I leapt into the moat before they could loose the arrows and swam toward the opposite shore, kicking furiously to compensate for my limp left arm. The water was frigid and foul enough to make my eyes burn. Something slimy brushed my ankle, and I kicked hard, refusing to imagine what was floating in that sludge. I reached the opposite bank and clawed my way out, soaked, freezing, and reeking worse than any tavern cesspit.
Another arrow flew past me and I tore for the cover of the northern woods, hoping that the guards would chase me instead of Baron and the others, who had hopefully made it to the southern side. I threw one look over my shoulder before plunging into the woods and smiled. The drawbridge was fullyon fire and the castle was alive with the panicked bustle of people rushing to put out the fires that were spreading all over it. There was no way horses would cross that; they’d be trapped inside. That only left the servant footbridge that people could cross, and most would be needed to help extinguish the fires.
I crashed through the underbrush. Guards would come and I planned to give them a trail to follow. Every muddy footprint I left behind was another step of safety for Father and the men. Yet each step also made the arrow shaft stuck in my shoulder wobble, and a pained moan escaped my lips as I ran.
I tramped through the woods, running even though each breath tore at my lungs. Had I gone far enough?
Behind me, a faint howl came and my blood ran cold. Baying followed.
Dogs.
My stomach dropped. They’d track my scent in seconds. Even the moat stench clinging to me might not be enough to throw them.
I sprinted harder, weaving through trees, until the howl of the pack closed in. I scrambled up the nearest trunk, bracing myself on a thick branch about six feet up. I’d dropped my bow and empty quiver at the top of the tower before I slid down the rope. Would my small throwing knives be enough against hunting dogs?
Four hounds burst into the clearing, teeth gleaming in torchlight. They clawed at the trunk, snarling and jumping up. I swallowed hard, fingering my grip on the handle of my first knife.
“Sorry, boys,” I whispered, and let the knives fly.
They fell one by one, but my last knife went awry and only managed to injure the final dog. He howled worse than ever, knife lodged into his leg. Could I outrun it? How long until the dogs’ handler came behind? With the arrow in my shoulder, Iwould be useless in hand to hand combat, and I couldn’t collect any of my knives until the last one was killed.
The dog continued to snap at me for several more minutes as my anxiety grew to a critical level. I had to keep moving. Could I perhaps drop and retrieve one of my knives before the dog was upon me?
It was my best option. The moment the dog stopped to lick at his wound, I jumped from the tree, ripped a knife from a dog I’d already killed, and turned the blade on the final bloodhound.
With a snarl, he leapt on me. His teeth sank into my side just as I plunged the knife into his chest. My own scream mingled with its dying howl.
For a minute, I fought to control my breathing. Everything hurt, but I had no time to rest. With an agonized groan, I pushed myself to my feet, retrieved my knives, and pushed on, going slower so I could cover my tracks.
Several times throughout the night, I had to duck into the underbrush to avoid occasional search parties combing the forest, all waving torches, cursing about the archer who had slipped from their grasp, and lamenting that they had lost the trail. The distant shouts of soldiers carried unnervingly well in the cool night air, too close at times, then fading, then close again. Each time a twig snapped under my boots, I froze, heart battering against my ribcage, wondering if the next sound would be the twang of a bowstring.
At dawn, I veered into a wide arc so I could head toward the southern forest. Now that I was heading toward Baron and my father, I was careful to no longer leave a trail. Every step was repeated misery. The arrow shaft jutting from my shoulder burned like it was a hot poker beneath my skin, and the dog bite along my ribs throbbed with each ragged breath. I kept one arm clamped against my side to slow the bleeding, and the pressure made spots dance in my vision. But pain was a luxury I couldn’tindulge. The forest spun around me in wavering shadows. Still, I forced my legs to move. Ihadto catch up.
I pressed onward, weaving through the trees, forcing myself deeper into the dark. Every brush of a branch against one of my wounds made my knees weaken, and twice I had to lean against the rough bark of an oak just to keep from collapsing. My breath came in harsh, uneven pants, and sweat stung my eyes despite the chill of the morning. I strained to hear anything—hooves, hounds, even the soft treading of feet—but all that met my ears was the frantic thudding of my own pulse. My pursuers must have either followed the false trail or given up.
I kept going, gritting my teeth and swallowing back the helpless, rising terror that I might bleed out alone before I found Father and the others. I refused. Iwould notlet that be how my story ended.
When I finally found the men farther south, the morning sun filtered weakly through the leaves. They were moving at a dishearteningly slow pace. Baron carried Lincoln with grim determination and Father limped between Little John and Will Scarlet.
Relief flooded my chest at the sight of them.
“You made it!” I called out from behind them.
They turned and gasped as one.
“You look dreadful, Laurel!” Will Stutely blurted.
“Thanks, Will. You always know how to make a girl feel good.” I winced, hands reaching up to where the arrow still protruded from my shoulder.
Baron put Lincoln down and hurried over, meeting me just as I caught up to Little John, Will Scarlet, and Father at the rear of the group. “How bad is it?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said with a tight smile. They were in much worse conditions than I was.
Father wrinkled his nose. “You don’t smell fine.”
I gave a slight laugh. I regretted it the moment my ribs contracted and pain from the dog bite flared white hot. I fought to keep my expression neutral. “You should talk,” I snapped in a grand attempt at my usual bravado. “You reek.”
Only then did I look down and see how much blood soaked my clothes and body. The moat stench clung to me just as badly as the smell from Father and the Merry Men not washing for so long.
