The Runaway Princess (15 page)

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Authors: Kate Coombs

BOOK: The Runaway Princess
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The twin princes of Hanaby Keep had brought enough supplies up the mountainside for a week, which was just as well, since it might take that long to complete the dragon trap. Once the pit had been thoroughly dug, Dagle started chopping trees for the trapping mechanism while Dorn scribbled engineering plans on scraps of parchment.
“What we need is a spring-loaded device,” Dorn told his brother over their lunch of cake and dried fruit.
“Like a giant mousetrap?” Dagle asked.
“Much more elaborate,” Dorn said proudly. “As befits the wiles of a dragon.”
“Not to mention our wiles.” Dagle took another bite of cake.
To one side of their camp, the cow tugged again and again against the tree, catching a predatory scent on the wind. She mooed plaintively.
“What's wrong with her?” Dorn asked, glancing over.
“Maybe she needs to be milked,” Dagle said. “Go check.”
“You check.”
“No, you check.”
“We'll do it together,” Dorn concluded. The princes approached the animal and examined her udder.
“I don't think that's it,” Dagle said.
Dorn shrugged. “Maybe she knows what we've got planned for her.”
“Maybe,” Dagle said. “Come on. I think we've got enough wood.”
 
Northwest of Greeve, a messenger rode up to the palace gates of the Kingdom of Tarylon. His exhausted mount was led to the stables, and the messenger himself was brought before the king. Most days King Tark of Tarylon looked a lot like his son, with rumpled brown hair and an easy smile. Today, however, he was not smiling.
The king accepted the leather pouch from the messenger, extracting a parchment scroll from within. He
read it. His frown deepened into an ominous scowl. “So,” he said, “Stromgard of Greeve thinks to hold our sons by his enchantments.” King Tark leaped to his feet. “Call my generals!” he ordered. He remembered the courier. “I've a message for your master.”
AT FIRST MEG RODE AS HARD AS SHE COULD, thudding past early-rising marketgoers in a wild blur. She still couldn't catch sight of Prince Bain, and the horse began to pant and pull. Meg slowed the horse to a trot. She cupped the compass in her hand, reminding herself that the prince couldn't escape its needle.
Meg had soon passed the waking city of Crown and was riding through the southern stretch of the Witch's Wood (Gorba's wood, she thought). The people she passed eyed her curiously. Only one spoke, a sturdylooking farmer driving a cart filled with beets. He tipped his hat, and Meg smiled. Then he asked, “Where'd you get that horse, lass?” Meg rode on without answering.
After the woods finally faded, farms ran along both sides of the road. Meg thought wistfully of Janna and Gorba to her north, at Hookhorn Farm. But it would do no good to go back without Cam, and she kept riding.
She was nearly to the moors when her thirst overcame her, and she realized belatedly that the horse needed water, too. Meg walked the stallion up to the fence of the last farmhouse to see if she could water him there.
“Hello!” Meg called, tying the horse to the fence post.
There was no answer. For that matter, there was no sign of life, now that she looked closely. The fence was leaning as if it wanted to fall down altogether. There were no curtains at the windows of the house.
“Let's hope the well's not dry,” she told the horse, who had already busied himself cropping weeds.
The well was behind the house. The winch and chain appeared fine, if a little rusty, and the bucket was intact. Meg cleared a growth of morning glories away from the well's mouth and struggled to lift the worn well cover. When it came loose, the wooden wheel nearly landed on her foot, but she heaved it aside, leaning it against the well.
Meg reached for a pebble and dropped it into the darkness. It landed far below with a dry
thwick.
“Huh,” Meg said, wiping her brow. “After all that work!”
She felt a rustling in her pocket. The scarf poked one corner out and stared about with several of its beady eyes.
The land sloped away gradually from the back of the farmhouse, ending in a line of brighter green. “That will be water!” Meg told the scarf. She went down the hill to see. Sure enough, a stream ran through the pastures,
crowded by thirsty grasses and trees. Really, it was nearly wide enough to be a small river. Meg knelt, cupping her hands to drink. Then she went back up the hill to fetch her horse, wondering as she went why the farmer had abandoned such a pretty place.
Meg came around the corner of the farmhouse and stopped short. Vantor's men were there.
Vantor
was there, pulling on the stallion's reins. All of them turned to look at Meg.
“Thief!
” the prince shouted, pointing. The horse took advantage of the situation to bolt.
A fraction of a second later, Meg was pelting back toward the stream with what seemed like a small army pounding after her.
Meg hit the banks and plowed right into the water. The men kept coming. She felt a tug at her hip as she hurried across, trying not to slip on the stones beneath her feet. She was going too fast, though, and she fell, drenching herself. She jumped up again instantly and struggled on.
There were only two men, as it turned out. Vantor didn't count, standing on the bank watching other people get their clothes wet.
The first man splashed after Meg, already too near. She turned and slapped a good sluice of water up his beak of a nose. He fell back coughing, but the other man, a big black-haired thug, grabbed Meg's arm. She twisted free and punched him in the face as hard as she could.
Apparently, he hadn't expected that: his surprise gave Meg a fraction of a second to gain on him. The man threw his huge body at her, roaring like a bear. Meg shoved herself toward the opposite bank, barely out of his reach as he fell facedown in the water. Beaknose was moving again, and behind him Vantor was hollering helpfully on the farmhouse side of the water. “Get her, you fools! Get her!”
Meg reached in her pocket without thinking, wishing she had a knife or a box of pepper—
anything
. Gorba's scarf came out in her hand instead, so she flipped it hard at Beaknose's protruding snout. The scarf shrieked like nothing Meg had ever heard before and latched onto the man's nose. Meg let go of the other end, backing away as he fought to tear it off. Finally the scarf loosened its hold and flew after Meg, undulating horribly. Meg made for land at top speed. The man howled. She stole another glance behind her. His nose looked as if it had run into a hornet's nest. Meg climbed up the bank.
“Witch!” Beaknose shouted, but he had stopped following her. Bear, who had gotten up and begun to surge after her, slowed, his angry eyes turning uncertain. Behind him, Vantor closed his mouth abruptly.
If they were scared of her, maybe they'd let her go. “That's right!” Meg taunted. “I turned your Horace into a salamander!” She ran, with the scarf flapping about her like an addled bird. If she hadn't known it was on her side, she would have been frightened by it.
Meg ran down hills and up hills, around thick stands
of trees and through thin, snatching brambles. She didn't stop until she had to. She stood still for a moment, panting. “Thank you,” she said to the scarf when she had caught her breath. She examined it carefully as it glided closer, but she couldn't see any teeth or stingers. Just those eyes.
The scarf draped itself around Meg's shoulders. She tried not to shiver as its lashes tickled her neck. The scarf waited expectantly. Meg collected herself, remembering Lex's compass. She drew it out of her other pocket. The bone arrow spun, then steadied, pointing. “This way,” Meg said to her strange companion as she marched between the bushes, hoping her clothes would dry soon.
 
