Chapter 3

By late afternoon, Dax devoutly wished he would have thought harder about finding a horse to ride. The hot sun beat down, the pack weighed on his back, and his feet hurt. He removed his floppy hat and wiped his brow one more time. Thank goodness Ma-Cookie had reminded him to bring water. He trudged along the river road trying to maintain a purposeful stride. His aching stomach muscles no longer hurt, and he had not felt any more bowel cramps all day. However, his feet dragged, and he could tell Mathilde’s potion and his late night preparations had sapped his energy.

Originally he had thought he would stay off the river road and walk through the forest out of sight. That did not work. The edge of the forest along the route cleared for the road was infested with tarry-berry bushes. Their long stems, covered with small, scratchy thorns interlocked in a most determined way making it almost impossible to push through them. He had tried walking farther back under the  shade of the forest canopy where the bushes thinned out. Walking was easier, but the road was no longer visible. Finally Dax pulled his hat low and opted for the side of the road. He wanted to get as far from the city as possible.

The path along the berm was dusty and rutted in places, but fortunately, the road was not busy this day. Dax had only seen two wagons headed towards Tazzelton and one other solitary rider headed away from the city. Both teamsters had given him a casual wave as they passed, but the well dressed rider had trotted past with fine indifference.

Getting out of Tazzelton had not been difficult. The outer wall, really just a steep earthen berm, was not meant to be a serious barrier. Low gates, closed at night, kept out most wild animals. He remembered his father talking about the wall with Herne joking that the wall was there mainly to keep the merchants at home. West Landly had been at peace for so long a time, walls were hardly needed, but kings had to know about such things. If Tazzelton was ever attacked, the outer wall would be defended only long enough for people who lived or worked in the outer city to flee behind the mighty walls of the old city. Once the stout oak gates of the city were closed, any attacking army would face a daunting obstacle.

The walk from the Castle’s hidden exit around the shoreline of Adok into Tazzelton had been a challenge. There were long stretches of sandy or stony beach, but in two places rock outcrops extended out into the water. One was low enough to climb over, but the other had forced him out into the water. Fortunately, he had not had to swim, and he had managed to keep his pack out of the water. However, it had taken some time to get dry again.

Dax was pleased with the coat transaction. He knew the boy would think the coat stolen and keep it out of sight. The coat might surface in a day or so in the market, but its connection to Dax would be uncertain.  The longer they thought he was still inside the castle, the longer it would be before they searched the city. The longer it took for them to realize he was in the city, the longer it would be before they began to search the roads outside the city. The back of his neck prickled with the thought, and he glanced back at the empty road leading to Tazzelton. Whatever the result, Dax now owned a stained but sturdy, oiled-canvas coat. Although it had the fishy smell of the mud flats, it was bulky and heavy enough to keep him warm and dry…and inconspicuous.

That morning the old fishing docks had been a crowded warren of people, fish traps, drying nets, and other equipment. Dax had never walked through the jumble of the docks and their associated businesses, and he was fascinated by a whole world of work he knew nothing about. But, he did not linger. By he nightfall he wanted to be as far outside of city as possible. To get around Little Adok, a large rock at the east end of the fishing docks, he had had to enter Old Town itself. Since he came from the fishing docks and looked (as well as smelled) like he belonged, the bored guards at the gate never questioned him. At the eastern gate on his way out of the city, no one had noticed him either. Finally, outside the outer wall, the knot of tension inside had melted away, and his spirits had lifted. He had gotten away. His aunt and uncle would help him. They would at least protect him from Mathilde.

Now, several hours down the road, he started to think about a place to spend the evening. The weather was fine, and Dax continued on until the sun was just above the horizon behind him. He didn’t want to wait to look for a place to shelter in the forest after the sun had set, so he forced his way through the tarry-berry barrier at the edge of the road. It was much darker under the canopy, but he found a spot where an outcrop of rock supported a recently fallen tree. He pushed his way through a jumble of branches and fallen leaves to shelter underneath.

A fire would have been nice, but he was too close to the road. Even though light from a fire would be invisible, smoke might generate unwelcome curiosity. Dax made a meal, such as it was, from dried meat sticks and biscuits from his pack. Warm enough in his fisherman’s cloak, he had no trouble falling asleep.

He startled awake the next morning. Dax couldn’t see the sun under the trees, but the quality of light told him he had slept much later than he’d intended. He’d wanted to be up and on the way at first light. As he gathered his thoughts, he realized what had aroused him was the sound of galloping horses. He crept back to the road and watched from concealment as a detachment of Guard soldiers thundered past up the river road.

Were they out training? Then he thought of his escape from Mathilde and went cold with the realization they might be looking for him. He watched until the dust settled, then chewed on a biscuit while he considered his plan for the day. If the Guard were looking for him, the road would be too dangerous to chance today. Traveling through the forest was harder, but he would not be able to tell where he was. During early morning and late afternoon the little shafts of sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead would tell him which direction he headed. To the north, the land rose and became hilly. If he stayed between higher ground and  the road, he should be able to continue heading east until he found the Merrywell, the mountain stream which flowed into the Ostdell River and formed the western edge of the Tremayne Estate, his aunt and uncle’s farm.

