Treasures of Ília - Dragonmage stories

2. Escape

The sun was shining brightly on the slopes of the wild-flowered hills. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, calm and peaceful. Here in the sun, the warmth of summer sparkled, while further away, cool breezes came from the forest.

A grey horse trotted on the hillside. On its back two riders. One was almost unconscious, the other supported and held him. The horse stepped cautiously, but for the wounded man every movement was painful. He struggled with all his might to keep his face in the sunlight.

"Blessed sunshine!"

The young man who held him with his strong arms had tears in his eyes. All his attention was on the road; he looked unsettled and worried about his companion.

"We will soon be out of danger. If we can go a little further without being noticed."

To be unnoticed! There wasn't much chance of that. Suddenly they heard voices.

"They're following us! Let's get down to the stone wall, son."

The gray horse began to trot, and the two men adjusted their weapons. One of them had a sword, the other carried a long dagger at his waist.

"Will you stand the fight, father?"

"The wall is good shelter. You stay on the horse, I'm better on foot. If you see me fall, don't care for me, run away. You're still young. Keep me in your memory."

They looked at each other, perhaps for the last time before the coming fight. The young and the ageless man, both of the elven race. One wore shining armor covered by a silver cloak; the other's forest green robes gleamed with diamond jewels. The young man no longer saw the wounded, pale face, but the father he wanted to save, even if he had to risk his own life.

The five riders were already on their heels.

At the walled roadside, which reached chest-high, the man in the green cloak jumped off his horse, and though he felt a pain in every limb, he prepared for battle. He knew this was his last chance; and he would rather die, but he would not be captured again. The familiar grip of his dagger, a sure weapon he had used in countless battles, was in the palm of his hand, and he trusted it with his life. He expected to fight to his last breath.

The silver-clad warrior took up his fighting stance on horseback, the wind catching his baggy cloak and long blond hair, adorned with silver jewelry. His grey horse turned to face the enemy as he was accustomed to fight.

The five attackers approached in a semicircle. All wore the white cloak and silver of the Queen's Guard, trimmed with gold thread. Their swords glinted in the afternoon sunlight. They coordinated their attack with a concerted movement, but the other two warriors knew these signs. They knew exactly when to expect the attack.

When they clashed, the man fighting from the ground immediately looked for the leader of the guards. With a swift movement, he leapt to his side and pulled him from the saddle. He saw in the man's widening eyes the surprise, the helplessness, as he lay sprawled on the grass, trying to struggle, to overcome his desperately wrestling opponent. For as much as he was fighting for his life, he did not want to kill one of his own blood, his own people. He was doing his best to give his son time, who was already wrestling with two attackers, and he managed to unseat one of them. The sword of the other flew far away from an unexpected counter-attack. But two more had already joined the battle!

The father felt he was trying in vain to hold down the leader of the guards, who was about to grab him by the throat, and slowly untangled himself from the grip. He had less and less strength left to fight, blood was oozing from his wounded arm, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that no matter how valiantly his son fought, there was no chance.

'Run, my son!' he cried with his last strength, and then all he felt was the sudden pain, and everything went black. He did not hear the young man's terrified cry; did not see how he had managed to cut his way between the two riders charging towards him, and flee. Nor did he feel the bleeding-faced leader of the guards lean over him, unbuckle the dagger-belt from his waist, take the handle of the ornate dagger from his palm. And he did not feel the contemptuous kick upon his body.

"Run, little deer, runfor your life!"