Savage Games of Lord Zarak (13 page)

“Bring my horse over here!” Falmor ordered.

As he swung into the saddle, Lady Lara reached for the bridle of her waiting mare. “I'm coming with you, Father.”

“Come, then!” And he spurred his mount forward.

Sarah leaped into the saddle of the horse that had been readied for her. Quickly she reined him past the garden. “Come on, Josh! We're going, too.”

Without hesitating, Josh sprang up behind her. “What's happening? What's with the king?” he asked as they pounded over the drawbridge.

“I don't know. But one thing is clear—he's not Lord Zarak's man anymore.”

 

 

R
oland's feet flew. The road that ran alongside the castle turned east into the forest, and he thought,

I've got to get into the deep woods at once.

When he had gone no more than two hundred yards, he heard Lord Zarak's cry, “After him!” At once Roland turned and darted into the forest. He sought the densest part, knowing that the thick trees would make it difficult for the horses to follow. His greatest fear was the dogs. But he had a brief plan in mind.

The stream,
he thought.
I've got to get in the stream!

The brook that curled around the castle and then made its way into the depths of the forest was shallow during the dry season of the year. It would be no more than inches deep except for a few deeper pools. By the time Roland reached it, he could hear the barking of the dogs.

He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and then cut back into the water.
The water will kill any scent, and they won't know whether I've gone upstream or downstream. They'll have to check both ways.

He splashed along, making sure that his feet did not touch the bank. He listened to the dogs, hoping that the barking would fade. If so, that would tell him that they had gone the other way. But instead, their baying grew stronger. “They've taken this direction, all right. But they can't track me through water,” he encouraged himself.

He remembered his dream of—or, perhaps, his actual visit with—Goél.
I promise to believe in you no matter what happens, Goél,
he thought.
So whatever comes next, I'm trusting you.
And he remembered that he had a long way to go.

For what felt like miles, Roland splashed through the brook. He could no longer hear the dogs. They were behind somewhere, searching for a trail. Then the stream became a pool so deep that he could no longer run in it. But it was probably safe to leave the creek now and plunge into the wilderness itself, he reasoned. He tried to get his bearings.
I think I'd better go this way. Seems that the woods are thicker in this direction.

Briars caught at his feet and tore his clothes as he pushed along. He was weakened by his days in the dungeon without good food, and his breath was labored. An open branch caught him across the face and made his eye burn, but he ignored it.

Roland never knew how far he had run when he threw himself down on a grassy spot to rest. His breath came in sobs. He had no idea where he was.
For all I know,
he thought,
I may be going around in circles. But at least I still don't hear the dogs.

When he had caught his breath, he tried to take a bearing on the sun. It was going down rapidly. The huge trees around him now cast great shadows, darkening the area under their foliage. There was no sign of a path.

Roland began trotting along again, conserving his strength. He had not gone twenty minutes more when suddenly his ears caught a faint sound. He stopped and listened with dread. It came again, and he muttered, “The dogs—they've picked up my trail!”

He plunged ahead through the thickness of the forest, hoping to find another stream where he might lose the dogs. There were no streams, however, and he thought their baying grew ever more powerful and strong.

A wild notion came to Roland then. He glanced up into the trees and thought of climbing one and going from tree to tree until he had lost the dogs.
They couldn't track me up there,
he thought. But he had no time to get far that way. And once he was up in a tree, he was trapped. He threw himself forward.

He came to a sharply crested wooded hill. His breath was coming in spasms now, but he struggled up the incline. Just as he got to the top he looked back to see the dogs, huge blue-colored animals, emerge from the thicker woods below. They sighted him and let loose a tremendous baying.

With no plan at all now, Roland ran along the crest, hoping to again find a place too thick for the horses—wherever they were—to follow the dogs. But the timber was thinning out, and he had to escape the dogs at once. He looked down the steep slope and started over the edge into the canyon below. He fell, rolling down the hill, his flesh scraped by sharp stones. When he got to the bottom, he scrambled to his feet and ran, but the hounds were already baying up on the ridge.

And then he came to a sheer stone wall and knew that he had run into a blind canyon. Whirling, he snatched up a dead branch to defend himself, the only weapon available. Now the dogs were in the canyon.

Backing into a niche in the canyon wall, Roland reversed the jagged end of the branch. When the first dog leaped at him, he rammed the branch as hard as he
could into the animal's throat. The dog's baying was cut off, and he began rolling and choking.

But others were upon him. He fought them off by jabbing with the stick. Their howlings and barkings filled the air, and he knew then that the end was near.

“I'm trusting you, Goél,” he gasped aloud, “even though I don't see any hope now.”

And then Lord Zarak came into view. The lords accompanying him on the Hunt were strung out behind him.

The wizard reined in his horse, a cruel smile on his lips. “Well, we have found our quarry,” he said as his followers galloped up.

“Will you kill him now, my lord?” Cranmore asked. He sounded worried. “Perhaps we had better wait. You know what the king's command was.”

Zarak said, “We'll let the dogs kill him. That way we can say we intended to stop them.”

