The Old Kingdom Chronicles by Garth Nix

Author:Garth Nix
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Fiction
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2009-07-15T04:21:52+00:00

chapter thirty -one

a voice in the trees

Hidden a mere hundred yards into the fringe of the forest, Prince Sameth lay like a dead man, sprawled where he’d fallen from his horse. One leg was caked with drying blood, and black-red blotches marked the green leaves of the bushes that shivered around him in the breeze. Only a close inspection would have shown that he was still breathing.

Sprout, proving less neurotic than expected, grazed quietly nearby. Occasionally her ears twitched and her head went up, but all through the long day nothing disturbed her contented munching.

In the late afternoon, when the shadows began their slow crawl out from the trees to stretch and join together, the breeze picked up and relieved the heat of the late-spring day. It blew over Sam, partly covering him with leaves, twigs, wind-caught spiderwebs, beetle carcasses and feathery grasses.

One thin blade of grass caught up against his nose and was trapped there, tickling his nostril. It rustled this way, then that, but didn’t shift. Sameth’s nose twitched in response, twitched again, then finally burst out in a sneeze.

Sam woke up. At first he thought he was drunk, hungover and suffering. His mouth was dry and he could taste the stench of his own breath. His head ached with a fierce pain and his legs hurt even more. He must have passed out in someone’s garden, which was incredibly embarrassing. He had been this drunk only once before and hadn’t wished to repeat the experience.

He started to call out, but even as the dry, pathetic croak left his lips, he remembered what had happened.

He’d killed two constables. Men who were trying to do their duty. Men who had wives, family. Parents, brothers, sisters, children. They would have left their homes in the morning with no expectation of sudden death. Perhaps their wives were even now waiting for them to come home for the evening meal.

No, thought Sameth, levering himself up to look bleakly at the red light of the setting sun filtering through the trees. They had fought early in the morning. The wives would know by now that their husbands were never coming home.

Slowly, he pushed himself further upright, brushing the forest debris from his clothes. He had to push the guilt down too, at least for the moment. Survival required it.

First of all, he had best cut away his trouser leg and look at the wound. He dimly remembered casting the spell that had undoubtedly saved his life, but the wound would still be fragile, liable to reopen. He had to bind it up, for he was far too weak to cast another healing spell.

After that, he would somehow stand up. Stand up, catch the faithful Sprout and ride deeper into the forest. He was somewhat surprised that he hadn’t already been discovered by the local constabulary. Unless he had laid a more confusing trail than he’d thought, or they were waiting for reinforcements to arrive before they started looking for what they assumed to be a murderous necromancer.

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