Chapter 361: The Escape
Meanwhile, deep in the wilds of Alta-Sierra, the group led by Alaric, General Odin, and the surviving escapees pressed onward along a hidden trail known only to a few old warriors and even fewer maps. The forest swallowed them, its ancient canopy casting flickering shadows across the narrow path. They moved cautiously, a caravan of forty horses—some their own, others captured during the pursuit of Luki—treading quietly beneath towering trees and whispering winds.
The terrain grew more unforgiving as they climbed. Roots coiled like serpents across the trail, and the earth turned slick with moss and fallen leaves. Eventually, Lara made a difficult choice—abandoning the sidecar she had once relied on. With a silent farewell, she detached it and continued, pushing her bicycle by hand, determined to keep pace despite the growing strain.
Athalia, still pale and fragile from childbirth, rode on horseback, her newborn swaddled against her chest. Amnon walked beside her, guiding the reins gently, his eyes scanning the trees for signs of movement. He hadn’t spoken much, but his vigilance was as steady as the mountain air.
They traveled relentlessly, stopping only for short rests—barely enough time to ease aching limbs before the journey resumed. When night fell and the woods became a maze of shadows, they made camp beneath thick branches, far from any trail where torchlight might betray their presence.
Among them were two masters—Jethru and Orion—who gathered strange, sharp-scented plants as they moved. They crushed the leaves and passed them to the women and children, urging them to tuck the greens into their collars and sleeves. "To keep the blood-hungry bugs away," Jethru would say with a soft chuckle. Only after the mothers and little ones were protected did the men take what remained.
Scouts—Aramis, Redon, Asael, and Bener—moved ahead like shadows, slipping between trees and ridge lines to clear the way or spot danger before it reached them. Behind them, General Odin, Galahad, and the remaining commanders took on the task of hunting, returning with whatever game the woods offered: wild fowl, rabbit, sometimes even deer if fortune smiled.
In the heart of the camp, Lara and Zeeta took turns caring for the newborn child, whispering lullabies as the baby slept in a makeshift collapsible cradle made from bamboo. Percival, who was scarred psychologically, had found a new purpose among the children. He watched over them tirelessly—shielding them from danger, playing simple games to keep their spirits lifted..
"Uncle Perci, that fruit looks delicious! Can you pick it for us?" they would often call out, their laughter ringing like bells through the stillness. Without hesitation, Percival would grin, climb the tree, and return with armfuls of ripe fruit, presenting them like treasures to his small companions.
When they paused by a stream for a brief midday meal, he would escort the children and their mothers to bathe, shielding the edges of their camp with watchful eyes and a drawn blade resting lightly in his hand. The older women began to trust him, and the younger children clung to him. And slowly, the cloud of guilt that once hung over him began to lift.