Like a worm, Ashraf's luck had turned. He'd successfully second-guessed the fluky boy's next move. And banking on the brat's complacency had paid off big time. Two of his soldiers were sucking in sand, buried alive just behind him. Did the little devil really believe Captain Ashraf Serkhan would curl up in a ball and cry? Ishak instantly had. But not him. Because not ten yards away, was the demon child, sleeping like a baby. Albeit a baby bird.

The problem was the boy. Yes, of course the boy. The problem with the boy... Was?... While he was only a score of yards away, they were all up. Up yards. Normally, this was not a problem, but with his right shoulder crocked he couldn't climb up and kill him like he really, really wanted to. Kill him.... Brilliant idea!

Admittedly Ashraf was having a crumb of trouble focussing... However... On the other hand, he did feel fortified from the stash of food he'd found before. The stupid boy, in his idiotic haste, had dropped a wrapped packet of mushrooms and dried meat. Man hunting was hungry work. Reluctantly Ashraf had split his salty prize with Ishak, but still felt invigorated.

Ishak was no use at all. Worse now with the arrow through his thigh. He'd left him with the log, talking to it deliriously. Neither even noticed when Ashraf left.

"What to do?" he thought feverishly. Too feverishly. He tried to assemble his wandering thoughts into coherent order and keep them in place... And his temper under control. His temperature needed control too. Sometimes he was cold, sometimes he was hot, and sometimes he was not. He wished he was at home, where good holy men would simply stone an infidel like this devil child to death. To death... Cheers! Stoned.

"Clink, clink, aaarrghh! That was it! The answer...I'll take a short nap. No, get rocks. No rocks. There are no rocks! aargh!"

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A hunk of bark glanced off Jak's head, mussing his hair. Happily away with the fairies, he swatted at the air irritably, trying to drift off again. He was almost back, but a second block grazed his shoulder and he sat bolt upright. Gazing down, he got a bleary eyeful of the Sarkian captain's arse as he bent to retrieve another chunk to chuck. His could see his adversary had accumulated a small pile of branches, along with averagely large arse.

At least it isn't snakes. Lacking arms snakes couldn't throw anything and it appeared Sarkians shared the same difficulty. Jak actually smiled as the captain's third attempt fell well-short and at least four-feet wide.

Sighing, he stretched his arms out luxuriously, ignoring his stinging ribs.

"You throw like an orc," he observed archly.

"It's my left hand you insolent whelp!" Came the furious retort.

"Hmm... Perhaps," Jak offered helpfully. "...You should try using your right?"

The lengthy response wasn't in Perugian but Jak, who had a knack for languages, got the gist - not even utilising his gift, just using good ol' fashioned guesswork.

He grinned down at the deranged Sarkian zealot hell-bent on slaughtering him feeling surprisingly calm. Or was it drowsy? No, his lack of panic was logical he reasoned. Both his remaining foes were hurt, tired and infected. Also, judging by the captain's co-ordination - even adjusted for the injury-enforced left-handedness - he was high as a kite. They must have found the magic mushrooms he'd left behind. No matter how high they got, they couldn't reach him up here. It was nearly dawn and by the dusk of the coming day they'd be as weak as kittens. Their leader was already ''armless" to him.

"And now legless to boot!" He chuckled at his own puns. This was almost fun. As the furious captain's fourth hurl flew by and Jak hooted and laughed out loud... Until he stopped. He found himself staring in slow-motion disbelief as the innocuous wooden projectile caromed off another branch and snapped the twig he'd carelessly hooked his bow over.

The bow, of course, didn't hook itself over one of the many lower offshoots, of course not... It clattered an unlikely path through a thousand other branches to the ground. A complete clanger and a total game changer. Down below, the Sarkian snorted in exultation and swaggered over to collect his prize.

"Drats!" That bow was his biggest asset. Hang on, was the Sarkian dancing? Peering down from his lofty perch far above, in the gloom of the false dawn, if you squinted, it did resemble a drunken reel of some description. Jak was not having it.

"Bow's no good without arrows," he crowed, as annoyingly as possible. He made a great show of waving his quiver in the air then knotting its strap firmly around a strong branch. Much like he should have done earlier with the bow. But that was done now and was only a minor setback. He had water... He wasn't infected... He could wait all week if he had to. They would be sick as dogs tomorrow and he'd steal away and leave them to it.

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"Oi, where's he going?" Jak was puzzled. The Sarkian had smiled evilly and staggered off, back the way he had come. Eventually, after a couple of false starts. Oh, hells above. Did the dumb one have arrows? Oh no, his misses. How many was it? Two or was it three? It didn't matter. He'd be a sitting duck sprouting sticks in a few minutes.

Jak abandoned the tree, not attempting to untie his quiver; he was the only one that could retrieve it anyway. Dropping off the lowest bough, he went to flee in the opposite direction of the Sarkians, but stopped short. Think. As things stood, they had a bow and arrows and a sure-fire way to track him with the dagger gizmo. He could lead them deeper, but they really had no need to follow,. They could regroup with reinforcements and find him anytime they wanted.

