A World Without Heroes
Page 98

Jason found Jasher’s scorched head and neck still attached to part of his torso, lying face up, long hair matted in charred tangles. Jason turned the remnant of his former protector facedown and checked beneath the roll of hair at the nape of his neck. He found an empty socket.
“The seed got out,” Jason said, on the verge of tears. “Search the grass!”
The three of them fanned out, combing carefully through the knee-high grass.
“Maybe it was destroyed,” Tark said.
“No,” Jason said, refusing to consider the possibility. “He saved us. We’re going to find it.”
“The amar is normally quite durable,” Drake muttered, studying the ground.
The circle of their search continued to widen. Jason periodically looked back toward the castle for evidence of additional pursuit.
Tark returned to where Jasher’s head lay, and squatted, searching meticulously. A moment later he held up the gray, walnut-sized seed. “We missed it. The seed was half buried. It must have detached while he was lying there, before you flipped him over.”
Jason sighed with relief. “We have to plant it in a safe, fertile spot.”
“Far from here,” Drake said.
Tark nodded, slipping the seed into a pouch on his belt.
One of the horses, the black one Jasher had ridden, remained close by. Kimp’s steed had started grazing over a hundred yards away. The gray horse Jasher had led had run off a good distance across the field. It began grazing as well.
“I’ll bring the gray horse back,” Tark said, mounting Jasher’s horse.
“I’ll get Kimp’s mount,” Drake called over his shoulder, already running toward the stallion.
Jason looked around. Where was Rachel? Jasher must have insisted she hang back.
The gray horse shied away from Tark when he got close, but Tark rode it down and caught hold of the reins.
Blood trickled down Jason’s arm to his hand as he watched Drake mount Kimp’s horse. Jason hesitantly inspected his wound. His sleeve was tattered above ugly tears and punctures in his skin. Maybe he could cut a strip of material from his cloak and fashion a bandage.
Tark was waving an arm, pointing in Jason’s direction. Jason turned around. No less than twenty horsemen were emerging from the trees behind him at full gallop. These were not reinforcements from the castle. They came from off to one side.
Drake sat astride his horse, sword in hand, frowning. Behind Drake, across the field, Jason saw Rachel emerge from the edge of the woods on horseback. Tark was returning for Jason, the gray horse in tow. Neither Tark nor Drake could possibly make it in time. Jason waved them away. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. “Drake, save Rachel! Tark, tell her ‘rim’! Tell her ‘rim’! Go!”
Saluting with his sword and spurring his mount, Drake rode away from the soldiers. His horse jumped a fence and galloped madly up a gentle slope toward where Rachel waited.
Tark reined in his horse, hesitating.
“Get out of here!” Jason yelled. “‘Rim’!”
Tark released the gray horse and took off, veering away from Drake.
Jason turned to face the riders. With no recourse he raised his hands in surrender. Most drew up around him. Four went after Tark. Five others chased Drake and Rachel.
Several lightly armored men dismounted, seizing Jason roughly. These were not conscriptors—or if they were, they wore less impressive armor than the ones who had previously tried to capture him. Their helmets had no face guards. They searched him and relieved him of his poniard.
“Lord Jason of Caberton, I presume?” asked a man still seated on horseback, apparently the commander.
“Yes.” Jason felt defiant. He was captured, his friends were on the run, and he had little to lose. “How’d you know?”
“We were warned early this morning of your possible defection. A recent signal confirmed your decision. Is this the seedman Jasher?” The commander indicated the charred remains.
“It’s his identical twin.”
“We know he traveled with you until recently. Where is his amar?”
“I ate it.”
“This is a foolish time for flippancy.”
“I panicked. It tasted horrible. Do you have any mouthwash?”
“Search the vicinity,” the commander ordered his men. “And check the young lord thoroughly.”
They methodically searched Jason and his clothes. Crouching soldiers scoured the surrounding area with painstaking care. “The amar is not here, sir,” a soldier finally reported.
“Search again,” the commander directed. “There can be no error. And bind the prisoner’s wounds.”
A stinging salve was applied to Jason’s torn arm and leg, after which they were wound with linen bandages. Nobody found a seed.
“One of the other men has it, then,” the commander concluded. “They should be apprehended by now.”
“Your men won’t be back,” Jason said. “Do you know the kind of people who live at Harthenham? I’m not talking about the fat ones. I’m talking about the sort who kill guys like you as a hobby.”
“Enough nonsense.”
Several minutes later a lone rider returned, his horse lathered.
“The man who went north rides Kimp’s stallion, Mandibar. The girl had an excellent mount as well. The horses were too fast. The others remain in pursuit, but unless they make a mistake, our only chance lies in anticipating a destination and heading them off.”
The commander scratched his cheek. “Where was he going?” he asked Jason.
“How should I know? He was running away.”
“Tell me about your friends.”
“I hardly knew them. The one who ran off with the girl is named Christopher Columbus. Tall guy. Really skinny. Green hair. Fangs. Six fingers on his left hand. About a hundred years old. Lots of wrinkles.”
“I trust you are enjoying yourself,” the commander sneered. “You are currently protected by orders to inflict no unnecessary harm. Otherwise I would teach you to guard your tongue. Your impudence will not go unpunished for long.” He turned to his men. “Edmund—go to Harthenham and ascertain who we are pursuing. Bradford—take two men to Orin and find the pair who fled north. Cecil, take two men and track the man Eric pursued to the west. The rest of us are off to Felrook.”
CHAPTER 23
THE WORD
A-rim-fex-en-dra-puse. Arimfexendrapuse. The stupidest word Jason could have imagined. Utter nonsense. Supposedly it would unmake Maldor. He repeated the odd syllables in his mind, varying the inflection. If it failed, he could always try “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”