CHUTZPA CRAWLED THROUGH THE DENSE BRUSH to the sharp ridge that separated the tundra from the sea, tumbling down a steep incline to the valley floor. The main road snaked down the precipice, winding back and forth across its face. He could pick out the wagons that he pursued by the cloud of dust kicked up by their passing. They rumbled along about three-quarters of the way down the hillside to the base where the road leveled out for its final dash to the sea.
He could not see where they were headed, but whatever their destination the location was meant to be kept secret for the ridge was heavily guarded. Patrols roamed the summit in pairs, watching for intruders such as himself. He had been alerted to their presence when the caravan had been stopped at a checkpoint. He’d nearly stumbled into their grasp. From that point on, he’d secured his nervous stallion in a sheltered wood and proceeded on foot. His journey was much slower than the caravan’s as a result. They had gained several hours lead, but at least he could pick them out from his vantage point.
The sea glittered in the late-day sun, a sparkling ribbon reflecting the heavy disc as it sank toward the horizon.
Maybe an hour’s worth of daylight left, he mused. It would be easier to move under the cover of darkness, but he was not sure he could make out the path despite its width. The trail markers would be easily missed, and he could walk right off the cliff face. If he left now, he could make it to the valley floor, but he would be exposed and easily spotted by the arrow-wielding guards watching for unauthorized movement.
Chutzpa craned his neck to look to the right and then to the left. The curved semicircle of cliff was sheer but rocky. It was scalable if someone really wanted to climb it, but going down would be easier than climbing up. He would have to make a series of descents that would take at least a day. It was an option but dangerous. His eyes raked the path once again, and he spotted the hut. About halfway down the face, a wooden guard station had been built into a rocky depression on one of the few flat sections. It was a circular structure, obviously built by foreigners, as the style was not one common in Shadra. But it was very common in Tunise. Someone from his home province had built it; of that, he was certain.
He rolled onto his back. So? How does that help you? Chutzpa could not answer his own question. The only three possible ways into that valley that he could see were to be travelling as part of that mysterious weekly caravan or to scale the face of the rock in plain sight of every archer on the cliff or to tackle the path after dark. Tonight was a moonless night, and the road would be black. But tomorrow was the first quarter, and although weak, the moon might just shine enough to illuminate the path.
The plan of action settled in his mind, Chutzpa pulled out a packet of jerky and tore off a piece of the dried meat with his teeth while he watched the cliff and the movements of the guards. He intended to know their routine, patterns, and numbers before he started down that trail. Getting into the valley might be the easiest part. What he would find there and the status of his brother would bring a whole new set of challenges. The challenge will not be getting in but getting out.
While he ate, he counted men, scratching marks onto the soft inner surface of a piece of bark with a sharp stone to tally the numbers, then as the sun swelled in anticipation of its final plunge into the ocean, he stood up and eased back into the bush, settling a circular path back to Fire Dancer. He would ride back to Pangolin Town to gather ropes and the other supplies he needed for a rescue and return by nightfall.
Chutzpa swung into his saddle on Fire Dancer’s back then set his hooves on the road that would take them back to Pangolin Town. It would be halfway through the night by the time he arrived at the stables, but Zeal slept in the hayloft and would wake when he entered the barn. He could count on the lad being there. He’d have a quick nap then rise in time for the opening of the long house supply store that stocked essentials to travelers. Zeal might have some rope hanging around the place too, for that matter, he mused. He clucked to Fire Dancer, urging him to increase his pace. They had a few minutes before the descent of total dark when he would be forced to slow or risk injury to his mount. But between now and then, they could make up some distance.
He rode swiftly down the path, Fire Dancer’s quick gait carrying them further away from the coast. As they passed out of the woods and into an open field divided by the stone roadway, he felt a strange tug on his right sleeve. He shifted in his saddle craning his neck to see what had pulled on his coat when with a thwack, an arrow slammed into his side, under his shoulder blade. The arrow passed straight through up to the fletching and protruded out through mid-center of his chest from under his arm. Chutzpa gasped with pain and slumped into his saddle. He squeezed his knees against Fire Dancer’s sides and wrapped his fingers in his mane as Fire Dancer bolted into a terrified run. A second arrow nicked Fire Dancer’s ear. His horse screamed, bounding for the safety of the trees. Chutzpa gritted his teeth and let him have his head, no longer able to guide him.
Fire Dancer raced through the shadows, veering off onto a path that led away from the road, carrying his gravely injured rider away from danger and from their attackers. It was all Chutzpa could do to hold on as Fire Dancer swerved around a boulder. He swayed violently in the saddle, and the weight of his body snapped the shaft. With a gasping, cry of pain, his vision narrowed and darkness descended. He did not feel the impact of his body as it struck the ground. He rolled off the trail and dropped several feet onto the ground below, his limp body tumbling to a stop under a sheltering overhang of tree roots.