A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [150]
“It doesn’t surprise me,” Jason said.
He and Tark exited the billiard room. The crowd stared silently. Someone coughed.
“Any who want to join us are welcome,” Jason said. “You may not get another chance like this. Fair warning: Once outside the castle walls, we will probably be attacked.”
Everyone in the crowd found something to look at besides Jason. Except for a tall, heavyset man, his reddish-brown hair thinning on top. A longsword was strapped over his shoulder. “I’ll come.” Considering his size, his voice was pitched higher than Jason would have expected.
Jason had never particularly noticed the man. “We leave immediately.”
The big man hoisted a pack. “I am Tristan, son of Jarom. Once I held a noble title, though I forfeited it long ago.”
“Lord Jason of Caberton,” Jason said. “And Tark.”
“Of the Giddy Nine,” Tark explained.
Jason nodded. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 22
ESCAPE
Jason, Tark, and Tristan hurried to the front door, trailed by the crowd of bystanders. A pair of male servants flanked the door, standing at attention. The servants made no move to impede their departure. Once outside, Tristan drew his sword, and Tark produced his heavy knife. Jason unintentionally still clutched a billiard ball.
“Hold,” called a voice behind them. They turned. Drake came striding down the hall, wearing a long, plain coat and tall boots. His hair was tied up in a ponytail, and a sword was fastened around his waist. “I need to come with you.”
Jason smiled. “Please, join us.” His eyes swept the onlookers. “Anyone else? Last call.” A short, slim man with a narrow face met his gaze. Frowning slightly, he shook his head. Nobody else would look him in the eyes.
The four men trotted out under the portico, across the courtyard, and through the front gate over the lowered drawbridge. They abandoned the lane leading away from the castle and struck off at a loping pace across a field of alfalfa. The morning was cool. Low clouds hung in the sky. Dew from the alfalfa stalks dampened their trousers.
“What made you join us?” Jason asked Tristan.
“I was never proud of my decision to come here,” Tristan panted. “Seeing men with the courage to defy Duke Conrad and forgo the protection of the castle inspired me. I resolved yesterday that if you won your duel, I would go with you.”
“Glad to have you,” Jason said, a little worried that Tristan was getting out of breath so soon.
“You realize we are about to die,” Drake said.
“Probably,” Tristan agreed. “But this is a better way to go.”
Jason kept silent.
From behind, dogs began baying in an exuberant chorus. The four men looked back and saw nearly twenty eager mastiffs and boarhounds tearing after them, followed by a horseman.
“They don’t waste much time,” Jason muttered bitterly.
The four men broke into a sprint. Tristan discarded his pack. On the far side of the alfalfa field they vaulted a low wooden fence. Tark caught his foot on a post and went down hard, scrambling back up with the adrenalized vigor of a man about to become dog chow. The next field was a wide expanse of knee-high grass. Jason glanced back. The pack of fierce canines was already halfway across the alfalfa field. The man on horseback was now visible as Kimp, cantering along easily behind the dogs, a flanged mace in one hand.
Already Tristan was breathing in ragged gasps, his face red and sweat-glossed. His pace was beginning to flag. Jason slowed his pace to stay with him. Tristan angrily motioned him forward. “Go on,” he wheezed.
Drake had the lead. Tark raced with remarkable speed for such a compact man. Jason could barely keep up with them. He concentrated on his feet beating against the grassy ground, trying to lengthen his stride and make his legs pump faster. The yowling of the pursuing dogs was rising in intensity.
Jason already felt a stitch forming in his side, like a screw twisting inward. He rubbed at it. Tark was a couple of steps ahead, his short legs churning desperately.
Glancing back, Jason saw that Tristan had turned to face the approaching