Leaving Sola and the hollow behind, Arden had crept back to the river. Finding the packs of food untouched and the raccoon nowhere in sight, he blessed his luck and tied the packs together with braided grass. Slinging them over his shoulder, he set off up the bank. Putting perhaps two-hundred feet behind him, he was overcome by exhaustion. Too tired to find a suitable place, Arden simply slipped into a crevice between two rocks and fell almost immediately asleep. Waking stiffly at dawn, he pressed on, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the brigands as possible and still hopeful that he might soon find Torun.

  This was his first day alone in the wilderness. Walking through the heat of the day, his bare feet were soon in agony from contact with the hot stones of the bank. Time and again he had cursed himself for not thinking to steal Sola’s shoes, which would have served him far better than the useless bag of coins which only weighed him down. The coins themselves had not come without a cruel surprise. Looking at them that morning, he quickly realized that they were all cheep coppers, worth little and weighing much. Even in her injured state, he was almost certain Sola had gotten one over on him, throwing him a decoy purse and keeping all of her true valuables concealed.

  At about midday the pain in his feet had become too much for him. Reluctantly he stopped, aware that every moment of delay Torun may be getting farther from him. Hurriedly, Arden made a clumsy attempt to forge shoes out of the green reeds that lined the river bank. This failing, he tried a different strategy, eventually succeeding in making crude sandals out of grass and the bark of a young sapling. The sandals were awkward and uncomfortable, constantly flopping around and requiring frequent adjustment, but they gave his aching feet a rest, protecting them from the bank and the forest.

  By evening he reached a place where the river forked and pooled. Here it was fed by rapids, coming down over the mossy rocks from its source at a higher elevation. At the far side, Arden could see a well traveled path leading around the rapids, along which vessels wishing to pass this point must be hauled. Surprised and alarmed by this sign of habitation, Arden immediately became painfully aware of his clothes. Remembering what Torun had said, that the brigands had dressed him in their own colors, he cut into the forest going west – feeling it was better to brave the wild then risk facing unfriendly strangers.

  Walking only about a hundred feet from the river, he made camp beneath an overhanging stone. He gathered leaves to make a bed and settled in, eating food from the packs. The bag of roast crickets was now mostly empty. The other pack was filled with a course yellow flour that Arden though must be cornmeal. Having no cooking utensils, nor anything to make a fire, he had considered eating it raw, but decided against it.

  As he lay awake, forced from the river, with the crickets almost gone and little hope remaining of finding Torun, it was hard to keep from being discouraged. Curled up beneath the rock, wrapped in moist leaves, with the sounds of the forest all around him, Arden wished he was just about anywhere but here. How had it come to this? Lost and alone once more. How had he been so foolish and made so many mistakes? Finally, he drifted off, thinking of all he wished he had done differently.

  The next morning he awoke with a fright, leaping up at the sight of a daddy-longlegs walking across the stone above him. He grabbed for the knife by his side, holding it aloft. Calming himself, Arden slung the packs over his shoulders, the cornmeal on one side, the coins and remaining crickets on the other. Taking the knife in his hand, he headed back to the river to get a drink. In his haste to sneak from the bandit’s camp he had forgotten to take a waterskin. Now, without a means of carrying water, he was forced to sneak back to the river, drink all he could, and hope for the best. Standing at the waters edge, he made one final desperate search for some sign of Torun, some trail or mark. But there was none. And soon he gave up and walked back towards the forest.

  Arden headed northeast, trying his best to keep the rising sun to his back. After an hour or two, he caught sight of the edge of the forest. Here the undergrowth grew thick in the unimpeded sun, while higher up there were gaps in the trees beyond which clear sky could be seen. Hurrying forward, he pushed the last thicket of ferns from his path, stepping out into the open air. Before him lay an open field of felled wheat stalks, and beyond that the walled compound of a collective farm.

  Stepping back into cover, Arden gazed across the field. In the distance he could see a half dozen farmers, clearing the soil and sewing the autumn crops. Even at this distance he could see their lean bodies, toiling in the late summer sun. Their voices carried across the field, bringing the sounds of comradery in hardship. Of teasing and braggadocio. Of fraternity by the sweat of the brow.

  Crouching down, Arden paused to watch them. This was the life to which he had been sentenced. Had things been different, he might have been among these farmers. His lot may have been cast with theirs. By no means certain or easy, but cast in common. For a moment he was racked with self pity. He had never felt so lonely and so miserable. He wished he could join them. Be a part of a community once more. Settle in and prove his worth. Try and live an honest life, surrounded by those who knew him.

