Chapter 6: The Ford

"Run!" a voice shouted from the camp. "There! At the Marshal's tent!"

Ellory rolled off the bracken as a bolt went through the place where his head had been.

Saren hauled him up by the belt.

"Brannoc saw the lamp shake," Ellory gasped.

"Go!" Saren said.

They ran along the back of the tents with the camp coming awake around them.

Horns blew. Men tumbled out of canvas half dressed, and the hounds began to bay.

Ellory knew he had one chance, and it was a stupid one.

He skidded to a stop beside the rear fence of the pen and climbed up on a rain barrel.

Two hundred faces turned toward him in the torchlight.

They were children and old men and the miller in his nightshirt, chained together in lines of ten.

"Marrowdene!" Ellory shouted.

His voice cracked, and he shouted louder.

"It's Ellory! The Wold is awake! Hold on, I'm coming back for you, all of you!"

A thin cheer went up. Somebody began to cry.

Then Ellory nocked an arrow, aimed at the thickest rope that bound the gate frame, and let it fly.

It split the rope in half.

The frame sagged, and the stakes leaned out.

Saren put his shoulder to the nearest post, grunted, and tore it out of the earth along with half the fence.

The pen split open at the rear.

"Out!" Ellory yelled. "North, into the trees! Go!"

Chains clanked. People poured through the gap, stumbling, dragging their lines behind them.

Saren caught the nearest chain in both fists, and the iron snapped.

He did it again, and again.

Behind him Lowen pulled villagers through two at a time.

"Move, move, you lot," he shouted. "Nobody's going to wait for you!"

Eleven. Twelve.

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