Three Fugitives: Book One of the Six Stones Trilogy

1. A Fugitive

Get going! Your life's in danger!

Orren took off at top speed. In the faint light of pre-dawn, he skipped like a hare over bushes and brambles and vaulted over boul- ders. He ignored stinging briars at his feet and the cold, mountain wind that blasted his bare chest and whipped his long hair about. His heart pounded from exertion, and his lungs heaved, but he did not tire, for Richard's warning echoed in his mind. Like a hornet's sting, the old man's last words pushed the boy to keep running.

Horns blew.

Orren knew that his enemies had been searching for him all night and were now finally closing in on their prey. He heard them yell and whoop. He could sense their eagerness to dole out pain and terror. These were Lord Berthus's men, known as the toughs. Cruel, violent, and unquestioningly obedient to their master, they would show him no mercy if they caught him.

He scrambled up the side of an enormous boulder. When he reached the top, he looked back and saw lantern lights in the dis- tance. The hunters were coastal villagers unfamiliar with the unin- habited high country. This provided Orren with an advantage. He knew the area well, and would have had no trouble escaping, were it not for his enemies' superior numbers.

He clambered over the edge of the boulder and dropped five feet onto the ground on the other side. He picked himself up and kept moving. The terrain was rough and rocky, but his body was nim- ble. His feet found every flat surface and each small space between stones. Every time he reached a boulder, his fingers grasped the rough, pockmarked surfaces, and he shifted his weight onto the rock so he would not fall backward. Large obstructions were no match for his agility.

When he could go no farther, he collapsed on the ground and struggled to catch his breath. He lay there in the darkness, his body

hot despite the autumn chill. He trembled and his chest and legs ached. Maybe if he were to stay still, he thought, his pursuers would pass him by and not realize he was there.

The horns blew again.

A face swam into Orren's mind, sending a jolt of terror through his body. It was the handsome face of a twenty-three year old man with red-blond hair and green eyes. To Orren, however, it was hide- ous. It haunted his dreams every night of his life and was always present in the back of his mind during the day.

It was the face of Lord Berthus Randolphus.

Orren had grown up on Lord Berthus's manor. Forced to live among wallowing hogs, the boy feared the tyrant and the toughs who worked for him. Lord Berthus seemed to have a particular hatred for him, and the boy was aware that his life always hung in the balance. Throughout his childhood, the tyrant's presence had been over him like a pall of death, with only Richard standing in its way.

Orren wanted nothing more than to get away from Lord Berthus and to never see him again. To do so, however, he would have to move quickly and with stealth. Richard had instructed him to flee to the mainland, and once there, to find his way to the city of Alivadus. There, under powerful Baron Toynberg, who controlled that region, Orren would find sanctuary and would never have to worry about Lord Berthus again.

Electrified by that thought, he leapt into action and adrenaline took over. He set off at a faster pace . He skipped from rock to rock with the agility of a mountain goat and plowed through the under- brush like a badger. Thorns scratched him, and branches whipped his face. A few times he trod on jagged rocks that hurt his bare feet, but he did not notice. All that mattered was his need to escape, to put Lord Berthus behind him forever.

He soon realized that his efforts were getting him nowhere. No matter how fast he ran, the toughs' voices drew closer. His speed and agility would be to no avail unless he could find a way to mis- lead them.