  At very least he wished he could approach them. Talk to another person. Ask to buy some food, or offer to trade the cornmeal. He looked down at his tunic, shaking his head. How quickly he had accepted the brigand’s charity without thinking of their motives. This thought brought him to Peter. The bastard. How quickly he had trusted Peter, given his name and place of birth. If it had not been for Peter, perhaps he would be working side by side with those very farmers right now. If only he had not been so trusting. If only he had not been so weak. He shook his head once more. There was no use dwelling on it. His situation was what it was. All he could do now was press on, and hope the farmers did not spot him.

  By the time Arden had snuck around the collective farm, staying low and sticking to the treeline, the shadows were growing long and the sun low. Turning north, he headed deeper into the woods, looking for somewhere to spend the night. About half an hour later he found a dry, shallow hollow formed by a stone and the roots of a large pine. The surrounding area was rocky, creating a break in the underbrush. The last light of the day shone down through a break in the canopy, warming the hollow and the surrounding area.

  Arden looked on the spot with satisfaction. It had been a long time since he had seen somewhere so inviting to spend the night. For a moment he chuckled to himself, thinking of how quickly his standards had changed. Up until a month ago he had never spent a night out of doors. Nor one alone for that matter. He had taken for granted how pleasant it was to stay in the family hut with his parents. How safe he had felt. Their company. His mothers smiles and kind words. Thinking of them, he could feel the tears well up behind his eyes and pushed the thought from his mind.

  Once he had gathered leaves for his bed, Arden set the knife down standing against the inside of the hollow. Kicking off his sandals, he sat down, taking the last cricket from the bag and carefully splitting it in two. He ate half, wishing he had some water to wash it down. Devouring it, he was left hungry and had to fight the urge to open the sac and eat the rest. Even after all these days consumed by hunger, Arden had not grown accustomed to it. He wondered if such a thing was even possible. Pondering this, he opened up the bag of coins. Taking out the dice, he began rolling them absentmindedly.

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  “Hey, what you got there?”

  Jumping in his seat, Arden’s eyes shot to the sound of the voice. Around him, the forest had grown dark. Moonlight shone down into the clearing. It illuminated Arden, but left the surrounding woods steeped in inky blackness. From the far side of the clearing, a figure stepped out of the brush, one hand raised the other carrying a heavy cloth bag. For a moment, Arden could hardly believe his eyes. There, tall and tanned, sinewy and handsome, was Peter – the boy who had stolen his sentence.

  “Nice dice,” said Peter, grinning as he took another step into the clearing. “And a fat sac of coins, too. Boy if I’d known hard labor was so lucrative, I’d never’ve gone to the farm.”

  Arden’s jaw dropped.

  “What? You don’t recognize me? It’s your buddy, sly Peter, from the column. Remember?”

  “I remember,” said Arden, snapping back to his senses. Quickly, his eyes darted to the knife concealed just inside of the hollow. “What do you want now? What are you doing out here?”

  “Oh me? I guess I got a bit of wanderlust. Farmer’s life wasn’t for me, it seems. Decided to strike out on my own. Besides, I saw you creepin’ by the fields today. Of course, I didn’t know it was you. I just saw the green tunic. Figured you were a partisan. Thought I might find you out here and join up. What’re you doin’ dressed like that, anyway?”

  Arden’s eyes fell to his tunic. Then he looked Peter up and down. The boy was wearing farmers clothes. Simple pants, a baggy long-sleeved shirt bound by a string, footwraps and leather moccasins. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, ignoring Peter’s question.

  “Oh, just a few little things I took for the road. Some hardtack. Flint. Rope. A cooking pot. Few other odds and ends I pinched before heading out. I’d ’ve taken more but this old guy tried to stop me and… anyway I’m sure he’ll be alright.”

  Arden blinked hard, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “So… so you robbed the farm and then came out here to join the partisans?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to arrive empty handed. Besides,” Peter’s grin broadened. “I wasn’t the only one who saw you. I figured there was no way anyone would follow me if they thought the woods were full of bandits. Wouldn’t wanna get press-ganged, or worse. Figured, this way, even if I couldn’t find anyone, I could get away from the farm without anyone tryin’ to catch me.” As he spoke, Peter set down the bag. Opening it, he fished around inside, pulling out a small loaf of bread and taking a large bite. “Anyway,” he said, chewing, “turns out it was just you. What a world. I’ll tell you-”

  Arden stared hungrily at the bread, hardly listening to what was said. It had been so long since he had tasted fresh baked bread. Involuntarily, he licked his lips. “Do you have any more?” he said quickly. “I’ll buy it off you.”

  Peter frowned. “Don’t think so. Lotta good those coins are going to do out here. Think I’d rather have the bread.”

  “Then just give me some,” snapped Arden, anger welling up in his breast. “It’s the least you can do after you stole my name. Got me sent to hard labor. Nearly got me killed half a dozen times.”

  “Hey, I was doin’ you a favour. The farm was awful. So rigid and boring.”

