Remnant of Power

Chapter Thirty-seven

Timod

Timod stood motionless behind the elm tree. He watched the grass, waiting for the soldiers to move. Trying to make his breathing as quiet as possible, he grasped the sword that he'd taken from a dead soldier. Bloody good job he had it. A bow would have been a lot more useful, but a sword was certainly better than nothing. After an hour's watching, Timod was sure there were three soldiers. He decided to wait for nightfall before he made a move.

As the sky darkened, two of the soldiers stood up in the grass and walked up to the town gates. They passed through the gates, but Timod squinted his eyes and saw they were still watching; this time with their heads just above the gates.

The other soldier continued to hide in the grass, about fifty yards away. As slowly as skin forming on custard, Timod crouched down and began to crawl forward, into the grass. If he was caught he'd be straight back to prison. Or more likely killed once they found out he was an escapee. Should he go to Fort Ralby instead to seek refuge with his wife's grandfather?

On his elbows and knees, his shoulders as flat as he could make them, he crawled one pace at a time. A man and woman on horseback cantered down the road to the gates, the guards opened the gates to let them in. Timod stopped to listen, then began his torturous path again, dragging his sword through the grass after him, keeping one eye glued on the soldier.

He got within five yards of him, then realized how much he was trembling. If he messed this up he'd be in trouble. Oh, God above, just let him get back to his family. But what about the soldier? Did he have a family?

Timod swallowed. It's him or me. His future or my future. His family or mine. Well, I'm choosing mine. You'd kill me, soldier, so I'll kill you. Trying to stop himself thinking, he crept the last few feet towards the soldier. At a distance of a yard, the soldier began to turn around. Timod leapt onto him, still staying low, with his sword right out in front. With the force of his jump, he rammed the sword into the soldier's gut. The soldier fell backwards, making a rustling noise in the long grass.

"Sorry mate," whispered Timod. Then he corrected himself. You weren't my mate, and it would have been you or me.

Two to go.

The dead soldier was wearing a helmet and a chain mail hauberk. Timod pulled them off him, then lay down in the grass, heart pumping. He pulled the hauberk over his head.

The evening was warm after the hot spring day. Too warm to wear a chain mail hauberk. He squashed the helmet over his head. It was too small, and fit too tightly under his chin; it felt as if he was being strangled. He tried to swallow away a wave of nausea, partly because of the heat and the helmet, but partly from hunger. He was so hungry. He grabbed a few more peanuts from his pocket, trying not to choke as he ravenously crammed them into his mouth. But he'd eaten so many peanuts these last two days. They were the last peanuts he was ever going to eat in his entire life. If he ever, ever had to eat another one, he knew he would be disgustingly sick.

Standing up to pull the hauberk down over his clothes, he trod on a stick that snapped crisply under his foot, and an idea floated into his starving brain.

By now it was fully dark, so he could move about more easily. He slunk through the grass, gathering sticks and twigs as he went, then crouching down, he ripped off a leather strap from the hauberk. It was just long enough. He stood a stick on a bigger stick and started to rub the leather strap around it hoping the friction would start a flame. It didn't work.

Almost crying with frustration, he was about to give up, when suddenly a spark burst into life. He shoved some of the dry grass onto it and blew. It caught fire.

Timod's eyes blurred as he staggered dizzily to his feet.

The grass was dry and the fire spread rapidly, right up to the edge of the river. There was a slight breeze, and the flames grew so fast that soon Timod was wondering if he'd done the right thing.

Summoning the very last dregs of his energy, he began to run along the road towards the town.

"Hey, quickly, help, fire!" he shouted running up to the gates and banging on them. "Fire, open up," he yelled as loudly as he could. The gates opened, one soldier stepped out and Timod stabbed him with the dagger he'd taken from the first soldier.

"Two," he shouted, then barged through the gates. The final soldier dashed forward, Timod pointed to the fire, but the soldier saw the body of number two and drew his sword. I've no strength for a fight, thought Timod. He tried to run past the soldier, but slowed down after a few steps. He hadn't got the strength to run either.

The soldier was catching up with him. Timod stopped and put his last drop of life into a final shout.

"Help me, it's Timod Guthry. I'm Timod, help me." He staggered forward along the road into the town, then stopped. He slumped to his knees.

"Don't kill me," he said, but his voice was barely a whisper.

The soldier's sword was pointing straight forward. He was five seconds away from Timod.