The hunters sat on their horses watching as the dogs time and time again tried to get at Roland, but he fought them off valiantly.

“He's a fighter, my lord,” the sheriff said. “He's got courage.”

“Those mangy dogs!” Zarak cried. “Kill him! Kill him!”

Even as he shouted, someone behind Zarak cried, “It is the king and the Lady Lara, my lord!”

Zarak whirled in his saddle.

Roland, battling the dogs, was dimly aware that the king was indeed coming, leaning forward on his horse, urging him to full speed. Then Lord Zarak grabbed his spear and put his spurs to his horse.

Completely exhausted, Roland saw the hounds scatter and heard Zarak's cry of rage.

The king's counselor, spear in hand, stopped not ten feet away. “You've had your run and now you die!” he screamed.

Roland saw the wizard's arm go back. He saw the spear plunge forward. It drove toward him so quickly that all he could do was twist his body. The spear tore through his clothing and raked across his chest. Roland grabbed up the spear. At least now he had a proper weapon. He knew that Zarak would be coming at him next with his sword.

Indeed, the wizard had drawn his sword, but even as he rushed toward Roland, an arrow pierced the fleshy part of Zarak's upper arm. Other arrows began hissing through the air. Zarak spun about to see his followers falling back.

Looking upward, Roland saw the edge of the canyon lined with bowmen in green. And then he heard someone shouting, “For Goél! For Goél!”

The king and the Lady Lara came off their horses, and she came running to him. “Roland,” she cried, “are you all right?”

“I'm all right. What are you doing here?”

“You're bleeding,” she whispered.

Roland looked down at his chest. “Nothing serious.” Dazed, now he stared at the king, wondering what
he
was doing here.

But there King Falmor was, standing with drawn sword, watching Zarak, Cranmore, and the lords whirl to flee on their horses. Some appeared to be wounded. A few of their number were on the ground, lying still as dead men.

“Well, this battle is won,” the king said. There was
a happy expression in his eyes. But then he said to Lady Lara, “You were right about Zarak. He is an evil man.”

At that moment, Roland saw the last of the fleeing lords draw a bow and let fly an arrow toward them. It was surely accidental. He had no hope of hitting anything, but the arrow struck the king in the side. Falmor gave a cry and staggered back. He had received what could be a deadly wound.

“Father! You've been hurt!”

The king looked down at the arrow. “My daughter,” he said weakly, “if I die, you will rule this kingdom. Do not let Zarak have any power over you.”

“Father, you will get well! You can't die!”

“We've got to stop the bleeding,” Roland cried.

A moment later Goodman and the Sleepers rushed up. Josh and Sarah were among them. Roland could not take it all in.

Josh knelt down beside the king. “This is a bad wound,” he said. Goodman, who seemed to have had much experience with wounds, removed the arrow, but his face was grave. “Sometimes the lords put poison on their arrows, and the king looks deathly ill . . .”

“We must get him away from here,” Josh said grimly, “If I know Zarak, he'll be back with the army.”

“Yes. Make a litter, quick!” Goodman said.

Roland watched two of Goodman's followers trim saplings and use their outer garments to make a rough stretcher.

“Quick, now! We've got to get him away from this place!” Goodman urged. “We will go to Garn's home. Bentain is the best for treating wounds.”

Four men carried the king. His face was pale, and his eyes were closed.

At Lady Lara's insistence, Roland, beginning to feel weak, mounted the king's stallion.

Then she mounted the mare, and side by side they rode behind the stretcher bearers. She looked at him, her face pale and her lips trembling. “He's got to be all right. He can't die.”

But Roland knew how serious the wound was. “We'll hope for the best,” he said. He suddenly reached over and took her hand. “You came for me,” he whispered, and he lifted her hand and kissed it. Then he said, “Your father has proven himself to be noble indeed. Surely he will live to rule his people.”

 

 

 

T
he trip through the forest seemed painfully long, and the Lady Lara could not keep her concern from showing. One time, when tears were running down her cheeks, Sarah rode beside her. The girl leaned over and put a hand on Lara's arm. “Take courage, my lady,” she said quietly.

“But he might die!”

“We Sleepers have been through many dangerous times, and all of us have been wounded at one time or another. Always we have been kept safely by Goél. He does what is best even when we don't understand.”

“But Goél is not here.”

“He is not unaware, my lady, of your grief. You will see.”

After a roundabout journey, the procession arrived at the house of Garn. They were met by Garn and his wife and old Bentain.

“The king is here,” Goodman said quickly. “He must be cared for—he is grievously wounded.”

“He must take over our house,” Garn said. “It is poor enough, but he is welcome to all we have to offer.”

Goodman nodded. “Make a bed ready for him, then. And, Bentain, you must see to his wound. I did the best I could.”

Goodman supervised the moving of the king, and soon Bentain was tending to the wounded man. “It is a bad wound indeed,” he said. But he glanced at Lady
Lara and said quickly, “Still, I have seen men with worse wounds recover.”

“Let me do something to help,” Lady Lara said.

“Sit beside him. That will help. I must go to the forest. There are certain herbs that, I think, will help his recovery.”