  Nearly overcome by anger, Arden got to his feet, advancing with clenched fists. “A favour? Now everyone thinks I’m a thief. And who knows what else. You owe me a hell of a lot more than some bread. You stole my damn life from me.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is…” said Peter standing, the smile slipping from his face.

  “Now look at me?” said Arden, taking another step. “I’m an outcast. Stuck out in the-”

  But Peter didn’t let him finish. Sailing forward, he caught Arden on the jaw, knocking him back against the tree. A second later the moonlight glinted off the blade of a small knife in Peter’s hand. “Stay where the hell you are,” he said contemptuously. “We could have done this nice and friendly. But you wanna get rough. Fine then. Here’s how this is gunna go. You’re gunna give me the coins, the dice, whatever food you’ve got. I want everything. It’s a long way to Quarryhold. Then you can go back to the farm and tell them your sob story. See how much they care.”

  Watching Peter stand there with the knife in his hand, Arden’s anger turned to a burning rage. Without warning, he lunged at Peter, grabbing him by the wrists and trying to get control of the knife. For a moment the two struggled back and forth, but well fed and well rested, older and stronger, Peter quickly got the upper hand. Pulling Arden forward, Peter kneed him in the stomach, causing him to double over. Then, breaking his grip, Peter brought the knife forward, slicing deep into Arden’s cheek. Stumbling back, Arden gripped his bleeding face, only to have Peter step forward and kick him in the chest, knocking him flat onto his back.

  “Stay down! Don’t make me kill you,” said Peter, standing over him. He took the knife from his right hand, looking at the shallow gash in his palm where the blade had slipped back, cutting him. “Damn it,” he said angrily. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  Arden said nothing. Laying on his back, he struggled to catch his breath. His hand still pressed to his face, blood ran between his fingers and down his neck.

  “You’re lucky I brought a change of shirt,” said Peter, using the knife to help him tear a piece of cloth from his sleeve and wrapping it around his hand. “This one’s bound to get blood all over it.” His hand bound, Peter crossed to the coin purse and the two sacs of food sitting at the mouth of the hollow. Working quickly, he put the coins and the dice in his bag and lashed the sacs to the outside. Then, shouldering his pack, he turned and walked coolly to the edge of the clearing.

  Arden meanwhile had struggled to sit up. Clutching his face, he watched as Peter walked around the camp, taking up his things. He struggled to control himself. Not wanting to give away with another look or word the surprise he had in store. Finally, just as Peter was pushing the leaves from his way and taking his first step back into the dark forest, Arden got quietly to his feet and ran to the hollow.

  “Well, Arden my boy, it’s been a pleasure as always. And just think, now you’ll have something to remember me-”

  Hearing the sound of hurried footsteps, Peter whirled around mid sentence. Before him, standing in the center of the clearing was Arden, Sola’s big knife in hand. Almost as long as his forearm, straight and with a rounded cutting edge, the knife made a terrible impression on Peter. Arden lifted it up, his other hand held out in front of him, blood running freely from his face and down the front of his tunic.

  “Holy hell,” said Peter, dropping the pack and turning to run.

  But Arden did not let him go. Dashing forward, he brought the big knife down between Peter’s collarbone and his neck. Peter screamed, adrenaline carrying him another step before he collapsed to his knees. Pouncing on him, Arden chopped into him again, and a third time – droplets of blood splattering in all directions.

  Getting back to his feet, Arden stood in the darkness, blood dripping from the knife in his hand. Fighting to calm his breath, he set down the knife and wiped his hands on the front of his tunic. Then, with trembling fingers, he began to pull the shoes from Peter’s feet. Next came the leg-wraps, then the pants.

  Heading back to the clearing, Arden opened the pack. Finding the spare shirt Peter had mentioned, he dressed himself in the dead man’s clothes. Cutting a scrap of cloth from the tunic, he tied it tightly around his face, wincing at the pain as he put pressure on the gash. Then he carried the tunic to where Peter lay, draping it over the body. For a moment, he stood in the center of the clearing, looking around in disbelief. He felt thirsty, and wished he had water to wash away the blood. Digging into the bag he found a small waterskin. Uncorking it, he drank sparingly, savouring the cool water. What next? He looked back at the hollow, but knew he could not sleep. Instead, he shouldered Peter’s bag and set off into the forest.

  Smelling the blood, mosquitos buzzed around him as he made his way over the roots and stones. Arden hardly noticed them. Lost in thought, he hacked his way through the creepers and ferns, using the big knife to cut them from his path. Away, he thought. Away from here. Anywhere but here. To the north. To the west. Away from Abaddon and all that reeked in this foul country. Never again would he be such a fool. Never again would he trust his fate to the hands of another. Around and around in circles, his mind bounced between the same few thoughts. Away. Away from here. On he walked, through the night, his battered feet clad in stolen shoes.

End of Book II.