Quick Exit and Getting Found in the Woods

Brochwel knew he didn't have time to grieve now. He got up, silent tears streaming, and dashed down the moonlit hall. Tragaronese justice had a preference for heaping charges, real and fake, on those they considered their worst offenders. Everyone adult living here understood. A way for the courts to entangle the irredeemably bad in so many accusations that proving their innocence would take years or decades. His parents got the treatment for asking for the vote, far more noble than what Brochwel had just done.

At every turn and intersection, he expected a shout of 'there he is!' or a loosed arrow. But the Order slept this hour and slept it soundly.

He snuck into the barracks he shared with half of the warriors and crept between the cots. That the lot snored like a carpentry workshop in full production helped. He popped open the trunk at the foot of his cot and rummaged until the arm not stuck holding a sword reached the bottom. As he had admitted to Tecca, everyone who lost family like he had made a plan. His was an old messenger-bag packed with some clothes, a little money, and some provisions that wouldn't spoil. He slung it over his neck, closed the trunk with care, and snuck back out.

Now: how to get out of Tragaron? Macsen's route wasn't terrible, but by bad luck or otherwise he had been caught out. They would be watching that window. Brochwel made for the gardens.

The compound was big, but surely Lord Garrett would reach a horn or one of the old bells and raise the alarm soon. Brochwel put it out of his mind. He had to move.

Standing on the garden walkway, Brochwel heard the irrigation channel below him. To his knowledge, no one had ever tried to use it to sneak in or out, despite the fact that the planks were not nailed down. They were just so well fitted they seemed nailed. The water had to rejoin the river, and he had no other ideas. Brochwel fished a torch and a match out of his go bag, then lifted one of the planks and lowered himself into frigid, waist-high water. A little jiggling seated the plank again.

The torch lit a rough passage cut into the stone. Every few yards, there was a barred grate that led to a side channel. And there, clinging to one of those bars a bit ahead, its head barely out of the water ... a rat. Big rat. Bigger by far than the usual Tragaronese rat.

"You must be Charles," Brochwel whispered.

Beady black eyes surrounded by gray fur stared back. Brochwel was running out of time, but at least down here they were out of sight.

"Oh alright. Xavier has been worried sick, you know. Climb aboard."

Brochwel held the torch with his teeth while he threaded his free hand under the rat's feet and lifted till it was clear of the water. Cold, exhausted, it climbed up to his shoulder and began preening to dry its fur. Brochwel transferred the torch back to his hand, as it was starting to scorch his cheek.

"Here, I don't know any other ways back up, so do your best to hide until Xavier comes by," Brochwel said as he sloshed as quietly as he could back to the plank he had come in by.

"Weird that I've never noticed you. I notice almost everything around here, like how Tobias the Red laces his shoes different ..." Brochwel knew he was rambling, but felt like he needed to say something or he would just start sobbing or screaming.

"Alright, Charles. Here's your exit. A little advice before we part ways: no matter how much you've done to get on Lord Garrett's good side, it will never be enough. Keep your head down, and when you see an opportunity to get Xavier out of the Order, take it and don't look back."

The beady eyes stared at him. Brochwel didn't think the rat would understand or reply, it was just ... the rat had lived alongside him for who knew how long and been a good neighbor. Some parting advice seemed the neighborly thing to do.

Brochwel put the torch in his teeth again to reach up and deposit one big rat in the garden.

Wading with the current was easy, until the rushing got louder and the water fell away in front of him. A weir? Or a waterfall. Looking over the edge the torch showed the water below. Not too far down, but who knew how deep or shallow in the landing zone.

He looked back. Maybe upriver? But now he heard footsteps overhead. Brochwel jumped.

The water embraced him and drowned his torch at once. Current caught Brochwel and he felt a lurch of acceleration no horse had ever given him. So that's why no one used this waterway: there was no steering or swimming against it. He surfaced sputtering, along for the ride now with a stream that was becoming steep.

A glimpse of stars as he was ejected into the river and slammed against the stones at the bottom.

