Chapter 11: In the Shadow of the Stone Tower

They had been riding for what felt like hours when Ahlund finally let them stop to rest.

When the steed came to a halt, Justin tried to lift his leg over its back to get out of the saddle but discovered too late that it was cramped into position, and he shrieked some choice words as he fell off.

He landed on his back with a thud, half-buried in the high grass. He didn't bother trying to get up.

Ahlund had led them across the grasslands in winding, zigzagging, illogical routes, which had not been easy on an inexperienced rider. Justin had wondered why Ahlund didn't just ride straight. Eventually, he had realized that Ahlund was intentionally avoiding high ground, cutting between hilltops and sticking to the low country whenever possible to avoid being seen.

Their rest stop was in the shadow of an old, stone tower whose top half had collapsed untold years ago and now lay beside its foundation like a fallen tree. In its heyday, the tower must have been the size of a lighthouse. Stone blocks as big as hay bales were scattered all around like the disassembled bones of a scavenged carcass. The structure was overgrown with thick moss and creepers. Nearby, Zechariah and Ahlund conversed in that foreign language again, and since Justin didn't feel much like talking-and since his legs were probably too numb to stand anyway-he just lay there.

Come on, Justin, he thought. Wake up, already. This is getting ridiculous.

Zechariah and Ahlund were raising their voices, now. Justin craned his neck to look at them, upside-down. Their conversation seemed to have escalated into an argument. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore them. He hadn't seen any kidnappers yet, or anyone else, for that matter. All he had seen were some predatory birds riding the currents above and some brown spots on the plains that turned out to be wild bison.

He put an arm over his head and tried to tune everything out. Maybe if he fell asleep in the dream, he would wake up in his bed. No matter how hard he tried, the last thing he could remember was storming out of the house into the cold, then waking up in a bed that wasn't his own. But if he could fall back asleep, maybe-

"Get up," said Zechariah.

Justin looked up. The old man stood over him.

"You can't just lie there resting while your steed is still burdened," said Zechariah. "Remove that load or he'll get saddle sores."

"I'm the one with saddle sores," said Justin. "Are we getting close?"

"We will know in a moment," said Zechariah. "Ahlund's climbing the remains of the watchtower to have a look."

Justin sighed. "Any idea how long this is going to take? Will we be back by dark?"

"It will take as long as it takes."

Justin glanced up at the tower. "What is this place, anyway?"

"An old kingdom once had a citadel in the mountains and used watchtowers like this one to relay information across the Gravelands. There used to be many, but most have been pulled apart and looted for the stone. And please, by all means, let me know if you have any more idle inquiries, as I do live to serve your curiosity, Master Holmes."

Justin sat up and was about to make a smart comment when Zechariah's gaze shifted behind him. Ahlund stood there quietly.

"Any change?" said Zechariah.

"You shouldn't have followed me," Ahlund said with a voice like the crunch of gravel underfoot.

"I think we're past that, now," said Zechariah.

Ahlund took a drink from a leather wineskin-like container. "We're gaining ground," he said. "Twelve of them. Still heading toward the mountains. It doesn't seem like they have spotted us yet. We may catch them within the day."

"Any idea where they're going?" said Zechariah. "One of the hamlets at the feet of the mountains, maybe?"

"My guess is they plan to rendezvous with a larger group," said Ahlund. "As long as I intercept them before then, it won't be a problem."

"Be encouraged," said Zechariah. "If they haven't killed the princess by now, then that is probably not their intention."

Ahlund scowled at Zechariah. Then he gave Justin the same look. Had Justin been standing, that look would have been enough to sit him down.

"Don't get indignant," said Zechariah. "Yes, I told Justin about the princess. What are you worried about? Who's he going to tell?"

Ahlund pointed at Zechariah. "You know you shouldn't be here." His gray eyes flashed at Justin. "And neither should you."

You're telling me, thought Justin.

As Ahlund walked away, Zechariah nudged Justin with his boot and hissed, "Get up, already!"

It was a painful endeavor, but Justin managed to stand, albeit bow-legged. He had clung to the steed so tightly with his legs for fear of toppling that it felt as if they were now permanently locked in that position.