“What was that thing?” Vantor asked.
“A lady's scarf,” the big man said.
“It bit me!” moaned the other, still nursing his nose.
“Then it flew away,” Vantor said thoughtfully. “You were right.”
The men gawked. The prince had never said such a thing before.
“A witch can take any form she wants,” Vantor went on. “What better disguise than the shape of a harmless girl?”
“And the scarf was her familiar!” the wounded man cried, hoping his cleverness would be rewarded.
“Perhaps,” the prince said. “Which means we had one of the prizes we're seeking in our hands, and you let her go.”
Bear and Beaknose looked at each other unhappily. It seemed Beaknose's cleverness was going to be punished.
“She won't have gone far. Find her. Bring her to the meeting place.”
“Meeting place?” Bear repeated.
“On the moors? The very large oak tree where I divided you into groups just last night in order”—Vantor sucked a breath between his teeth—“to search for bandits? The bandits we're looking for?”
“The secret camp,” Bear said, pleased.
“What about the witch's familiar?” Beaknose asked before Vantor could explode.
Vantor waved a dismissive hand. “Now that you're warned, you can deal with it.”
Beaknose didn't look convinced, but he held his peace. Just then another of Vantor's men came down the hill from the house.
“Well?” the prince demanded.
The man shook his head. “He got away.” Vantor's face tightened, and the man added hastily, “We still have your other horse!”
“Miserable beast. The castle should have given me its best mount.” Vantor pulled a bag of coins from his pocket. “Ride into town. Get me a real horse.”
The guardsman took the coins and hurried away.
“Where are you going, Your Highness?” Beaknose managed to ask.
Vantor strode off without answering.
“He'll be hunting those bandits again,” said Bear. “And our gold.”
“His gold,” Beaknose muttered, wringing the water out of his sleeves.
 