The current tossed him around. His embedded stone kept his hand clenched firm to the hilt of the falchion. For as long as his lungs could bear he tried to swim close to the bottom lest he be spotted from the city wall where the river curved below it. When he could take no more he surfaced, gasping and coughing. He got his bearings when the south causeway bridge soared over his head. The walls of Tragaron lay behind him.

Relief and cold soaked Brochwel. He tried floating on his back, but the sword unbalanced him. Eventually he clambered bruised and bleeding onto the river's grassy bank. He would follow it south. South sounded good.

---

Brochwel soon lost count of the days. The Flaxen Order hadn't really taught living off the land, but they had taught him how to build a fire and make a spear. That, plus the fact that he taught Macsen and a few others to read with an old scroll about foraging, turned out to not be quite enough. He thought he would cough up his stomach after eating some morels that looked like the ones he had seen in the market.

South, when he could see the stars well enough to determine it, was his direction. Must have crossed into Deveini at some point before he saw his wanted poster at a crossroads, written in two languages. He was wanted dead for the murder of all five who had died that night, including Macsen, and they had also named him as a conspirator in the long over Suffragist Riots along with his parents. Everything that had gone missing in Tragaron for a month? Brochwel stole it, apparently. The sketch was pretty good though. Made him look rather dashing.

Bounty hunters began coming after him, and for a month Brochwel barely slept, with professionals hunting him night and day. But professionals wise up fast, and the stream of attackers thinned out to one or two a week. Only the desperate pursued Brochwel now.

Brochwel moved with care near towns after that. When he finally found a village the posters seemed to have missed, he spent all his money on food that would keep. He kept Tecca's pendant: didn't weigh him down and he liked having something that wasn't for survival.

The beard threatened to get long, coming in patchy and weird thanks to the embedded stone. He sliced some of the facial hair off best he could with the falchion (which he had stolen but the wanted poster neglected) and paid for it being stuck holding the sword for a full day.

Then, one fine, breezy day when Brochwel's food was running out, he heard hooves on the trail behind him. Narrow trunked aspen trees surrounded him in every direction, and he had enjoyed them until now. Their papery white bark, dark gray knots, and fluttering green leaves made a nice change from the dense forest he had been wandering who knows how long. Nice to see the sun, but he couldn't hide behind or up these trees.

Brochwel broke into a run, looking for somewhere to conceal himself. Even a pile of rocks would do. No, not that one, too small. And that one had a unicorn marmot squeaking on it. Uphill, toward the ridgeline he went. There! A pretty good boulder a ways off the trail. He scrambled up its side and flattened himself against the top to wait.

Perching on this rock wasn't great cover. If this was a bounty hunter, and if they were one who could summon and see through small birds or insects, such as the dragonfly that had just landed on Brochwel's arm, then he was as good as found. Big ifs: odds were good the horse, no, the pair of horses passing on the trail ahead of him belonged to anything other than a bounty hunter. On this high ridge Brochwel could see far to the north, all the way to Hykso's Gyre, the eternal storm. It seemed close, much too close. Squall line. Part of the tempest had broken off and was headed right for him. That he would definitely have to deal with.

The hoof falls went ahead aways, then stopped. Brochwel lifted himself just enough to see that there was only one rider, a wolfperson, and the other horse was loaded with gear. Then they turned, so he flattened again.

Shoo. No one here but the unicorn marmots.

He listened as the horses came back a bit then left the trail, zigzagging around till they stopped directly under his boulder. Brochwel reached for his sword then smiled and moved his hand off the hilt. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he paid attention to the wind, the dragonflies zipping by, and the squeaky little rodents.

Then, as high-pitched as his voice would allow, he yelled, "Eeep!"

One of the nearby marmots turned to look at him. It squeaked back.

Down below there came a sigh and a mutter, "Brochwel, if you gave my pendant to a rodent, I swear ..."

They knew about the pendant? Brochwel stood and went to the edge of the boulder. Below by the horses she stood in the same peach and brown outfit she wore the day they met, though it now looked a bit worn.

"Is that ... Tecca?"

"Brochwel! You get down here right now!"