Twilight Crossing. Susan Krinard
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took the opportunity to retreat, walking with the kind of uneasy familiarity of a low-status hunter. He tied his mount near the string of horses toward the rear of the camp and melted into the deeper shadows under the trees.
He took a deep breath, trying to sort the overwhelming scents from the one that belonged to Jamie. It was an impossible task, even for a half-blood with an excellent sense of smell. He looked over the tents, noting which were the largest and most prominently situated. Men gathered about the outside of several of them, like warriors standing guard in front of palace gates.
Only one of the smaller tents had a similar retinue, with the men outside looking far less like guards and more like a hostile force.
The challengers, Timon thought. Jamie must be inside, along with her captor.
It took all Timon’s discipline not to rush straight at the tent and take on the six men. Jamie hasn’t been touched, he reminded himself. She was far too valuable a prize, and if her captor moved on her without accepting challenge, he’d likely be torn limb from limb.
If only Timon could tell her she wasn’t alone.
Even as he completed the thought, a short, muscular man emerged from the tent. He growled at his challengers, who muttered threats and brandished knives and axes.
Pushing his way through them, Jamie’s kidnapper walked into the center of the camp and began to speak. The meaning of the rough words, Timon thought, didn’t really matter; their purpose was to boast of his strength and his prowess, to scare off lesser challenges and reinforce his claim over the female.
Apparently there would be no waiting for the fighting to start.
Someone bellowed, and the first duel began. In spite of the earlier display of weapons, the two men fought hand to hand, viciously and with no apparent rules to constrain them. The men seemed equally matched in height and musculature, but it was soon obvious that Jamie’s captor was stronger. Using little more than brute strength, he battered his challenger down to the ground and used both fists and feet to pummel the man into unconsciousness.
A heavy silence fell. The other challengers shifted and grumbled. A pair of boys dragged the unconscious man away.
Then another man, bearing a wicked-looking knife in one hand, flung himself at Jamie’s kidnapper. A knife appeared in the first raider’s hand, and the second battle commenced with quiet and deadly ferocity.
It ended much the same as the first, but this time the challenger didn’t get off so easily.
Again there was silence. Two of the remaining challengers withdrew, heads bowed. The victor shouted hoarsely, mocking the others for their cowardice.
Timon knew that he couldn’t put it off any longer. Lowering his head under the hat and drawing up the fur collar of his coat, he stalked toward his opponent. The victor grinned, showing half-rotten teeth, and beckoned the man he believed Timon to be.
He obviously wasn’t expecting much. He lunged at Timon with his large, long arms, as if he planned to break Timon’s back. Timon slipped out of his reach, darted underneath the man’s arms and butted him hard in the stomach. Confused by the suddenness of the attack, the man staggered back, holding his ribs.
But Timon knew it wasn’t nearly enough. His enemy recovered quickly and punched at Timon’s jaw. Again Timon was faster, and he landed a blow to the man’s face and followed up by heaving the tribesman to the ground.
There were murmurs of surprise from the watchers, undoubtedly wondering at their fellow tribesman’s unusual strength. Timon knew he didn’t dare drag the fight out much longer.
As soon as Jamie’s captor was on his feet again, Timon kicked his knees out from under him and dislocated both of his shoulders. Wailing in pain and rage, the man rolled onto his back. His efforts to rise failed over and over again, and after a time he lay still, his thickly bearded face a mask of fury and humiliation.
Checking to make sure that his hat was still in place, Timon turned to face the few remaining challengers. They looked from him to his opponent and, one by one, melted into the shadows. Timon turned and tossed back the tent flap, entering before any of the tribesmen could change his mind.
“Jamie!” he whispered.
She sat on the ground, bound to the tent pole, ropes digging into her wrists and ankles. Her lip was cut and bleeding, her hair tangled and wild around her shoulders. Her clothing was torn, and there was a heavy bruise on one cheek.
Timon swore, longing to charge back outside and treat her captor to a little more serious punishment.
“Timon?” she said, her voice hoarse. “Is it you?”
He was at her side in an instant, cutting through the ropes with his knife. “It’s me,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“They didn’t hurt me.”
Oh, no, Timon thought. The brutes had only handled her like a piece of livestock, hitting and terrorizing her with promises of worse to come.
But when he looked in Jamie’s eyes, he saw determination. And hope.
“We’re getting out of here,” he said. “Can you run?”
“I heard fighting,” she said as she rubbed her wrists. “Did you—”
“I defeated the man who captured you. He’s off his feet, but there’s no guarantee.” He grunted and finished freeing her ankles. “No time to talk. We’re going out the back, and hope they don’t see us until we’re out of this valley.”
He helped her to her feet. She staggered against him, and for a moment he simply held her, feeling the rapid beat of her heart and the stirring in his own.
“Can you run?” he asked again.
“I can do whatever is necessary.”
“Then let’s go,” he said. He ran to the rear of the tent and used his knife to cut a new flap in the patchwork of homespun fabric and deerskin. He went out first, paused to listen, and then grabbed Jamie’s hand.
The tent was backed against the slope of one of the hills, partially sheltered by the twisted limbs of an oak. Timon pushed Jamie behind the wide trunk, took her hand again and began to climb, constantly listening for sounds of pursuit.
Jamie struggled but never gave up, her hands and feet clawing at the earth as she focused on the crest of the hill. She and Timon had almost reached the place where Timon had left Lazarus and his captive’s horse when the cries started from the camp, echoing up into the woods.
Timon almost threw Jamie into Lazarus’s saddle before taking the other horse, knowing that she’d have a better chance with a Rider’s mount than that of a tribesman. His horse was about as gaunt as its former owner, but it felt Timon’s experience and obeyed willingly as Timon gave Lazarus the command to run.
They crossed the ridge, the shouts of the men behind them, and plunged down into the next narrow ravine, splashing through a creek that still carried a trickle of water. Timon whistled to Lazarus, signaling him to take the lead, and he fell behind again, preparing his rifle.
After following the creek for a good quarter mile, Timon turned his mount up the slope. Lazarus climbed ahead of him, Jamie clinging like a burr to his back. The sounds of pursuit grew louder again. The horses galloped full-out along the ridge and into another dense stand of oak and underbrush. The wider Santa Clara valley lay below, a grassy expanse broken only by the occasional low hill or clump of trees.
The tribesmen knew these hills; they preferred the protection the higher ground afforded, but Timon had no doubt that they’d follow him and Jamie onto the plain.
He pushed the horses on to the foot of the final hill and brought them to a halt beneath a single oak at the edge of the valley. “Stay on Lazarus,” he commanded Jamie. “If we can’t stop them here, you run. Lazarus is very fast and strong. He can outrun the tribesmen’s mounts easily. You have to ride low and stay on until there’s no