Pathfinder's Way(21)

She ducked down another alley, ran past a few tents and abruptly burst  onto a road. Eyes turned her way as people stopped and stared. She  didn't pause, crossing to the other side and ducking between two tents.  She slid past barriers as voices babbled behind her.

Not long after, she caught a glimpse of a figure crossing three tents in  front of her. She slid to a stop, backtracked to the last alley and ran  in the opposite direction.

"Here!"

Shea looked behind and saw a burly man at the end of her row turn and beckon for others to follow. Crap.

She zigzagged between the tents, darting across another road and down another long alley.

Several men were hunting her now. It wouldn't be long until they  cornered her. All it would take was for the men to come at her from  several directions and then she'd be caught. Again.

With her coloring and these clothes, she was too noticeable.

The manacles on her wrists probably didn't help her blend in either.

Night wasn't far off, but there was still plenty of fading light. If she  could only last until nightfall, she might have a chance.

The next road she happened upon was mostly empty in both directions. Nobody noticed as she slipped from shadow to shadow.

She needed a hiding place until the peopled chasing her passed. Maybe  take that time to come up with an alternate plan. She cast a desperate  look around, noticing a campfire with several blacksmith tools and a  small tent beside it. It appeared empty.

Not pausing to think and praying like hell her luck would hold, she  darted beneath the flaps and pressed her back to the side of the  entrance. Seconds later, several men spilled out of a break in the  tents. She could hear them running and imagined them peering down the  gaps between the tents. She held her breath and prayed they didn't think  to start checking in the tents.

"Do you see her?"

"No."

"Where'd she go?"

"She'll be in the wind if you lot don't stop flapping your jaws," a man  snapped. "You and you, go that way. You, head down this road before  heading into the tents. You three go back the way we came, and see if  she doubled back and is hiding. You, head to the outer perimeter and let  the guards know to be on the lookout for a woman in her mid-twenties  with light brown hair. They're to detain but not hurt her."         

     



 

His men departed. Shea felt it was safe to peer out. Her stomach clenched at the sight of a man standing with his back to her.

His shoulders shook as a chuckle escaped. "Woman's a bloody escape artist."

He ambled off in the direction of his men, leaving Shea to sag against  the tent in relief. Thank goodness they hadn't thought to check the  tents nearby. She doubted it'd be long before they realized there'd been  too much time between sightings and back track.

That meant it was time to rid herself of these manacles. She studied her wrists. This wasn't going to be easy.

Dropping her hands, Shea looked around her temporary shelter. This tent  was much smaller than the one Damon had chained her to. There were a few  rugs spread across the ground, but these were threadbare and showed the  wear and tear of usage. Not new and luxurious like the ones covering  Fallon's floor. The tent's occupant had set up a bench in the corner.  Tools were strewn across it and in the short buckets next to it.

Maybe the mess contained a tool that might help her get these things off.

She picked up a set of pliers. Those probably wouldn't work. Back to the bench they went.

Oh! Maybe that would work. She picked up a handsaw. Maybe.

She straddled the bench. She contorted her wrists, trying several  variations before giving up. It was impossible to get the right angle.

Maybe the chain binding her wrists together could be sawed through.

She tried holding the chain in place for the saw but every time she  moved her arm forward or back in the sawing motion, the chain would  move, making it impossible to start a cut.

"This is useless," she hissed flinging the tool down.

Her eyes smarted, and she pressed her palms to them. No. No. She  wouldn't succumb to frustration. To do so meant giving up. Shea did not  give up. Especially when this close to freedom.

She stood and walked over to the saw she'd thrown across the tent. So  far it was the most useful of the tools she'd found. She grimaced at the  black oily goop on the handle. It had landed next to a bucket of the  sludgy substance. Beginning to wipe the black stuff on her hands off,  she paused and rolled the goop between her fingers. It was slippery.  Perhaps slippery enough to grease her hands so they'd slip through the  manacles? It was worth a try at least.

She set the handsaw down and held her hands over the bucket, grimacing. This stuff looked disgusting.

Holding her breath, she sank into the sludge up to mid arm, shuddering  at the cool, slimy feel of it against her skin. When her arms were  sufficiently coated, she took them out. The substance had turned them  nearly black. She shook off a bit of the excess liquid.

That should do it.

She hoped.

She set her fingertips against the rug and stepped on the chain linking  her wrists together. She started pulling slowly but steadily on her left  hand, feeling her heart leap in victory as it slipped half an inch out  of the manacle. Biting her lip, she applied a little more pressure and  then more until it felt like her wrist would pop off her arm.

With little warning, the hand slid free. It worked. Shea went  immediately to work on the next hand. She stifled a grunt of relief when  that hand slipped out easily. She would never complain about her small  hands again.

Standing up, she held her arms away from her body. The sludge might have  just saved her, but no way did she want it getting on her clothes.

Now that she'd regained mobility, she needed to see about finding a  disguise. Dressing as a boy might help. The perimeter guards were  expecting a woman. Not a teenage boy.

She wiped her hands against the rug, getting some of the black substance  off, before walking over to pick up a worn knife from the table. She  examined the dull metal. Whoever owned this tent sure didn't care about  his knives. It would work for her purpose but not much else.

Grabbing her braid in one hand, she lifted it off her neck and slid the  knife under. With a sharp jerk, she sawed the length off and held the  tail up in front of her. The rest of her hair fell along her jaw in soft  waves as it worked itself loose of the remaining braid. Placing the  other half of the braid next to her, she grabbed another hunk of hair  and sawed that off, repeating the action until her hair stood out from  her head in uneven clumps.

Next, she dipped her hands in some of the black sludge and ran them  through what was left of her hair to darken it from her distinctive  shade of honey brown. After going to all the trouble of cutting it, she  didn't want anybody recognizing the color.

A quick search of the tent yielded no alternative clothing, and Shea  resigned herself to making do with what she already wore. Her shirt and  trousers were baggy and didn't immediately scream woman, but if anyone  looked close enough, they'd see the outline of her breasts against the  thin fabric. She needed something to put over it and maybe a few strips  of cloths to bind her breasts flat against her chest.         

     



 

As she turned to leave, she noticed a small knapsack sitting beside the flap and smiled. Just what she was looking for.

Moments later, she stepped outside clad in a baggy pair of black  trousers and a cream-colored undershirt that was two sizes too big. She  had to roll the sleeves up three times because unrolled, the fabric fell  almost to her knees. Its previous owner must have been some kind of  giant. Over the shirt, she donned a dark green, nearly black, sleeveless  tunic, further disguising her figure.

The last piece of clothing she salvaged from the bag was a dark green  leather jacket with yellow trim around the collar and at the wrists. It  was the nicest piece of clothing in the bag, and Shea imagined the owner  would be upset to part with it. The leather had been stretched and  shaped to create patterns around the waist and on the upper arms.  Someone had sewn a pattern into the edges where the coat buttoned  together. Shea could tell by the slick feeling of the leather that it  had been treated to withstand rain. Water would roll right off it. Best  of all, it had a hood.

It was a little hot with the tunic and jacket but not unbearable. Shea  hoped nobody would think the jacket was suspicious. She slung the man's  knapsack, with her former clothes stuffed inside, over her shoulder,  hoping anybody who saw her would think she'd been tasked with a mission.

She tossed a handful of hair into the campfire. The manacles, she left in the tent.

It was tempting to disappear into the small spaces between the tents,  but she resisted. Now that the Trateri knew she had used them, it would  be best to take a different route. The soldiers probably used the easily  accessible main paths. Skulking about would just arouse suspicion.

She was confident in her disguise but not enough to brave scrutiny by either Damon or Darius.