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For the next two weeks Ransom followed any phantom news of Annabeth, traipsing all over the country hither and thither, yon and aft, with little success in finding her precise whereabouts and disguise. He was one week into the second month of the time he had promised to have her, and now he was completely baffled with his mission. His plans weren’t working at all. The thwarting only made him cling to her trail hotly; searching, watching, waiting for her appearance.
Raburn’s men were doubled. With her traveling with a supposed accomplice, she was now an even higher threat, and they were searching for her thoroughly.
Notorious descriptions were hung everywhere, claiming she was a dangerous criminal and should be brought to justice. Even with the large reward on her head, little effort was made on the people’s part to have anything to do with her. They didn’t dare help her, but they weren’t about to turn her in, either. Let Raburn chase her around and leave the rest of them in peace. Daily prayers for their king’s return were offered. He was still off in the Holy Land fighting the crusades, while Prince Alfred’s lord protector wreaked havoc on the land. Had he heard their pleas? Had the letters that begged for his return reached him; or was only Lord Raburn’s news getting through to him, along with the Prince’s missives which were overseen by the lord protector himself?
It was true that Prince Alfred was a public captive. Smiling, joyful, but certainly kept in hand and guarded with the greatest care by Lord Raburn.
The notorious Song Lark struck up a few new tunes claiming rash ideas in the midnight’s darkest hours, strumming on his bold lute with courage, telling of fame and faults of those at court and countryside.
One of his latest horrifying truths ran something like this:
My name is Song Lark.
Oh, I pray thee, hark.
Listen to my words with care.
There is a fox within our lair.
He is handsome, he is bold,
He is dressed in yellow gold.
But he hath set for thee a snare;
Oh, our beloved prince, beware.
He hath cut the necks of nobles,
Yours he shall cut with no foibles.
He wants to make you cold as stone,
To take your throne to be his own.
Oh, prince, my prince, beware,
There is a fox within your lair.
The rage that poured out over this tune was large as Raburn’s men turned out in full force. Ransom’s search became much more stealthy, hidden, and urgent. He needed to find Annabeth.
The discovery of Annabeth was unexpected. He was riding along the road when she darted out in front of him across the path and into the forest beyond, with six men hot on her horse’s heels.
Her white horse was foaming with sweat; theirs were fresh and strong. He immediately joined in the chase, taking up the rear without being noticed. In a clear spot in the forest, one man came riding up beside her, laying his hands on her waist in attempt to pull her off her horse. In a moment, her dagger flashed—cutting his arm. He fell from his horse with an agonized cry. Placing the dagger back in her belt, she whirled around with sword in hand, cutting down the next man that dared to come near her.
Ransom withdrew his sword and started working his way toward the front, taking men down one at a time as he neared her.
Two men approached her at once, and she tumbled off the back of her horse to avoid their fatal blows. She drew one man into combat, using her horse as a shield for her back, as the other approached her. In order to get at Annabeth, he had to dismount. She held them off well as the third man parlayed Ransom into a corner, which he fatally thrust himself out of. Turning to help Annabeth, he watched as she rushed between them, hesitating for a moment, then leapt aside as both blades thrust forward with deadly intent: the killing blow that was meant for her taking their lives.
Annabeth stood sideways and turned to look at him. “So you’ve come to finish me off, have you?” she asked, her eyes glittering with an unusual brightness, while her face seemed ashen pale in comparison.
He didn’t answer, but stepped forward.
“I thought you would have gone home.”
“I never take advice I don’t ask for.”
“Are you that desperate to be a wanted man? For you are one, though no one has a clue to who you might be. I suggest you go while you still have a chance.”
“I am here to offer you my protection.”
“I am not used to taking protection I don’t ask for.”
Ransom smiled as she threw his own words back at him. “So that makes us more alike; we are both wanted, both excellent swords people, and both have nothing better to do.”
“I have much better things to be doing. They just don’t allow me time for it.” She nodded with a shiver towards the dead men. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should be going. You can have whatever loot you want from them.”
She whistled softly and her horse came closer.
Ransom stepped to her side and whirled her around. “What exact–”
She let out an agonized cry of pain and dropped to the ground.
Then he saw it. Annabeth’s left side was dripping with blood. Her blood. That was why she had only turned part of the way around to look at him.
“Annabeth,” he said, dropping to her side.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” she whimpered, holding her left hand tightly over it.
“Let me see it.”
“No,” she ground out between her teeth.
“You can’t go on like this.”
Annabeth only closed her eyes; she was feeling lightheaded. Rising, he went to his saddlebags and pulled out one of the sacks he had been given to keep his food in. Digging into hers, he found the shirt with strips cut from the bottom: strips that had been stretched and then used to tie his hands and feet together.
“Lie down, Annabeth.”
Too weak to resist the order she did his bidding, sending her head into a wild spin.
Taking the shirt, the softest and cleanest of all the materials, he pressured the wound with his left hand. Placing his knee on the large sack to hold it still, he cut long wide strips. Tying them together, he gently but firmly wrapped them around her waist.
Ransom laid his canteen gently on her lips. “Here, just a little bit.”
She closed her eyes and laid her head on the ground, completely exhausted and weary.
“Are there any more men following you?” he asked in a whisper.
“I had just gotten well away from one band when I was found by them. I suggest you leave me to my fate. They will find me soon enough.” Her voice seemed resigned to abandonment. She was preparing herself for death.
“I don’t think so. Rest for a few minutes.” He took her left hand and washed it free of blood.
Opening her eyes, she looked at him. “Thank you.”
“Lie still.”
Standing, Ransom looked and listened to the forest around them. There was something in the forest—something far, far away, but the threat was still real. She was so pale, but there was need for haste. He looked at her horse. It was worn out. Looking around, he chose a new horse that seemed steady and reliable and placed her saddle on it. They would need to ride separately if they were to move with any form of swiftness.
He waited as long as his gut would let him, then stirred her.
“Annabeth, I need you to stand. Here; take my hands and hold on tight.” Ransom pulled Annabeth to her feet. She leaned against him, fighting the sense of nausea that swept around her and infiltrated every sense in her body. Her fingers gripped his doublet.
“Do you think you can ride?”
“Might as well give it a try,” she whispered.
Ransom could not help his smile. She was determined to escape them, no matter the cost. With a swift movement, he lifted her into the saddle. She buried her face in the horse’s mane and was unable to move for several moments, but as he mounted into his saddle, she pushed herself to a seated position and took the reins.
Ransom looked at her. She was sitting up all right, but her eyes were blurred with pain and her face was pale and weary from loss of blood and a thousand other things. He would have to lead and watch her carefully.