LoR/CCCXII - Winding Path to Freedom by ~Erathor Pridenar~, on Flickr
Story:
Erathor's POV:
The three men could not stop or even slow down for a second, not unless they wanted to be overrun by murderous Outlaws who had been pouring out of the arena in pursuit of them. Rufus Battleborn was leading Erathor and Ian through the tight streets of this corrupted town, towards the outskirts and safety beyond. At this point he span around to take a good look behind, and Erathor realised that they had managed to put some distance between themselves and their pursuers, for most men in the town had been at the arena and the former captives were leading a winding path away from them.
Rufus suddenly turned and made his way towards a small wooden shack between two houses.
“What’re you doing?” Ian asked in dismay, his voice hoarse. “I can see open desert from here, let’s carry on!”
“Do you want your weapons or not?” Rufus snarled in response. He kicked away a pile of straw and from underneath it he took out Erathor’s sword and Ian’s spear. The Loreesi lord nodded in thanks, holding back a dusty cough as he did so. Looking around, he could see a few men coming towards their position.
“We have to go, now,” he said, and he ran out of the ramshackle building and towards the desert beyond.
“There’s the scum! Get ‘em, boys!” The Outlaws were close, much too close for comfort, with some of them hurling spears and daggers towards their fleeing quarry. Erathor did not notice an axe rushing towards him from a side street until it was almost, almost too late. At the last second he swung Shard in panic and the axe-wielder fell to the ground. Breathing heavily, the lord continued to move away from the arena of death he had just experienced as fast as he could. Ian was also gasping for breath, but the sound coming from his body was rasping and painful. Erathor doubted he’d be able to keep going too much longer at this pace.
“Oi, this way!” came the voice of Rufus, who was running down an alleyway Erathor had overlooked, an alleyway that lead straight out of the town. As the escapees ran clear Ian yelled in triumph but they could not stop yet, not with the Outlaws so intent on their recapture. Rufus took the lead now, heading them to the dunes not far in the distance. Once there it was not hard to lose their pursuers in the dust and the sandy hills so common in the desert.
“I do hope you know where we go from here.” Ian’s breathing had returned to normal.
“Of course I do. This is no suicide mission, ending with our deaths in the desert. I’ll take you both as far as possible, then you’ll return to Garheim and the two of us will go on to Sarenhold, for my reward. Understood?” Both men agreed firmly, and it was only then that Erathor realised how well-spoken this rough man was. Putting the thought out of his head, he continued northwards.
Ian's POV:
Adrenaline coursed through Sir Ian Ferguson's body as he ran headlong through the streets, away from the arena where he and Erathor Pridenar had been barbarically forced to fight. His severely burned arm stung, but he did not notice. Outlaws walking along the streets began to notice the unusual part of him, Rufus Battleborn, and Lord Pridenar.
"Hey, you, where are you going?!" They ran on, but Rufus began to need to strike down various Outlaws who tried to stop the escaped prisoners. He slid up to a shabby stables and pulled Sir Ian's spear and a sword from under the straw. The sword he handed to Erathor, the spear he returned to Sir Ian, who grasped it defiantly. A crossbow bolt thudded into the wood of the stall, and the three man plunge on through the streets. More people were noticing them now, and the cry of “Escaped prisoners! Kill them!” Was spreading like wildfire. Sir Ian Speared a man as Erathor narrowly avoided being beheaded by an axe-wielder. But his injuries were starting to catch up to him. The burned skin screamed as he moved his arms. He coughed raggedly and continued to jog on. Rufus, ahead of them, gestured frantically, and the two knights turned hard down an alleyway.
“That's the way out!” Sir Ian yelled in triumph. They dashed down the alleyway, Sir Ian forgetting his pain for the hope of freedom. Crossbow bolts streaked from the rooftops, but chance was with the knights that day. They dashed out the gate into the large, flat, desert plains. “I do hope you know where you're going,” he directed at Rufus as they ran.
“Of course I do,” the burly man returned. “This is no suicide mission, ending with our deaths in the desert. I’ll take you both as far as possible, then you’ll return to Garheim and the two of us will go on to Sarenhold, for my reward. Understood?” Both Ian and Erathor nodded their consent. Rufus led Sir Ian over to under a sparse tree where he had a horse tethered. “I assume you can make the ride to Dunharris yourself?”
“Yes,” replied Sir Ian, and mounted the horse to gallop northward through the desert.
