The sky was a pale color of gray as Colton galloped from Adoceyn’s house, still much too bright for him to pass unnoticed, but he saw no other choice. If he dared rest till darkness fell, he was sure, he would fall asleep from exhaustion and wake with a sword at his neck. His own plan was hardly less dangerous—its success would in all likelihood be his death—but of late rash, well-thought through, but somehow still thoughtless plans had become a frequent companion.
Colton rode to the west wall of the palace once again and, ripping his shirt, used the makeshift rope to fasten his message to the shaft of an arrow. There he took aim for a window at a higher level of the palace, where he had made his entry several days prior, and fired the arrow. He waited only long enough to see the arrow fly through the window, and then wheeled his horse and disappeared.
Colton reached the edge of the city by dusk and there lured the guards from the entrance to flee away into the night. He kept his bearings as well as he could, marking a configuration of stars like an axe in the sky and keeping straight towards them, always riding west. It was in the pale light of morning that he finally reached the valley. The trees were far less sparse than the servant woman had said, but the rising and falling of hills allowed more shelter than the flat plains of the desert.
Colton chose a rocky edge of the valley to be his refuge, hiding him from the searching eyes of whatever soldiers might be there in a few days. The valley itself allowed the perfect place of exchange for his plans. In its center rose a great pillar of stone, and had he been closer he would have seen the ancient blood stains of many a condemned criminal. The walls of the valley were steep and rocky, a perilous descent for any but a highly skilled horse and rider.
His own horse tethered and watered, Colton collapsed and fell to sleep without ever touching the food he had brought, the cold no obstacle to his rest. He opened his eyes much later to the glare of the sun and a bitter wind. From then on he could only eat, sleep, and wait for the king’s men. He desperately hoped that if they did come, and he sincerely believed they would, that Tyran would ride safe and far away and not stop to consider what part Colton might have played in his freedom.
The third day dragged from an uncertain future to the reality of the present, and Colton prepared himself for disappointment. He was sick and tired of the cruel weather, of no companion but a horse, and of waiting for the king to comply with or ignore his demands. The sun reached its height and had already begun to sink when he at last spotted movement to the east. The figures grew larger, and Colton studied the group of soldiers that galloped towards him. His first thought was vague surprise at the great number of men that the king had sent, and second for whether Tyran was among them.
Colton could make out nothing for certain until they were much closer and had begun to descend the valley wall. Then he discerned one among them who did not hold the reins to his own horse, and as they drew nearer the center of the valley he recognized Tyran’s high-held head. The guards pulled their horses to a halt at the base of the column. There one approached Tyran, but another rode in his way and sharp voices echoed through the valley.
Colton crouched lower and stretched the bowstring to his ear, arrow ready on the string. A fourth man entered the scene, and the two riders were silent as he cut Tyran’s bonds and passed him a sword and dagger. Around them the rest of the soldiers scanned the top of the valley, searching for any sign of the man who would become their next prisoner. A few words were spoken between Tyran and the man that freed him, and then he turned his horse and rode from the valley.
It was not until Tyran was clear of the valley and Colton had watched him ride far across the hills that he rose and mounted his horse at the edge of the valley. The guards looked through narrowed eyes up at him, only visible as a dark figure outlined by the sun, and bows were drawn and trained on him as he descended the valley wall. Colton was thankful there had been no snow yet that year, or the task would have been impossible. He reached the bottom slowly, letting his horse do the work of finding a foothold, and then the guards surrounded him like birds to carrion. They seized the head of his horse and took hold of him with deliberate roughness. These were not the refined, well-trained soldiers that made up the elite forces of the king, but soldiers from the army sent with no intention to treat him kindly. Colton bore their treatment silently as his weapons were seized and his hands bound, but his silence only served to aggravate them further.
“What?” one said, cocking his head like a bird. “Too high and mighty to speak to us?”
Colton made no response.
The man sneered and said, “Deaf, too? Or a mute?”
He raised his fist to strike him, but another stopped him.
“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said, looking around the valley as if they were being watched. “There’ll be time enough for that later.” He glanced at the sky, where heavy clouds had begun to gather. “It’s like to storm soon,” he muttered. “Don’t know what you brought us down here for, to get caught in a blizzard ‘fore we ever get out of this valley. Come on now,” he beckoned the other soldiers, beginning an ascent up the valley wall that proved much more difficult than the descent.
Once out of the valley, the threatening storm showed itself to be far darker and closer than it had appeared from below. They set a quick pace back to the city, though Colton could have ridden much faster had he been given his reins. Colton ignored the angry glares and wide-eyed stares of children as they passed through the streets, for although the soldiers crowded closely around him he still caught the notice of the onlookers, tied with ropes and worn from the wilderness as he was.
Valdis met them within the courtyard of the palace, all cruel arrogance as his eyes met Colton’s, a proud look of self-esteem painted smugly on his face. Several more guards entered with him, their own expressions belligerent and red-faced. A few of them Colton recognized, guards he had knocked unconscious or fought—and beaten—at some point when stealing through the palace. It would seem Valdis had promised them some small form of revenge, for as their eyes fell on him they joined the other dismounting guards, eager for a share in the prize. There were shouts and meaningless insults, and then they drew closer and a punch sent him to the ground. There they fell on him, beating and striking him, and his few kicks, well-aimed as they were, could not keep them off of him. The commotion summoned many more soldiers, but they were content to stand back and watch. It was only when blood began to flow from Colton’s head that Valdis called them off, and they retreated to the edges of the courtyard.
A few remaining guards dragged Colton to his feet at Valdis’s command, and then he was taken away to the prison and thrown to a cell. There, alone, aching, Colton finally tried to order his thoughts, but they were a painful blur that refused to be cleared of their confusion. He put his hand to his head and stared at the blood on his fingers, images flashing before his mind of Fianna sorrowful and the madness in the tunnels and dying in the desert. Everything that had happened since the Games was a blur. He could not sort the days or events from there, just visions and memories of darkness and all his failures and death. Every plan had backfired in their faces, and now if this last one succeeded he would die.
Was this what his life had come to? Have his neck broken at the end of a rope, or all his friends would die? Give himself up to hanging, and hope that Vellatha would somehow be freed from Alastor’s lies? But Adoceyn had disappeared, Aiza could do nothing on her own, and Tyran would only be safe if he stayed as far from Vellatha as he could. The kingdom was set for doom as sure as Colton’s execution in two days.
well done!