Traveling through the forest was nothing like traveling along the road. Under the trees the air was quiet and still. Away from the road, the untouched trees were immense. Never having felt a woodsman’s axe, their huge, gray trunks towered overhead supporting a dense, verdant roof. The tops of the trees were so far overhead, he could not see individual leaves from the ground, only a sea of green. The wind, if there was any that day, did not reach down to the forest floor, and the air was still. Except for a bird call now and then, there were no sounds. Silence pressed on his ears, and it made the rustle of his feet through the underbrush and forest litter all the louder. Even though he was sure no one was near, he walked carefully making as little noise as possible.

The road had hills and dips, but the difficult patches had been leveled, filled, and bridged to make wagon travel easier. Under the forest canopy, Dax had to deal with the terrain in the raw. Rock outcrops, ravines, and fallen trees forced him to follow a convoluted path. He detoured several large hills carefully keeping to the south side to avoid heading farther to the north. Creeks and freshets of burbling water cut through his path from time to time. Some he could step across but one forced him to detour until he found a shallow ford. Once he tried crossing by walking across a large downed tree. Adventure stories made it sound easy, but halfway across he dropped down and finished crawling on all fours. On the other side he gave thanks that he had not fallen off.

Late in the day he found a place to camp and set off to find the road to check his position. He was farther away than he had thought, but he had not done too badly. Yes, he could continue on this way. Not having seen a soul for the whole day, he felt safer. But, he was lonely. Dax had never been alone for this long before. There was always someone around the castle, someplace he had to be, or something he had to do. Now there was only the silent forest.

He returned to his camp site and took out the dragon’s egg. It comforted him to hold it, and sitting there with it in his lap he did not feel so lonely. The fact remained, however, that he was on his own. In adventure stories the heroes were never lonely or frightened. As the night closed in around him, he shivered—the cold he told himself—and snuggled the egg closer. Dax forced himself to think about his father, and the swell of determination he felt reassured him. He would be brave. He could do this. He would do this. Mathilde might have her plot, but she did not have him. He conjured up a vision of himself grown to manhood, striding through the gate of the Castle with the King’s Sword unsheathed…

However he could not finish the vision, and sleep did not come easily this night. His thoughts chased themselves around in his head. What was happening at the castle? Were they truly hunting him now? How far did he have yet to go? What would happen when he came to the Merrywell? Surely he would have to return to the road to use the bridge there…a point where they might be waiting for him. He could not remember hearing anything about the Merrywell above his aunt and uncle’s farm. Maybe he could find a ford upstream and not have to risk the bridge.

At first light the next day, he awoke but it was some time before he managed to shake off the lethargy from a restless night. He stretched cramped muscles but froze in place when he heard a rustle in the dead leaves near the road. After a minute he saw a red squirrel jump up to the trunk of a tree, hesitate for a moment, then scamper up to the first limb. Relieved, Dax completed the stretch. He was awake but not refreshed. As he started to move, he noticed five separate, and itchy, welts from biting midges which had attacked in the night. His stomach, well recovered by now, demanded food, so he ate a couple more biscuits from Ma-Cookie’s kitchen before shouldering his pack again.

The forest was different with every step yet drearily unchanging on the whole. Near midday he attempted to find the road again, but he realized walking while the sun was high in the sky had been a poor decision. The road was not where it was supposed to be. With the sun nearly overhead, he could not be sure of his direction. He remembered, a little late, of his father telling him that people in the woods tended to walk in circles if they did not take careful sightings on distant objects. Dax sighed. That memory came too late to help this day.

Disgusted, he sat down where he was to wait for the sun to move far enough in the sky to show him which way was west. Since he had some time, he decided to make himself a bow with the thought of finding a squirrel or other small game in the forest. Herne had shown him the basic idea on one of their hunting trips in the past, and he had packed several bowstrings, arrow points, and lashing thread with that purpose in mind. Dax used one of his knives to fashion a small bow and some crude arrows. Without proper fletching, the arrows were not particularly accurate, but, if he stalked something, at short range it might do.

Now that he was prepared to hunt, not a single animal showed itself. Still bored and ambitious, Dax cut himself a couple of walking sticks. His father had always used walking sticks when he carried a pack. He showed Dax how the sticks could take some of the load as well as help steady your steps over uneven terrain. If you found a solid place to push off, a walking stick could help you vault over a stream too wide to step across. During Herne’s training sessions, the veteran general had drilled Dax in another important use of a walking stick. It made a devastating weapon in the right hands. While a staff did not have the killing power of a sword, a well trained person with a staff could hold off a swordsman, deflecting rather than blocking blows, and, with its longer reach, deliver an aggressive attack. The main trick was to make sure the staff stayed at full length. Any direct collision with the edge of a sword could shorten a stick dramatically.

As time passed, the shadows shifted, and Dax could once again tell which way was east. He made for the road, and sure enough, he had gotten turned around. He didn’t recognize this stretch of road, but the track was deserted. For a time he stood in the shadow of a tree and waited. When there was no sign of any other travelers, he decided to chance the road for a while to make up for lost time.With his eyes and ears fully alert, he was ready to disappear into the brush at the side of the road at the first sign of anyone approaching.

On the road, Dax passed a small farm. He knew there were a number of small farms along the road, but this was the first he had seen. Traveling in the forest, he had missed them all so far. As he passed he glimpsed someone out in the field planting, but Dax pulled the brim of his hat lower and continued walking.