The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [73]
“Gero! Get the idiot!”
The prisoner shuffles faster, heading toward the wall, and the torrent a good five cubits below.
The tall guard hesitates, then pulls his sword and moves after the silver-haired man, not at a full run, not on the rain-slicked stones.
“Run! Run, silver-top!”
“Quiet!” snaps the other guard, the one who does not pursue.
Like a silent play, the action unfolds through the blurring of the falling torrents. The prisoner totters toward the edge of the uncompleted wall, momentarily staring at something below. The guard scurries forward, sword at the ready.
The wind whips a violent blast of air and water into the guard’s face, and he slows, shaking his head.
The prisoner swings over the wall until his hand alone can be seen, clutching at the wall stones.
The guard lifts the sword, bends . . . and steps back. “He’s gone. He’s in the river.” His voice is muffled by rain and wind.
“In the river? What river?” The second guard joins the first at the edge of the unfinished stone wall.
Then they hasten toward the elaborate wheeled wagon that houses the White Wizards, each looking back over his shoulder at the wall where the prisoner has escaped.
Clang! Clang!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
Another pair of guards races eastward along the completed road, one glancing at the raging waters below, his glance moving farther and farther ahead of his body as he runs.
“. . . damned water!”
Amidst the torrent, the silver-haired man tries to relax, tries to let the water carry him where it will, at least for a time. Before he has taken two breaths, he is swept past the temporary gate on the road itself that blocks the prison work area from the completed road, past the small universe that is all he has been aware of for . . . how long? He does not know, for his life is in two parts: the part he is beginning to regain, and the part he has spent as a prisoner of the White Wizards. The last part, and its mindlessness, could have been for days, or for seasons, or possibly even for years.
The water flow smoothes out as it carries him toward the east, away from the storm and into the mist, which is the deluge’s forerunner.
He studies the terrain beyond the road and paddles southward, toward the roadbed, the side punctuated by drains. In another two kays, the current slackens to that of a swift stream. His booted feet begin to bounce off the rocks beneath. His eyes watch the upper peaks.
Then he sees the bridge, a fast-approaching blot across the small river. Splashing wildly and thrusting with his feet against the rocks, he half-swims, half-bounces toward the north side of the channel and is just in time to grasp the rocky abutment.
He clings there, his lungs rasping.
“Accuuugh . . . accugghh.”
The fingers of one hand edge toward the thin line between the carved stones, dig into the narrow groove and lever his water-tossed body nearer to the rocky escarpment. The other hand crosses, grasping another tenuous stone edge. By repeating the tedious process, the fugitive drags himself clear of the water and onto the stone riprap that slopes toward the valley mentioned by the healer.
After more heaving, he is at the top of the stones, putting one water-filled boot onto the grass. The meadow is empty except for scrub oaks and small junipers around the perimeter. He leaves behind him the stone-paved bridge crossing the subsiding torrent.
Before long, the riders will come trotting down the wizards’ road, and he must be out of sight. The mist is turning to rain as the clouds from the west move eastward over the Easthorns.
He forces his walk into a labored jog through the knee-high grass and toward the edge of the meadow, where, if necessary, he can drop behind the low junipers and scattered pines. Intermittent rain beats across the rags on his shoulders, but the water is scarcely cool to him.
“Accuffff . . . cuffff.” He coughs out the last drops of water from his laboring lungs and pushes onward toward the narrow end of the valley, where the pines rise toward the higher peaks