to pick one way or the other and hope he was right. He kicked at a rock in frustration and sat down on the bank, placing his face in his palms.
A familiar cawing noise came from above him, and as he lifted his head from his hands, he saw that same bird—or one very similar—circling above him. “OK, so now what, huh?” he shouted. “Even with your help, I still overslept!” He reached down to pick up a stone to hurl at the bird and caught a flash of motion in the river. Three quick steps into the water revealed what it was—a buckle attached to a leather strap. It was the light reflecting off the metal that had caught his attention. He recognized it as part of the battle harnesses the kobolds were wearing the day before, and he realized this meant they had gone upstream, not downstream. The leather was damp but not sodden, suggesting it hadn’t been in the river for very long. It gave him hope that they were not terribly far away.
He briefly looked back up to see if his bird was still there. It had gone to perch on a rock not far upstream from where he was standing. It cocked its head at him expectantly, then flew off farther upstream. “OK, I get it. Timmy fell down the well again, Lassie, and I’ve got to go rescue him.” He set off at a trot, once again hopeful that he might be able to help his friends after all.