Kicking up dust, Jak sprinted for a thicket of trees, figuring the Sark soldiers were too big to scrape through unscathed.

"Think." Gran would have wanted him to go to the goblins or the elves, but without her magic, or the implied threat of it, he wasn't confident he could convince them to help. He'd never met a goblin and the elves, well... They were elves. So that ruled east and south out. West to Norwood was no good either. A corrupt frontier town, the four assassins would never balk at killing him there. With Mayor Maggard in office they'd get away with it too, then they could flee across either of the bridges or grab a boat down to Seatoun or Southwell. He could do the same, but first and foremost he had to get rid of that thingamabob tracking his gem.

That left one option, an ugly one; grimly he angled his run north toward the Great Swamp. He began sprinting again but pulled up, putting the panic firmly back in its place then settling into his regular steady lope. As gran always said, "a headless chicken is already dead..."

The angry tears were back. He would avenge her. All the way to the top of the totem pole too.

Emperor Rakkesh.

No point getting too far ahead of himself at the moment though - or the foreigners. Thankfully they now had no bows to feather him. They would have to get hands on to nab him fair and square. Good luck with that. Jak and the Sarks were about to play a deadly game of follow the leader. Jak figured to hit the swamp just before nightfall, which gave him a couple of hours to show these Sark scum the sights. They may be trained soldiers but this was the deepwoods not the desert. Deliverance was Jak's to dispense here.

First step, these dainty debutantes needed to get their feet wet - literally. Emerging from the thicket, Jak turned east until he came upon a fast flowing stream. He stomped up to the bank at the water's widest and shallowest point. He leapt sideways onto a large rock, then another then again into a gap in the brush. Satisfied he'd left no visible tracks, he jogged downstream into a small dell where it was much narrower.

It was still a dangerous jump. In autumn the mountain streams were swollen to twice summer's volume and speed. If Jak didn't make the jump he'd risk getting dragged under and drowning. He backed away, hoiking out bloody phlegm to clear his air passages and took a long run up...

And- carried clear by his swirling emotions as much as his legs - landed on the far side. Barely though and with a crunching sensation as the crumbling bank gave way. He flopped down on the far bank, breathing hard and snotty but when he went to get up he found his left ankle giving way slightly. Standing on it caused it to throb ominously. Grimacing, he rotated his foot. Oftimes you could shake ankle injuries off. Uh-uh,not this time. It was sprained but how serious? Twisted ankles ran a gamut... And took time to reveal themselves.

He took a deep drink before heading upstream again, limping slightly. He circled around the widest point then hobbled backwards to the edge. Gingerly he stomped forward into his own bootprints to resume his trail and create the illusion he'd forged straight across the stream.

Jak was a wolf, the Sarkians were sheep he told himself. The analogy not only boosted his confidence, it allowed him to estimate their relative speeds, sight unseen. At the moment, Jak calculated the Sarks to be at most a minute or two behind. Due to his dodgy ankle he sought to extend the distance between them, taking a twisty trail through a dense barrier of trees to give himself more breathing room. Leaving a trail a blind beggar could follow, Jak traversed the stream again, using large rocks as stepping stones at another narrow point to avoid getting himself wet and continued west. So far, so good. Well, not good with the ankle but adequate...

By now they would be wet, he wanted them thirsty as well. Nearly a league later, Jak knelt down beside a stagnant pond going through the motions of drinking. He rose swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes and entered the cool gloom of denser undergrowth where the bloodthirsty bugs would not follow. He reduced his pace, walking for the next few furlongs.

Choosing a comfortable tree stump, Jak elevated his ankle to let the foul humours disperse. He sat as still as a spider to wait, breathing slowly, trying to settle his buzzing brain as well. Cruelly, he cut-off all but the coldest of emotions. Revenge was a dish best served cold and Jak had a four course banquet to prepare.

The ambling had not only conserved energy but also gave the soldiers the impression they were catching up. Like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. It was important to instil confidence so they didn't give up the chase or worse come up with a smarter plan. These donkeys were headed for the slaughterhouse.

"He's slowing down," crowed Shariff. The dagger's gem was indeed glowing bigger and brighter, bringing a rare smile to Ashraf's face. Shine on he thought.

"Praise the prophets," mumbled Ishak, hands on knees, sweat dripping down onto his already sodden boots. "I can't take much more. I'm getting blisters".

"He likely has the same problems," said Shariff, indicating the scuff marks by the pond. "Looks like he's as thirsty as we are too."

"Excellent," said Ashraf. "Everyone get a drink then avaunt - I want this infidel gutted and that gem in my hands within the hour."

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The parched pursuers drank deeply, despite the water's mealy texture, also briefly bathing their various nicks and cuts. Then, in single file, they trudged up the dark trail the dagger indicated, soundless apart from the odd boot squelch or exotic swearword aimed at a snagging branch.

Half an hour later, a cock-a-hoop Shariff held a hand up and the other three squished to a halt.

"We've got him," he growled jubilantly. "He's just around this bend."

"What's the plan?" Ayrek asked.

"He's an unarmed little boy," Ashraf scoffed. "Nothing fancy needed. Unsheath your swords, we'll rush him, surround him and stick him."

The other three snarled their assent and hurled themselves around the corner, eager to end their accurst mission. There! A shadowy figure, a mere half a chain away. Ashraf leered menacingly in anticipation. Their prey was trapped athwart the narrow trail tunnelling through a thicket.

