Free The Fugitive Prince (Bell Mountain) by Lee Duigon

didn’t get up until they were out of sight. It was a reminder that the land was still full of deadly enemies, remnants of the vast host that the Thunder King sent into Obann last year.
     
    “Close call!” he whispered to Cavall. He didn’t want to think about what such men would do if they captured him and realized who he was. “Off to Kara Karram to get my eyes burned out!”
     
    The country was unpopulated, but not barren. Wild blackberries grew everywhere, and Cavall caught unwary ground-squirrels and rabbits. Springs bubbled up from the ground. Wildflowers painted the landscape with glorious color. Ryons’ favorites were the pale purple maidens-kisses, which attracted pale purple butterflies, and the brilliant vermilion huzzahs, which didn’t grow east of the mountains. So, on the whole, it was a pleasant journey, as long as one could avoid the Heathen stragglers by day and the gigantic hunting birds that came out at night.
     
    Three days into his journey, in the middle of the day, Ryons saw black smoke rising ahead of him; but whatever was burning was hidden behind a stand of gnarled, twisted waxbushes. The sun glinted off their shiny leaves, and above them fluttered a multitude of sparrows, feeding on the various insects attracted to the waxbushes’ scent. The presence of the birds suggested there was nothing to fear. Ryons advanced—cautiously, with a hand on the nape of Cavall’s neck. Cavall would warn him if there was any danger.
     
    The boy and the dog crept up close to the waxbushes. Ryons dropped to his hands and knees and crawled in among the stunted tress, Cavall behind him. The sparrows didn’t like it, and chirped a protest. It was shadowy under all that foliage, with a lot of tiny bugs that persistently flew into your face. Ryons felt the hairs standing up on Cavall’s neck; but the great hound had too much sense to give away their position by growling.
     
    They reached a point where they could see what lay on the other side of the trees, and there they froze.
     
    It was a wagon that was burning. Its wheels were broken, and there was no sign of any horses, mules, or oxen that might have pulled it. Black smoke billowed up from it.
     
    Sitting beside it, roasting something on a stick, was a tall man in dusty buckskin clothes, with a shapeless cloth cap on his head. Standing beside him—towering over him, in fact—was a gigantic bird with long, strong legs, tiny wings, plumage more like filthy hair than feathers, a long, powerful neck, a head as big as a horse’s head, bright yellow eyes like wicked jewels, and a massive beak with a cruel hook at the end of it.
     
    Ryons had seen such birds before, but at a healthy distance. Up close, it was a sight to take your breath away. But this killer stood peacefully beside the man, and the man seemed to take no notice of it.
     
    “Whoever you are in there,” the man sang out, without bothering to look in Ryons’ direction, “you can come on out. We won’t hurt you.”
     
    Come out—with that murdering great bird standing there? But was it still possible to escape? Ryons didn’t think so.
     
    “Don’t make us come in after you,” the man said. “It’s too nice a day for that.”
     
    Ryons crawled out from under the waxbushes and stood up, with one hand holding on to Cavall’s fur. The great bird swiveled its head to look at them, but made no other movement. The man looked at them and smiled.
     
    “Well, well—a boy and a dog,” he said. “And what might you be doing out here, all alone in bandit country? You could wind up like the folks who owned this wagon.”
     
    “You’re not a bandit?” Ryons couldn’t help asking.
     
    “No, not me. I just wander, seeing what’s what. My name is Perkin.” He jerked his head at the bird. “And this is Baby—my baby, actually.”
     
    Ryons didn’t know how to answer that, and the man laughed at him.
     
    “It’s true,” he said. “I raised him from a little chick no bigger