"That guy's a regular ray of sunshine," whispered Justin.

"I pray I'm half as sunny the day I lose my home and everything in it," said Zechariah.

"Noted," said Justin. He raised his arms over his head to stretch and looked back over the plains in the direction they had come. It was unnerving-more unnerving than he might have expected-to realize that the hilltop town called Deen was no longer visible.

It's not a town, though, he reminded himself. Because it's not real, remember? None of this is real.

It also unnerved him how increasingly difficult it was becoming to convince himself of that.

"So, what's going to happen when we find these guys?" said Justin.

Zechariah, rifling through his saddlebag with his back to Justin, answered, "We take back Princess Anavion, of course."

"Uh-huh."

"And I don't suspect they will part with her willingly."

"Uh-huh."

Zechariah turned around and presented an object to Justin. It was a sword.

Justin hesitated at first but then held out his hands, and Zechariah balanced the object on his palms. It was a short sword, about the length of Justin's forearm, currently sheathed in a leather scabbard, with a knobby handle made of polished black wood.

"Do you know how to use one?" asked Zechariah.

"Absolutely not," said Justin.

Zechariah took the weapon back. He bent down and tied the scabbard to Justin's lower right leg. "If you need it," he said, "you can draw it easily on steedback. And if you're standing, you just stoop a bit to draw it. Let me see it a moment."

Justin gripped the black handle and pulled. The scabbard stayed where it was, on his leg, and the weapon slid out in his fist. For some stupid reason, he expected the steel to ring as it was drawn, but there was only a dull sliding sound.

Zechariah took the weapon and ran his hand along one edge of the blade. It should have cut him, but when he presented his palm, there wasn't a mark. "This is the dull side," he said. He flipped it over. "This is not. Very important to remember which is which. A dirk has only one cutting edge, like a knife. See how the tip is sharply pointed? It's meant for thrusting and stabbing, not for slashing. Hold it like this for defense."

Zechariah held it pointed forward, wrist bent.

"It isn't a strong blade, and it has no crossguard, so blocking should be a last resort. But, if you have no choice, do this."

Zechariah held the handle with both hands-the left cupping the right-and planted his feet as if bracing for impact.

"When attacking, use quick thrusts only. Never swing it wide like a sword, and never fully extend your arm, or else you leave yourself open."

Zechariah stabbed at the air in a flourish of lightning-quick jabs.

"A dirk is for self-defense," he said. "It's meant to disable and discourage your foe. However, a well-placed cut to the throat." His wrist spun with a slash at the air. "Or a careful stab." He threw his body forward, leading with the blade's tip. "Can kill a man. Both options bring you quite close to your target, however, which I would not recommend. The most important thing to remember is that a dead person can still kill you. Even a perfect lethal strike never kills instantly. It can take minutes or hours, and a man in his death throes can kill you just as easily as a healthy one. Sometimes, far more easily. After all, what has he got to lose?"

Zechariah held the weapon by the dull edge of the blade with the handle presented to Justin and added, "Not a very thorough lesson, but it will have to do for now."

"Uh, thanks," Justin said numbly. He took the dirk and replaced it in the scabbard at his calf, just trying not to cut himself.

"If all else fails," said Zechariah, "just treat it like normal, old fisticuffs. There's more at stake, but the same rules apply."

"Okay," said Justin.

He decided not to bring up the fact that he had never been in a single fistfight in his life. He couldn't even remember a time when he'd felt enough aggression toward another person to merit physical action, except for maybe playing some extra-tight defense in a few basketball games against players who had ticked him off. But he'd never fought anybody before. The idea of fighting to the death, today, made this mouth dry.

Maybe you're already dead, said a voice in his head. Maybe this isn't a dream after all. Maybe you died, and this is some kind of purgatory, and...

He shut his eyes hard and shook his head. No! Don't think like that. It's only a dream! A really long dream but a dream all the same. And anyway, when you die in a dream, you always wake up in bed. Pretty soon, my alarm will go off, it will be the day after Christmas, and I'll still have almost a whole week before I have to go back to school. So, really, there's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

He frowned, thinking about how he'd left the house-choosing to run off instead of talking with his dad.

But what had happened after that? And why couldn't he remember it?