Nort trudged along the royal road, wondering whether Meg had stayed on it for long, but uncertain where to turn if she had not. He passed a throng of farm folk heading to market, but he kept his head down and didn't meet their eyes. He'd been walking at least an hour when someone surprised him by stepping in front of him, blocking his way. Nort looked up.
“Young Nort,” Hanak said ominously. Half a dozen guardsmen waited behind him.
Nort felt his head spinning. “Yes, sir,” he managed.
“Where might you be going?”
“To find the princess, sir.” That at least was true.
Hanak smiled, but it was not a kind smile. “Coincidentally enough, we've been searching for her as well.”
Nort peered past Hanak at the other guardsmen. He knew them all. In the past they had sometimes given him advice or even praise. Now none of them looked friendly.
“I'm thinking,” Hanak said, “that your disappearance means one of two things. Either you had something to do with the princess being gone—”
“Oh no, sir! I would never!” Nort babbled. He fell silent, realizing he'd interrupted the captain. “Sorry, sir.”
“Or,” Hanak continued, “you're a coward.”
Nort shook his head.
“At any rate, I've already got my orders concerning you.”
Nort waited, puzzled.
“I believe the king's exact words were ‘And if you find the idiot who was guarding her, throw him in the dungeons.'”
Nort gasped. The rest of the guards snickered.
“Come along,” Hanak said. “You can tell me your version of what happened as we march.”
Nort turned back toward the castle, wishing he had a choice in the matter.
“Was it that witch?” the captain asked.
Lying had always come easily to Nort. But today he discovered it was much more difficult to lie while imagining the dungeons under the castle. I could tell the truth, he thought, but then he pictured Meg's face, pictured her saying to the others, “I knew we shouldn't have trusted him.” She'll come back and sort this all out, he assured himself as he launched into a tale that started with the witch and soon soared into an epic adventure involving flying trolls and conspiracies among the southern kings.
When he had finished, Nort abruptly recalled his audience. From the expression on Hanak's face, Nort knew the captain didn't believe a word of his story. The company walked the rest of the way to the castle and through the courtyard in silence. The other men dispersed while
Hanak led Nort silently down the dark stairs into the belly of the castle.
 
It wasn't nearly as nice traveling on foot, Meg decided. For one thing, she was already footsore from all the tromping around she'd been doing the last few days. For another, it seemed like every briar and rock in Greeve conspired to be in her path as she followed the compass needle toward Bain and his prisoner. Besides which, her only companion was a magic scarf, and it kept wandering off.
Meg came to a swampy stretch after a bit and had to take the time to consider whether she was stepping on solid ground as she negotiated the bright hummocks of grass and circled equally green pools of algae. The mosquitoes welcomed her with gusto. The frog song that stopped when she came near made her wish Gorba were with her. Meg glanced up at the scarf—and fell into a deep pool. She sank fast and flailed, rising up coughing brackish water, soaked for the second time today.
“Help!” she cried out of reflex. There was no one to hear her. The scarf, busy chasing a bee, didn't notice her predicament.
Meg grabbed at clumps of grass, but her wet hands slipped off and she went back under the water.
If it hadn't been for Cam teaching her to swim in the frog pond, she would have drowned. As it was, Meg managed to paddle a little and reach the edge of the pool again. She slid along until she finally found a patch of
roots that held when she pulled on them. Slowly Meg dragged her body up and out of the water.
She lay on the ground for a long while, panting and covered in marsh slime. Then she stood to wring out her skirt and slog onward, trying not to be angry with Cam for getting himself turned into a box. Meg shivered despite the late afternoon sunlight. Her clothes dried eventually, but they felt stiff and itchy. Her mosquito bites itched even more.
The princess laughed. She had wanted to get out of the castle and go on a grand adventure, but now that she was in the middle of it, she was very uncomfortable. The scarf circled inquiringly overhead. “Don't worry,” Meg told it. “I'd still rather be here than locked in that heap of stones.”
She walked on, more careful now. The sun began to sink, and the swamp ended. Meg hiked along a grassy hill dotted with shrubs and trees. Already feeling more cheerful, she came across a patch of raspberries not five minutes later and brightened still more. She sat down to rest her sore feet and eat berries.

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