For some reason he was hefting a twelve-foot sapling that was far too heavy for him. The boy could barely raise it above his head. However, he he didn't cower at the sight of four sword-wielding soldiers. In fact, the boy's brow was furrowed in concentration, as if he was counting or waiting for something... It mattered not, his chosen weapon was so patently absurd. Ashraf smiled at seeing him swinging already - way too early and way too long it was. The top thwacked solidly into a branch above before he could bring it down to bear on the swarming soldiers.

Sensibly the boy gave up any attack, backing up the trail a yard. He managed to disentangle the heavy stave and slanted it across his body protectively. His arms shook, obviously tiring from supporting its weight. The soldiers couldn't surround him in such close quarters so packed together to at least present a unified front of four darting swords.

In the initial flurry they pinked the boy twice and Ashraf heard a rib crack... It was a only a matter of time.

Then the buzzing began. Puzzled, Shariff held the dagger up to his ear. The other three warily eyed each other. But only the boy, wedging his large branch across the trail as a barrier between them, looked up. And above was where the wasp nest fell from.

-----------------------------------

Broken, was better than bruised when it came to ribs. A strange but true fact that Jak could attest to from painful experience. Painful but not debilitating, cracked ribs had never gotten him out of any chores. Or any sympathy he could recall. They always healed up well in a few weeks with the right herbs but were a bloody distraction he didn't need right now. Slowing him right down. Worse than the throbbing ankle. He'd been stabbed too.. Once on the side and once in his left thigh. Getting cut was creepy but he'd live... Or would he?...If the Gods willed it...

Ignoring the pricks, Jak parted the sticky, pine-needled branches for another gander... Damnation! Definitely a Sark leaning on the Swamp Bridge, Jak could see his hooked nose nudging out of the cowl on his cloak and the curved outline of a sword on his side.

"Think!"

He could circle around west to Norwood, cross the bigger bridge to the mainland...Maybe head for Kortar and give the dang gem to King David. He'd keep it safe and secure. He plumb hated Sarkians, rumour had it they were behind the current war with Vraven... No, it was too far to the capital, they'd haul him in for sure using that magic dagger-thingy...

Stars and stones. It had dawned on him that, if they had a guard at the godsforsaken Swamp Bridge, they definitely had one at the Fairfield, the thoroughfare townsfolk actually used.

Think...So there are six of them left alive - four soldiers and two guards....At least. With a wince, he sat back on his haunches to hatch a plan. He, the wolf, still had a little time. His sheepish pursuers had to retreat to work their way around the wasp nest... So hopefully still a half a league or so behind him. The quarter hour gap had allowed him to deviate off his own path to one of his four hidden caches. Each was stocked especially for emergencies and this clearly constituted an emergency. His first ever. And hopefully his last. In a good, live long and prosper way...

Anyways, he'd applied lotions to his cuts and nicks. Moreover, a fishing line, swads of deer jerky and a water bladder had been added to his meagre possessions. And, most importantly of all, a bow and a quiver with nine arrows. All he'd had on him when he'd bolted was the contents of his leggings and jerkin pockets, his purse with a couple of coppers, more jerky and his hunting knife. Damn, he'd forgotten about his knife, could he have defended his gran? She'd only have needed a second or two...

He dabbed at his eyes, pushing these dark thoughts aside. He'd deal with all his deserved guilt later. Sadly the new items didn't alter his plans much. The swamp was still the best and probably only option. Maybe he could feather the guard before he recognised him...Hellfire! Of course he could. He could do a bloody jig before the guard recognised him. The stupid Sark had never bloody seen him before! Brilliant!

Simple then. He'd just strut by the spy into the Great Swamp and end this. Simple sure, but his feet seemed made of lead, somehow reluctant to move forward. Why? What was happening to him? He shouldn't have stopped is what... His injuries and painful emotions had apparently caught up and were threatening to overwhelm him. Jak didn't want to shift from the tree line or even stand up. If he had his druthers, he'd stay put permanently. He felt safe here, although deeper down he knew he wasn't. Was he scared? He slapped himself, hard.

"Your gran was murdered by these sons of jackals so pick your raggedy arse up and get this done," he scolded. "She can't avenge her bloody self."

Jak stabbed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the sapphire his gran had bequeathed him, promptly swallowing it. He was well and truly committed now, there was no way he was gonna give up what Gran had died for. She deserved better. To get their precious gem the Sark scum would have to kill him... And gut him... With their shiny scimitars... Like a flopping fish...

On second thought, that sounded a truly terrible way to go...

But somehow he couldn't bring himself to throw the thing up. It wasn't for lack of trying though. Nothing noble. Desperate fingers thrust down his gullet didn't work. Only panic rose up. He stilled himself, willing his mind to settle too. Jak couldn't summon up the stone, but maybe, just maybe, he could summon up the stones to get this done. Aye, that sounded splendid, like some heroic slogan or somesuch. There was no going back now, the Great Swamp would be his last stand! Last man standing, he grinned weakly.

Jak steeled himself and sprang to his feet... Ouch bloody ankle! He also backtracked down the trail a little bit - to be on the safe side - so he could emerge unseen. So much for his glorious last charge. He used those two minutes to compose himself even more.

"Focus Jak," he chided hinself.

This next part was tricky requiring a little acting... And some whistling.