“Let us go!” Dulnear urged, running toward the gate.
“What about the gate guard?” the boy asked.
“Already taken care of,” the northerner stated as he gestured toward the arrow-ridden body hanging from the wall.
As they reached the gate, Son looked around for a winch to raise the bars. “Where are the ropes?” he asked, feeling fear and desperation build in his chest.
“No time for that!” Dulnear stated urgently. He then sheathed his sword, reached down, and threw the portcullis above his head. “Go!” he shouted.
Son ran past his friend and turned around, spying lights moving inside. “I see torches!” he exclaimed.
The man from the north glanced over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and ran forward, allowing the barred entrance to fall behind him. “Quickly!” he shouted.
The night was black, and the boy could see very little. He reached out and grabbed his friend’s long fur coat, afraid that they might become separated. His steps were much shorter than his long-legged companion, and he struggled to keep up. Unexpectedly, a cold voice could be heard from the high corner of the castle, stopping them both in their tracks.
“You should have killed me, boy!” the voice of the slaver king rang out in the darkness.
“Did you hear that?” Son asked his friend.
“Pay no attention,” the northerner replied. “He is only trying to sow fear. Intimidation is his greatest weapon.”
Son swallowed and tried to push the mounting angst away. He was about to move forward when the voice called out again.
“You should have run me through when you had the chance! Now she will have to die.”
The boy shook, and a tear formed in his eye. “What are we going to do?” he asked.
“Keep moving forward,” the warrior said. “Do not let his words dampen your courage.”
Son wiped the tear from his eye and set his mind to rescuing Maren. But what little fortitude he had seemed to melt away as Ocmallum’s voice seemed to grow louder and more ominous.
“Gale Hill Farm!” the old man yelled.
The boy’s knees threatened to buckle. He felt exposed and defeated. “Dulnear!” was all he could think to say.
The man from the north said nothing, but the boy could feel him breathing more heavily.
Suddenly, the noise behind them grew louder and he reckoned that the soldiers had reached the portcullis. “They’re gaining,” he warned, with more than a hint of desperation.
“There!” Dulnear whispered back, beginning to plow forward.
In the distance, the boy could see a torch glowing. His instinct screamed to reach it as fast as he could. He let go of the northerner’s coat and ran as though his life depended on it. Like a drowning man racing for the surface of the water, he shot through the darkness until he was upon Faymia and the horses, with his friend close behind him.
Gesturing with the torch, the woman urged from atop her steed, “Quickly, mount up! We must ride hard and ride fast.”
Son hopped onto the horse’s back behind her, and Dulnear mounted the other animal.
“Toward Redbramble,” the man from the north instructed. “If we ride through the night, we should be there by first light.”
“But it’s dark as soot,” the boy answered.
“Then we take our chances,” the man said, moving out onto the path that led back toward Dorcadas. “If Ocmallum dispatches soldiers to fortify the slaver camp, and they reach it before we do, then all of this will have been for naught.”
Son looked out into the void of night. He knew it would be dangerous, but the men approaching from the castle would be even more so. He swallowed and responded, “Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Heart to Fight For
As Maren stood in her cage, she wondered what was to become of her. Her pen was the only one that was locked, and as she watched the other slaves come and go, she felt a strange emotion that was one part jealousy and one part sadness for those souls (herself included) that had exchanged their freedom and dignity for sweets and amusements.
Noticing a plump woman walk by with a piece of blackberry pie, her stomach turned. I never want another slice of that as long as I live, she thought to herself. She sat down and leaned back against the bars. As she reclined there, she remembered the words that the old man said to her in Ahmcathare.
“I’m a part of the Great Father’s story,” she said to herself with a sigh. She then wrapped her arms around her knees and closed her eyes.
“Hey,” she thought she heard someone say, breaking her rumination.
“Little girl,” the voice said again.
Maren opened her eyes and looked around. In the cage next to hers was a young man with unruly, brown hair. He wore a deep-blue tunic that he kept neatly buttoned up despite its unclean condition. Sitting there, he leaned against the bars of his enclosure and peered at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Why can’t you leave your cage?” the man inquired.
“I ran away,” she answered plainly.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
Maren thought for a moment. She didn’t enjoy working for Kugun at all, and she hated the idea of going to a brothel. Turning so she could see the man’s eyes, she said, “Because I was made to be free,” she stated. “And so were you.”
The man stared curiously at her for a moment, then replied, “Well, it looks like we may have missed the mark on that.” His eyes fell and his lips continued to move. However, Maren couldn’t hear a thing the man was saying.
The girl paused for a moment as she held her gaze on him. “You were made to be powerful, and heroic,” she added. “Not a slave to plays and pies.” She then leaned back