Logically, his best bet was actually to attack. After all, Gran said it was the best form of defence. It also suited his demeanour. If he could confront the captain before he retrieved an arrow, it would make the bow redundant. If he could either steal back or break the bow or the dagger, then the odds would shift dramatically back in his favour again. Anything he achieved at this point would be a positive. If Jak couldn't confront the captain now, when the man was wounded, infected, and delirious, he'd never be able to.

Now or never. He spun around and sprinted off after the Sarkian. There would be scant seconds in it.

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"Farrak," the brat was correct, Ashraf conceded. He had a bow, but needed arrows and didn't have time to make any. No wait, the whelp was wrong. He had arrows back at the log. Two or three of them. Holy joy. He'd shish-kebab the brat with arrows and spend a happy day slicing his twitching remains into teeny-tiny pieces."

Wallowing in titillating thoughts of torture, Ashraf almost lost his head. He heard the familiar whoosh of a blade, sluggishly began to turn then stumbled over a half-buried stump, which saved him.

Instead of being decapitated, he took an inch deep, seven-inch long, slash across the meaty part of his back. The brat had stabbed him in the back! A low blow! Lower than it was intended for sure. Luckily! Painful, but far from fatal or even debilitating. Almost an ideal injury if there was such a thing. The boy swore as his follow through went further than he had balanced for and forced him to a knee. Instinctively, Ashraf rolled to his feet - ignoring the strange twinge stretching across his back - his right hand reached for his blade. Except it wasn't there. Pain was. His right shoulder screaming bloody blue murder at him.

"Farrak. Focus," Ashraf cursed and clumsily drew his sword from the sheathe on his left hip with his left hand. He had to lean forward to earn enough leverage. Their respective errors had given them both enough time to get their feet under them and their swords wavering uncertainly in unfamiliar hands. Still he was no novice. Ashraf flung the bow behind him and lowered his centre of gravity into a wide arm stance.

Not knowing what else to do, the boy mirrored him. And that was the problem. The left-hand versus right-hand combination meant they couldn't really face-off. Facing the same way they were reduced to warily circling. This could have gone either way, but with Ashraf assuming the role of the aggressor, they were wheeling clockwise, driven by his left hand.

At last, Ashraf thought, this was what he wanted. Granted he wasn't at his best, but this was his wheelhouse. He winked at the brat, but the boy didn't bat an eyelid back. like enough thinks time is on his side, facing an injured foe, feverish with fuzzy thoughts. Arrogant pup.

"Time is on my side whelp. I've forgotten more than you've learned," he announced out of the blue.

Twenty-one years of military service. Hard yards of campaign experience, that even the Emperor's scion's coin couldn't buy. Got twenty plus years on the boy too. Thirty-pounds of muscle, plus four-inches in height and two in reach. Most importantly Ashraf had killed before. Hand to hand; face-to-face. This very sword has hacked apart many enemies. Nothing prepares you for killing, like killing.

Time would tell, as always, but Ashraf was confident his old friend would find in his favour once again.

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Jab, jab, jab. Jak jabbed his sword at the captain's blade just keeping it at bay. Trying to get a touch every time so he could locate his opponent in space and time. With his left hand he slid his hunting knife out of his leggings. Though he'd no idea what to do with it. They were both standing side-on facing the same bloody way so their blades could touch, and tap out their tentative tattoo. It made his knife a million miles away from the captain's throat.

The swaying Sarkian, seemed equally frustrated at fighting left-handed, and was struggling to make the necessary adjustments. Jak had a decided speed advantage, offset by the Sarkian's strength, reach and experience. Maybe a wee bit more than offset. Neither was earning any style points, circling slowly left at arm's length, like a couple of wallflowers who didn't want to dance together. They had reversed their starting positions and Jak suddenly realised the bow was now behind him. He could snaffle it and sprint back to his tree and be in the catbird seat again... But something wouldn't let him.

He was in this now. He had the scum that slaughtered his grandmother in cold blood swaying, two sword lengths in front of him. Damned if he'd let him go. Then what would his gran say?

Actually, what would his gran advise? What would she tell him to do? She'd actually tell him to get back up the tree with his bow, in this specific case... But in general, Jak thought, she'd advise him to "do the unexpected". Pluck an idea from the aether. So he did.

He screamed as loud as he could and lunged forward hacking down. His hazy opponent reared back in surprise and bent his elbow, bringing his arm around and inside to block his down-stroke crosswise. However, in the momentary meantime, Jak had leapt to his right and was now outside his opponent's arm. Following through his original stroke, it smashed into the outside left elbow, slicing deeply.

"Ughh!" Captain Serkan dropped his sword with a grunt. Jak closed-in burying his hunting knife to the hilt in his foe's neck, before stumbling back in shock, letting his own sword fall from his fingers. Eyes-agog the captain fell to his knees, trying to claw at the knife but neither arm would work. He slumped onto his right side staring accusingly at Jak, spasmed jerkily for a few seconds then fell still.

Yards away, Jak stood up again, shakily, surprised to find he'd been sitting. With trembling hands he picked up his sword and bow, leaving the knife impaled for the time being, and went looking for the last one.